Come on, Cross.Get your shit together.
Midway through the second, we finally break through.Cade carries the puck into the zone, draws two defenders, and slides a perfect pass to me in the slot.I don't think.I just shoot.
The puck rockets past their goalie's glove and into the top corner.
The game is tied.
The crowd erupts.My teammates mob me, pounding my helmet and slapping my pads.For a moment—just a moment—I forget about everything else.The pain in my leg.The girl who won't answer my texts.The fear that I'm slowly falling apart.
“That's my captain!”Cade yells, grinning like a maniac.“Let's fucking go!”
We head into the second intermission tied 1-1, and I collapse onto the bench in the locker room, my thigh throbbing so badly I can barely see straight.
I grab an ice pack myself before anyone can ask questions, pressing it against my leg through my pants.The cold helps, but not enough.The muscle is seizing up, tightening with every passing minute.
I should tell Coach.Should sit out the third period and let someone else take the reins, but then I think about the playoffs.The championship.The fact that this is my last season, my last chance to leave a legacy that matters.
You're not doing this for her.You're doing this for the team.
The lie tastes bitter, but I swallow it anyway.
“Third period,” Coach announces.“Same lines, same intensity.Cross, you good?”
Everyone looks at me.
“I'm good,” I lie.
Coach holds my gaze for a beat too long, then nods.“Let's finish this.”
The third period is utter war.SoCo scores first with another garbage goal.It's just a deflection off our own defenseman's skate.2-1.
We answer three minutes later.Morrison buries a rebound after I crash the net, and suddenly we're tied again.2-2.
The clock ticks down.Ten minutes.Eight.Five.
My leg is on fire.Every shift feels shorter, every stride more labored.Cade keeps glancing at me with concern, but he doesn't say anything.Neither does Dash.They know I won't listen.
With three minutes left, I'm battling in the corner for the puck.Their defenseman drives his shoulder into my chest, pinning me against the boards.
I push back, fighting for position, when his knee comes up.
It's not a dirty hit.Not technically.Just an unfortunate collision.His knee catches me square in the thigh—right on the adductor, right where Mark's tape ends.
The pain is instant and excruciating.
White-hot fire shoots through my leg, and for a second, I can't breathe.Can't think.Can't do anything but grip my stick and try not to scream.
“Cross!”The ref's whistle hasn't blown—the puck is still in play.“You good?”
I nod.I don't trust my voice.
The play moves away from me, and I use those precious few seconds to lean against the boards, testing my weight.The leg holds, but barely.Something's wrong.Something's very fucking wrong.
But the shift is almost over.
Just thirty more seconds.
I push off the boards, forcing myself to skate.My stride is off—I can feel it, the way I'm compensating, putting too much weight on my right leg—but maybe no one else will notice.
