“There’s no time for folding now,” he barked at Theo, maybe a little at me too. “Get him back out there.”
“What the fuck, Bouchard?” I hissed at him when we were alone. His face was drawn, all the color drained from it. I didn’t bother massaging his shoulder. Every touch made him grimace, and I knew there were eyes on us from every direction.
So, with only one arm pulled out of his shirt, I gingerly lifted his shoulder pad and angled the nozzle from the cooling spray under it.
“I could use one of your magic needles right about now.”
“This isn’t funny. I told you to protect your shoulder, not throw yourself into every head-on collision out there.” I moved around to get a shot on the front of the joint too. Our best hope was to freeze it into submission until the final horn.
We finished OT. Mason sniped the winning shot, the crowd erupted, and Theo hung back from the team pile-on at center ice like he always did. He was smiling, but there was almost no movement in his right arm.
“You can’t keep absorbing hits like this.”
I’d pulled him aside to an alcove in the locker room that was filled with smelly gear. A far cry better than that excuse for a med bay. He’d needed more help than usual lifting his shirt and pads off. And now, with the last of the tape gone, I got to really see the state he was in.
I swallowed the lump of fear pushing up in my throat. This wasn’t just about our lie being discovered, which, after today’s game, was probably more certainty than threat at this point. It was about the damage he was doing to himself.
He smiled at me, but his eyes didn’t hold their usual sparkle. “You need to stop worrying so much. I’m fine.”
I stared at him. He stared back. We both knew he was nowhere near fine. But also, we both knew there was no take-backsies. We were in this, and we’d be riding it out until the end.
Later, the contained hush of my hotel room acted like an impenetrable barrier between myself and what was turning out to be the biggest fuck up of my life.
Although, not quite.
Because the blinking cursor on my laptop screen quickly reminded me there’d be no escaping this.
The first few reports came and went with barely any acknowledgement. Mason—fit, minor fatigue. Grayson—fit, strong shift patterns. Tucker—ankle taped and responding well to treatment, mobility good.
And then it was Theo.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Time bled away. A jarring buzz from my phone cut through the noise in my head. It was a text from van der Berg to say he was waiting for my reports. I took a breath and let it out slowly, pushing the image of Theo wincing his way to that last win. Then I typed.
Theo—minor rotator cuff strain, responding well to treatment, fit to play.
11
Theo
“Hey, wake up.”
Hunter jabbed me with his elbow, and I flinched, headphones shifting partway off my head. My ears were still ringing from the deafening Dallas crowd, my shoulder humming under the dull ache I’d been ignoring all game. I yanked the headphones off, blinking against the cabin lights.
“What?”
He held his phone out, the screen angled so I couldn’t miss the news article. Big black letters on white:Iron Man Gone Soft?
I snorted. “It was one loss. What are they talking about?”
But my voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.
“One loss that helped the Stars tie the round two-all,” Hunter said, scrolling. “And check this—” He flicked through several different social feeds, each one highlighting my mystery injury, questioning my fitness, dragging up last year’s final.
I leaned back in my seat, jaw tight. “Jesus.”
“Only if he suits up and takes your place,” Hunter chided. I glared at him, and he lifted his hands in mock-surrender. “Not that you need replacing. We all have our off days.”
He studied me while I acted like I didn’t give a shit, turning the volume up on my flight playlist. Which, coincidentally, was also my sleep playlist. After a couple of seconds, one ear snapped off and I turned to find him still staring at me.
