Gloves drop. Sticks clatter. Voices rise. Shouting. Shoving. Chaos explodes around the spot where Austin lies. The refs wade in, arms out, barking orders. Even players from both teams try to pull bodies apart, trying to stop the situation from turning uglier.
Then I see Rose O’Brien, our head trainer, moving fastacross the ice. She drops to her knees beside Austin, her body shielding him as she bends low to speak into his ear.
For the first time in my coaching career, I think I might pass out.
Austin is still down. His back rises and falls in uneven, laboured breaths. My chest tightens as the memory slams into me, raw and unwelcome. My own injury. The sound. The helplessness. But this is worse.
Because Austin is twenty-five years old. His best years should still be waiting for him. And the idea that they could be ripped away from him makes something twist violently inside my gut. It is so fucking unfair. Just like it was unfair when it happened to me.
And I sent him out there.
I told him to finish it. Told him to get me the win.
I watch Rose keep talking, her head close to his helmet, her hands steady and calm. Too calm. Why has she not called for the medics? They are standing right there, stretcher ready, waiting for her signal. They will not move until she gives it.
So what the fuck is she waiting for?
I am already leaning forward, already bracing to jump the boards, bad leg and all, when Austin plants one gloved hand against the ice.
My heart lurches.
He is trying to get up.
No. He is getting up.
And then I notice something I somehow missed in the confusion.
There’s no blood.
If his Achilles had been cut, there would be blood. A lot of it. Dark and unmistakable against the ice.
But the ice beneath him is still clean. White as snow.
Austin is on all fours now, helmet bowed, one glove pressed into the ice while Rose stays close, talking steadily,grounding him. He nods at something she says and then, slowly, carefully, he pushes himself upright.
The fights have been broken up and the ice is suddenly wide and exposed. Every eye follows Austin as he makes his way back toward our bench, skating gingerly at first. Will stays glued to one side of him, Rose to the other, a protective escort through the noise and the tension.
I do not breathe again until he reaches us.
He sits on the bench, and I lean in immediately.
“Are you alright?”
He’s still working to catch his breath, chest rising and falling hard. It is Rose who answers first. “He is okay. Just got the wind knocked out of him.”
“I’m fine,” Austin insists, though his voice is rough. He looks pale and spent, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, but nothing appears broken. Nothing twisted.
“Your leg?” I press.
“It’s fine.” He stretches his right leg out in front of him, rotates his ankle slowly, deliberately, meeting my eyes as he does it. “I’m wearing Kevlar socks.”
Thank God.
A relatively new piece of equipment, only just starting to gain traction around the league. Designed specifically to protect the Achilles. Designed to stop careers from ending in a single, brutal second.
I pat Crawford on the shoulder, the relief hitting me hard. “Good job, kid.”
I straighten and look down the bench. My players are watching me, faces tight, jaws set, waiting. The refs are already moving into position, hands on their whistles, ready to restart play.
