More bodies pile on.Dash skates over from the crease, joining the celebration.Coach is yelling something from the bench, but I can't hear over the roar of the crowd.
We won.
Somehow, despite everything, we won.
I smile.Force myself to celebrate, and raise my stick to the crowd.I act like everything is normal, like I'm not dying inside, like my leg isn't threatening to give out with every second I stand here.
“Hell of a shot, Cross!”Morrison pounds my back.
“Couldn't have done it without you guys,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
The celebration continues.We line up for the handshake with SoCo, which I skate through on autopilot.
Just get to the locker room.Just get there and you can fall apart.
Finally, blessedly, we're off the ice.
The team is celebrating in the locker room.Music is blasting, guys are yelling, and the energy of victory is surging through everyone.I slip into my stall, keeping a smile plastered on my face even though I want to scream.
“That's what I'm talking about!”Coach walks in, grinning.“That's Crusher hockey!Cross, Morrison, Bright—hell of a line tonight.Hell of a line.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I say, already unlacing my skates.The sooner I get out of here, the better.
“You alright?”Coach asks, and my heart stops.
“Yeah, just exhausted.Long game.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods.“Get some rest.We've got Rome U in a couple of days, but take tomorrow off.You've earned it.”
“Will do.”
He moves on to the next player, and I exhale shakily.
I peel off my gear as quickly as I can without drawing attention.Shin pads.Shoulder pads.Jersey.Every movement makes my thigh throb, but I keep my face neutral.Just another post-game routine.Nothing to see here.
I wait until most of the team has cleared out before I try to stand.When I do, my leg nearly buckles.
Shit.
I grip the edge of my stall, breathing through the pain.It's bad.Worse than before.Possibly the worst it's ever been, but I made it through the game.No one knows.And that's all that matters.
I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, and force myself to walk toward the exit.Each step is careful, measured.I keep my weight on my right leg as much as possible, but I can't avoid using the left entirely.
Just get home, Cross.That's all you need to do.
My leg is fucked.
I know this because I’ve been lying on my apartment floor for the past twenty minutes, unable to get up without my thigh cramping so badly I see stars.
I make a small move, but that only intensifies the pain.
“Ouch,” I mutter, rubbing my thigh in long strokes, hoping that it will help it stop cramping.
It doesn’t.
In fact, I'm almost certain it makes it worse.
Coach McKibbon told me to ease up after the overtime drill, but I didn’t listen.Instead, I pushed myself to the max and I’m paying for it now.
