Then the refs were hauling him toward the tunnel. The Storm’s medical team was surrounding me. The moment shattered.
"Don't try to move," someone said. Kieran, I think. Hands pressed gently against my good shoulder. "Medical is coming. Just breathe."
I closed my eyes and tried to do exactly that.
The hospital room was too white. Too quiet. It smelled like antiseptic and floor wax.
I lay on the examination table while a doctor with steady hands and a calm voice manipulated my shoulder. Each movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating down my arm. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper.
"Separated shoulder," the doctor announced, stepping back. "Grade two, possibly three. We’ll need an MRI to confirm, but you’re looking at minimum six weeks. Possibly surgery depending on what the scan shows."
Six weeks. The Conference Finals started in four days.
"Can I play?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
The doctor’s expression said everything. "Not a chance. You try to take a hit with this shoulder, you’ll be looking at permanent damage. Career-ending, potentially."
Career-ending.The words echoed in the silence.
I nodded once, mechanically. Of course. Of course this was how it ended. Not with a Stanley Cup, not with vindication orglory, but with my arm in a sling and my captain—ex-whatever—ejected from the game for trying to kill someone on my behalf.
"We’ll get you set up with a sling and pain medication," the doctor continued. "Someone from the team will arrange follow-up appointments. Do you have anyone here with you?"
"The team is still playing," I said. My voice sounded flat even to my own ears.
The doctor nodded sympathetically and left to arrange the paperwork.
I sat alone in the too-white room and stared at my useless right arm. The immediate sharp pain had dulled to a persistent throb that radiated from shoulder to fingertips. My hockey career—everything I’d worked for since I was six years old—had just been put on pause.
I should call my parents. I should text the team group chat. I should do something other than sit here feeling hollow.
Instead, I closed my eyes and saw Luca’s face—that split second when our eyes met across the ice. The way his carefully constructed mask had completely shattered, revealing something that looked terrifyingly like anguish.
Then I remembered Luca’s voice in the equipment room three weeks ago.It was a mistake. All of it.
My shoulder throbbed in time with my pulse.
The door burst open.
Luca stood in the doorway. He was still in his gear except for his skates and gloves. His hair was wild, his knuckles were bleeding, and he had four stitches above his right eyebrow from a punch I hadn't even seen land. His chest heaved like he’d run the entire way from the arena.
"You’re supposed to be playing," I said.
"I got ejected." Luca’s voice was rough, scraped raw. "Game misconduct. Doesn't matter. Are you okay?"
"Separated shoulder. Out for six weeks minimum, possibly surgery." I kept my voice neutral. "You didn't need to come."
"Didn't need to..." Luca took three steps into the room and stopped. His hands flexed at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them. "Theo, I—"
"You should go back," I interrupted. "The team needs you."
"The team is fine. I need to—I had to make sure you were..." Luca’s voice cracked. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."
I watched him with a strange detachment. Luca looked wrecked—truly, completely wrecked—and three weeks ago that might have meant something. Three weeks ago, I might have reached out with my good arm and pulled him close. I might have saidit’s okayorI’m fineor any of the easy comforts that came naturally.
But three weeks ago, Luca had looked me in the eye and chosen fear.
"It’s not your fault I got hit," I said.
