“I know.”
I leave before he can see my eyes filling with tears.
Chapter 2
Ryder
The pain isa constant companion now.
It starts in my shoulder, radiates down my arm, settles into my chest like a fist that won’t unclench. Some days it’s a dull ache. Other days, like today, it’s sharp enough to make me catch my breath between drills.
I don’t let it show. Can’t let it show. Not with Coach watching every practice like he’s looking for cracks in the armor. Not with scouts in the stands three games out of five. Not with the NHL draft six months away and my entire future hinging on whether I can keep pretending everything is fine.
“Beaumont! You sleeping up there?” Coach Mitchell’s voice cuts across the ice.
I snap back to attention. The drill is simple, breakaway practice, one-on-one against our backup goalie. I’ve done this a thousand times. In my sleep. In worse pain than this.
I take the puck, accelerate, feel the familiar rush of speed that used to be pure joy. Now it’s complicated. Now it’s joy mixed with fear mixed with the grinding knowledge that every impact, every check, every fall might be the one that ends this.
I fake left, go right, shoot high.
The puck hits the crossbar with a satisfying ping and drops in.
“Better,” Coach grunts. Which from Mitchell is basically a standing ovation.
Practice ends at seven PM. We’ve been on the ice since five AM, with classes crammed in between and a brief team lunch that I mostly picked at. My body is screaming. My shoulder feels like someone took a blowtorch to it.
The team trainer, Davis, offered ice and anti-inflammatories after practice. I took both. They barely touch it anymore.
In the locker room, the team is loud, energized despite the brutal practice. Carter Lynch—our captain, my center, my best friend is holding court near his locker, telling some story that has half the team laughing.
I should join them. Should participate in the bonding, the camaraderie, all the things that make us a team instead of just individuals sharing ice time.
Instead, I sit in front of my locker and try to figure out how to unlace my skates with my right arm barely functioning.
“You good, Beaumont?” Carter appears beside me, concern creasing his face.
“Fine.”
“Your shoulder’s bothering you again.”
It’s not a question. Carter knows. Has known for months. But he’s been keeping my secret, covering for me when I can’t quite make a play, adjusting his passes to compensate for my limited mobility.
“It’s manageable,” I say, which is technically true if you define manageable as “not actually screaming in agony.”
“You need to see someone. A real doctor, not just Davis.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because the moment I see a doctor, it goes on record. The moment it’s on record, the scouts know. The moment the scouts know, I drop from first round to maybe not drafted at all.”
Carter sits down on the bench across from me. “And if you keep playing on it and it gets worse? If you tear something that can’t be fixed?”
“Then at least I went down fighting instead of benching myself over an injury that might be fine.”
“Might be fine? Ryder, I’ve watched you. You can barely lift your arm above your shoulder. You’re compensating in ways that are going to hurt other parts of your body. This is not fine.”
