The medical room was a blur of activity. Bright lights, cold hands, someone cutting away my jersey. Questions fired at me that I couldn't answer properly. Something about my name, the date, what hurt, how bad.
Everything hurt. Everything.
“Possible concussion,” someone was saying. “Definitely shoulder—could be separated, could be broken. We need to get him to the hospital for scans.”
“Do it,” Grant said, and his voice had gone hard. “Now.”
“Coach, you can't?—”
“I don't give a fuck what protocol says. Get him to the hospital.”
There were more hands on me, moving me, lifting me. The world spun violently, and my stomach lurched. I felt bile rise in my throat.
“Gonna be sick,” I managed to say.
Someone got a basin under me just in time. I retched, and the movement sent fresh agony through my shoulder that made me scream.
“Jesus Christ,” Grant's voice, tight with something that sounded like grief. “Careful with him.”
“We're trying, Coach.”
Everything was fading now. The edges going black. The pain was too much. My body was shutting down, trying to escape.
The last thing I remembered was Grant's hand in mine, holding tight.
The last thing I heard was his voice, rough and desperate: “Stay with me, Jace. Please. Just stay with me.”
Then nothing.
Just darkness.
Cold.
Empty.
Gone.
CHAPTER 17
DOCTOR'S ORDERS
GRANT
Isat in one of those plastic chairs that were designed to be uncomfortable, elbows on my knees, hands clasped tight enough that my knuckles had gone white. The coach mask was still on—had to be, with the team scattered through the waiting area, with Rook pacing near the windows, with reporters probably already circling outside—but underneath it, I was barely holding together.
The image of Jace hitting those boards kept playing on repeat in my head. The sound of impact. The way his body had crumpled. The blood on the ice. The way he'd looked at me—dazed and terrified and trying so hard not to show it—before he'd passed out.
Stay with me, Jace. Please.
I'd said it out loud. In front of the team. In front of everyone. And I didn't give a fuck.
“Coach.” Tess appeared in front of me, tablet in hand, looking exhausted. “They're doing imaging now. Should have results soon.”
“What are we looking at?” My voice came out flat, controlled. “Best case, worst case.”
“Best case? Separated shoulder, couple weeks rest. Worst case?” She hesitated. “Fractured collarbone, torn rotator cuff. Could be looking at surgery and months of recovery.”
My stomach dropped, but I kept my face neutral. “And the head?”
