“That’s not nothing, Jack. That’s your body telling you it’s serious,” I shot back, unable to keep the fear out of my voice.
He waved a hand as if brushing away my words, but even that small gesture made him grimace. “I’ve played with worse,” he added, as if he wanted to stop me following this train of concern to the inevitable conclusion. “I’m playing,” he added.
I understood playing through pain. I understood the focus, the absolute instinct to push past the hurt for the sake of the game, for pride, for the team. But this wasn’t the kind of pain you fought through. This wasn’t right, and every instinct in me screamed that if he kept ignoring it, it could cost him more than hockey.
I scrambled off the bed to help him up, and he leaned way too much on me, rigid with pain, and he didn’t let go, all the way to the bathroom.
“It’s okay, you can go,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed. I crossed my arms over my chest and stayed put.
“You want me to just walk away while you bleed inside?” I shot back.
“Christ, Tian, do you have to watch me piss too?” he snapped, and the edge in his tone stung.
“If that’s what it takes to make sure you don’t collapse in here, yeah, I’ll damn well watch,” I retorted.
He shot me a look, sharp and cutting. “Fucking you doesn’t mean you get a say in what I do on the ice.”
The words hit like a slap, and I inhaled, stung but refusing to back down. “Maybe not. But caring about you does. And I’m not going to shut up and watch you wreck yourself just to prove how tough you are.”
His jaw tightened, fury flashing in his eyes, then dimming to exhaustion. “Fuck, Tian. I didn’t mean that,” he whispered at last, eyes closing, sagging back against the wall, pale and sweating.
“I know you didn’t.”
“Just give me five minutes to?—”
“No, Jack. I’ll back you playing again, I’m in your corner—but you have a life to live, Jack. If you endanger yourself, we don’t just lose the game. We lose you.” I paused. “Ilose you.”
That broke through his stubbornness, his shoulders sagging in reluctant surrender. He managed to force a weak stream, and the moment the pink swirled into the basin, he slumped forward into my hold. “Fuck,” he said hoarsely, trembling against me.
My stomach dropped. “Jack,” I said, planting myself in the doorway, “I’m calling the doctor. Now.”
He swore, muttering about stubborn boyfriends and overprotective snowboarders. “It’s fine. Just a little color?—”
“Blood isnota thing you play through.” My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care what he thought. I guided him back to the bed and picked up the phone, scrolling to the team doctor and explaining. Within five minutes, the doctor was in the room, and his expression tightened the second he saw the bruise. A quick exam, some pointed questions, and then the verdict landed like a hammer.
“Renal contusion,” he said. “Renal contusion, aka kidneys bruised to hell. You’re not playing for at least the next four games. Bed rest, fluids, ibuprofen, and heat for the pain. Monitor urine, daily reassessment. No exceptions.”
“How long, Doc?” Jack asked.
“Seven to ten.”
“Fuck,” Jack swore, then started to argue, but the doctor cut him off with a look.
“Push this and you risk permanent damage. You’ll be lucky if you’re cleared for the final.”
That silenced Jack. For once.
I threaded my fingers through his, squeezing hard. “Then we’ll do everything right,” I said. “Because you’re making that final.”
The door opened, Starry came in, standing at the door, and stared in shock. His eyes darted from Jack, slumped against me, to the strained way I was holding him. “Jack? What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low, already knowing it wasn’t good.
“Out four games,” I said.
“Nothing serious,” Jack said at the same time.
“Which is it?” Starry asked, moving to one side to let Doc out.
Jack hung his head. “Three to four games.”
