Silas
Practice is supposed to be routine. Light bag skate, zone exit drills, nothing that should light me up or make my shoulder scream. But Connor Li cuts too sharp on a crossover. I'm already committed to closing the gap.
We collide.
The impact isn't hard enough to make the boards sing, but my bad shoulder takes the full brunt. Pain rips down my arm like lightning. It's white-hot, immediate, and mean as hell.
"Oh, fuck." I bite it down, jaw locked tight, and finish the drill skating backwards like nothing happened.
Coach Ryan blows his whistle at me. He barks, "Silas! Get off the ice. You're in a No Contact red jersey. That means NO CONTACT!"
I skate toward the bench. My shoulder throbs and sends little ripples of pain through my body. I try to tune it out and pretend my body isn't falling apart. My trainer Mike gestures from the boards, face tight with concern. I wave him off. "I'm fine."
Mike gives me a skeptical look. "No contact. This is serious, Silas. If you can't do that, I'll pull you."
My muscles go rigid with defiance because weakness isn't an option. It never has been. Between clenched teeth, I manage, "I hear you."
By the time practice ends, the shoulder's screaming. I strip out of my gear in silence, ignoring the way my right arm won't lift without a visible hitch.
In the locker room, trainers Mike and Annie hover near my stall.
"You're stiff on that right side," Annie says.
I won't be on the injured reserve list for a second longer than I have to be, so I just reply with a stone-faced, "No."
Mike considers me for a long moment. "We literally watched you wince."
"Coincidence," I offer.
"Uh-huh," Annie says, rolling her eyes.
They don't push. They don't need to. Their eyes say everything. I hit the showers, relaxing when my aching shoulder's under the radioactively-hot spray. I release a tense breath. See, when I'm under the heat, my shoulder feels okay-ish. I just need more of that. A heat wrap, maybe.
Beck Tate corners me near the showers before I can escape. "You need to let them look at it."
I try to play it off. "I said I'm fine."
"You're compensating. We can all see it." His voice is flat, factual. It's worse than if he was shouting. "If you won't listen to the trainers, you'll sit out."
The threat lands like a body check to the chest. Sitting means losing ice time. Losing ice time means losing my spot. Losing my spot means I'm done. I'd be finished and washed up at twenty-six.
I can't be done yet. I've devoted my entire life to hockey.My older brothers are still playing. I'm not ready to let this dream get ripped away.
"I'll... behave," I say.
"Scout will monitor your recovery. She'll report back to the coaches. You can continue with practice if you're cleared, but she tracks everything. She's got a mobility routine, and you're the perfect test run for it."
My throat goes tight. "I don't need a babysitter."
"Then don't act like you do. The team needs you, Silas." Beck walks away before I can form a response.
The team. Well, that's a hard response to combat.
The thought of Scout's hands on me again makes my chest feel too tight. My body remembers exactly how those small, strong hands felt pressing into the knot in my shoulder. The sounds I made. The way I got hard and had to flee the room before she noticed.
God, I'm so incredibly fucked.
"Huxley." I look up to find Coach Cross watching me, his concern evident in his gaze. "How are you dealing with being benched?"
