"Say I had to have surgery. How long would I be out?" The voice that comes out sounds flat and emotionless, a machine asking for repair estimates. Ice Man is asking, not me.
"Depends. If you rest it and let us mobilize the tissue properly? Maybe four weeks. If you keep grinding through..." He shrugs like he's discussing the weather. "It could be career-ending."
Four weeks means a month of sitting useless while the team fights without me. It would prove that I'm expendable. And if the worst happens, my hockey playing days could be over, just like that. His words fill my veins with ice.
"That's not acceptable. What are the alternatives?"
"There are a few. Most of them require intense physical therapy and a lot of luck. We'll tape you up for now." Sam reaches for the roll of athletic tape, but doesn't stop writing. "I'll talk to Coach Cross about your case. I think the safestway to proceed would be benching you for the next few games."
The word benched sits heavy as stone in my chest. Suddenly I'm reduced to some farm-team kid who can't handle the physicality. Every instinct screams to rip the tape from his hands, scream in his face, and storm back onto the ice. But as usual, brooding silence wins.
I'm not about to have an emotional breakdown in front of Sam.
The door to the training room swings open without warning. Scout appears with her arms full of fresh tape and compression wraps, a headset hanging around her neck. Her dark blonde curls are pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing her Havoc staff polo tucked into black athletic pants that hug her legs. Those green eyes find mine immediately, and I watch her expression shift in half a second. Concern flickers across her features as she reads the tension in my body. She's too open, too readable. Beautiful even when she's worried.
"What's going on?" she asks.
Sam doesn't look up from his clipboard. "I was just about to tape Huxley's shoulder."
"I've got this," she tells Sam. "I know just how he likes to be taped. Right, Si?"
I nod. "Yeah."
Sam hesitates, glancing between us, then hands over the tape and heads out of the training room. The door clicks shut behind him, silence pressing heavier than it should. Scout sets everything on the counter with careful precision, moving closer but stopping just short of touching. She's waiting for permission.
"Are you all right? I meant to come check on you when I didn't see you in practice, but this morning has been crazy."
Sweeping my gaze over her, I say, "I'm fine."
"You're not." A gentle firmness carries in her voice. She knows I'm full of shit. It's obvious I'm not fine since I woke up in so much pain that I came straight here instead of heading out onto the ice with everyone else. She picks up the tape, starts prepping strips with practiced efficiency. "Let me help, big guy."
Big guy. The pet name sends a shiver sluicing down my spine. How can I say no to Scout when she calls me sweet names?
It's on the tip of my tongue to tell her that she doesn't need to hover and that I'm not a charity case. But when her warm, steady, competent hands settle on my shoulder, something cracks open slightly. Her touch hurts and feels good in equal measures, instantly.
She works in silence at first, her fingers pressing along the joint, testing for tenderness. Every touch is careful, precise, and professional. I lean my head to the side and sigh deeply.
Her hands feel like they're healing me.
"Someone filmed you at practice," Scout says.
I look up from my shake. "What?"
She shows me her phone. It’s a TikTok video of me scowling at a rookie who dropped his stick, picking it up, handing it back without a word.
Ice Man has a HEART??
She gives me a mischievous look. “Three million views. You're a meme."
"Delete it."
"I can't delete it. I didn't post it." She's grinning. "But I saved it."
"Scout."
"It's cute. You're being nice and you look so angry about it."
I try to grab her phone. She dances away, laughing.
