I make my entire job to check, block, and frustrate #18. Andit works. Every shift I’m on the ice, I follow him around, acting like I was put on this earth to be in his fucking way. Malinsky tells me to fuck off more times than I can count, his face getting redder and redder every time I check him into the boards.
He doesn’t even handle the puck much because I ride him so hard. None of his teammates will pass to him. By the second period, Malinsky’s hits grow heavier. I’m playing this one-man game of keepaway.
My shoulder throbs after he slams me into the boards, but I push through it. Pain is part of the job. I call out coverage when I can, keeping my stick low, closing lanes.
Then everything slows down. A deflected shot lands in the slot, and Jett sprawls to smother it. The puck slips free and rolls toward the post. Malinsky cuts across the crease at full speed, stick down, eyes locked on the rebound. Jett’s still prone, glove out of position. He’s wide open. I don’t think, I just lunge.
I push off hard, crossing the paint and getting between Malinsky and Jett. Malinsky can’t stop and doesn’t bother to try to blunt his trajectory. He barrels right into me and his impact hits me like a runaway train. My right shoulder is pulled down into my chest. My helmet toward my collarbone. And then, without warning, there’s the screaming red goalpost.
Something cracks as I hit the metal. Pain floods down my right arm, white-hot and blinding. My fingers go numb. I stay upright long enough to shove Malinsky off Jett, using the last of my energy, then I drop to the ice.
The whistle screams. The crowd roars. Hunter slams Malinsky into the boards before the refs can get there. Beck grabs another player by the collar. The officials pull everyone apart.
Fuck, I’m in pain. I try to get up, only to have Jett’s hand and in the center of my chest.
“Staydown,” he growls.
I roll my eyes back to see him hovering above me, his eyes flashing. He’s fuckingpissed. The Havoc trainers hit the ice. I wince. There’s something wrong with my right arm. I close my eyes and someone presses a gloveless hand to my chest. Someone else steadies my arm, moving it very slightly. I can’t help the yelp that escapes me. The world narrows to lights and noise. I hear my name, a voice saying not to move. I can’t breathe past the fire under my ribs.
Fuck,I’m in pain.
They strap me down, keep my shoulder still, and wheel me through the tunnel. The crowd noise fades behind me. As soon as we’re in the tunnel, the medics give me something that spreads through my veins like a slow-burning fire and steals my consciousness.
When I stir, I feel the pain first, flickering to life before I even open my eyes.Fuck, it hurts.
White. Ceiling tiles. Curtains. A sheet rough against my legs. I blink until shapes form. My left arm’s trapped in a sling, heavy and useless. The air smells like disinfectant.
Scout sits closest to the bed, her blonde hair thrown up in a wild bun, her head propped on her hand. Why is she here? Maybe to keep Juliet company.
Hunter leans against the window, his wife Juliet in a seat beside him, their fingers entwined. Jett sits on the couch, ice on his ribs, eyes red. Coach Cross fills the doorway. Coach Ryan stands behind him, his lips pursed, his phone pressed against his ear.
“Okay,” I say, or try to. My throat burns and I clear it. “Okay.”
Scout startles, showing she had been falling asleep. Relief breaks across her face as she pushes her chair closer until her knees touch the bed. “You’re awake.”
She leans toward me in my bed, very nearly grabbing my hand. I feel like I’m on acid. Everything has a surreal quality to it. This woman that usually doesn’t give me the time of day is looking at me like I just broke her heart.
Huh. I must be on the good drugs.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds rough. “What’s the damage?”
Ryan answers. “Fracture on the distal clavicle. Torn labrum. You’ll need surgery. Rehab’ll take months, not weeks.”
I take that in and nod once. “Jett?”
“I’m fine,” Jett says. He pulls the ice pack away. “Took a knee to the ribs, that’s all. You saved me.” His voice cracks and he looks away.
Cross steps forward. “You’re on the disabled list, effective immediately. We’ll fill your spot. You focus on surgery and rehab.” He looks straight at me. “You had a choice. You chose to break yourself.”
“He was unprotected.”
“You could’ve waited a second and buried him clean.” His jaw tightens. “Now I have to replace you. Somehow… I don't know how to do it.”
Ryan steps in. “That’s enough for tonight.” He turns to me. “We’ll talk about the next steps after imaging. Rest.”
Cross leaves without another word. The room exhales. I try to sit up and immediately regret it. Pain slams through my chest. The world tilts. I grab for the rail and miss.
The pain spreads fast, bright and merciless. I squeeze my eyes shut until it fades. Sweat beads along my hairline. I feel exposed and stupid in a paper gown.
