When the final buzzer sounds, the bar erupts. Someone pounds the counter hard enough to rattle the bottles behind me as cheers break out across the room.
The Wolves win, but I can’t bring myself to celebrate.
The camera finds Cooper as his teammates crowd around him, tapping his helmet and pulling him into quick hugs. He skates off with his mask tucked under his arm, his hair damp with sweat. He’s smiling—but it doesn’t feel real. Not when I notice how he keeps his arm tucked a little too close to his side.
“Rowden took a hard hit earlier in front of the net,” one of the commentators says. “Got checked out but stayed in and finished the game.”
Finished the game.
Like that’s supposed to mean he’s fine.
It’s all I can think about for the next two hours as I move through the rest of my shift. I check my phone more than I mean to, telling myself it’s just out of habit. He saved his number this morning before he left, and we’ve exchanged a few messages after I wished him good luck at his game. It shouldn’t feel like that big of a deal.
So when I finally glance toward the back hallway and see him standing there, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting a while, my breath catches.
He’s wearing a black Rixton bomber jacket, hands shoved into the pockets. His hat is turned backward, damp curls spilling out from underneath it. His hair still looks like it hasn’t fully dried from the postgame shower.
He looks unfairly handsome.
My heart flutters the second his eyes find mine and soften, like the whole room narrows down to just us.
Relief washes over me at the sight of him, but it fades the second I fully take him in.
It’s easy to miss, but I catch the way one shoulder sits just a little off, the way he leans more to one side when he moves. The rush from the game has worn off, and now there’s nothing masking it.
The crowd has thinned since the game ended, the noise fading into tired laughter and half-finished drinks. I close out my last tab and glance toward Sasha. She catches my look and tilts her chin toward him with a small smile.
“Go,” she mouths.
I wipe my hands on a towel and round the bar.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” His voice is lower than usual, rough around the edges.
Up close, he looks exhausted in a way he didn’t on the screen. Not wrecked. Just worn down.
He exhales slowly and slides his hands to my hips, guiding me gently toward the back room. We barely make it three steps out of sight before his jaw tightens and a quiet breath slips through his teeth.
My hands come up instinctively, slipping beneath his jacket, fingers splaying across his chest to steady him.
“Your shoulder,” I say before I can stop myself. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” he answers automatically.
He rolls it once like he’s proving the point, but the movement isn’t as smooth as he wants it to be. “Took a hard hit but it’s not serious.”
I fold my arms. “You say that like it means nothing.”
A half smile tugs at his mouth. “Means I’ve had worse.”
That doesn’t help.
I reach for him again, slower this time, my palm sliding up his chest, careful when I near his shoulder. His eyes close for half a second before he catches himself.
“Did you get it looked at?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah.” He nods once. “Cleared me to keep playing. Said they’ll keep an eye on it.”
