Page 72 of Body Check

There’s a cheer, and then applause, and I realize it’s for me. Stick taps on the boards. For standing up. For doing the bare fucking minimum to get my bearings back.

“You’ve got this, Cap,” MacGregor says, clapping my shoulder. “You’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

“Nothing a bit of PT can’t fix,” Larsson adds.

I choke out a laugh. “Sure. Yeah.”

We stumble-glide to the chute, and then Derek helps me keep the weight off my leg as we hobble down the chute.

“Amelia,” he barks. “You’re my eyes and ears.”

She salutes him, but there’s no disguising the worry on her face. “You got it, boss.”

It’s almost good that she can’t be here for this part; I don’t want her to see me like this.

Inside the dressing room, Derek heads straight to the medical bay. He hoists me onto the table, and then takes a pair of scissors to my laces, slicing through them. He eases my skate off my foot.

“Oh, fuck.” Without the skate compressing everything, the pain is worse.

He takes off my second skate—probably so he won’t get sliced by accident—and then cuts through my socks and tears off my shin guards until my left leg is bare to the chill of the room. But I’m burning up.

There’s a knock on the open door, and then Doc Hudson is bustling into the office. He’s wearing a team polo and warmup jacket rather than a white coat, but there’s no mistaking his authority.

I lay back on the table as he does a visual examination while Derek debriefs him, and then he snaps on a pair of gloves and examines me himself. Every touch hurts more than the one before, and I can’t keep my mouth shut.

Luckily, Doc is used to a little cursing.

“We’ll need an MRI to be sure,” he finally says, reaching for the tablet that Derek hands him. “Looks to be your Achilles.”

“Fuck.” I cover my face with my hands. “Do I need surgery?”

“Probably.” At least he’s honest about it. “You’ll be out for a bit.”

“The rest of the season?” There’s only seven weeks left before playoffs start.

“Most likely,” Doc says. “I’ll call the ambulance.”

“No. I don’t⁠—”

“We need to do an MRI, and we can’t do it here, son. I’ll stay with you the whole time.”

“Is there anyone we can call?” Derek asks. “A girlfriend?”

I shake my head. “I need my phone.”

“Harper?” Doc asks. Guess he didn’t hear about the divorce.

“No. Someone else.”

Derek raises his brows. “You’re seeing someone?”

There’s commotion in the hall behind us as the team funnels into the dressing room for intermission.

“It’s new,” I clip out, trying to swing my leg over the side of the table.

“Whoa. Where do you think you’re going?” Doc sets a hand on my chest.

“To see my team. They have to know I’m okay. They need a pep talk.”

I know what it’s like to see a guy go down on the ice—and when he doesn’t get back up.

It’s my job to lead this team. To inspire them, to boost them up, and to give them a dose of reality when needed. I didn’t want it to happen like this, though.

Derek helps me hobble out of the exam room, and into the visiting dressing room. The guys are assembled at their cubbies, half of them undressed. I don’t like to take off my kit between periods, but other guys exchange their jerseys or pads for fresh ones.

A silence falls over the room as I limp out, and then stuttered applause floods the room.

“I’ll be okay,” I tell them, leaning against the wall for support. “I’m going to get checked out, but I’ll be alright. You guys are going to score a fucking goal, you’re going to win the damn game, and when you get back to Boston in three days, I’ll be there to cheer you on.”

Logan frowns. “You think you’re out?”

“Still need to run some tests, but I don’t think I’ll be back on the ice for the next game, maybe two.” That’s all I’ll say about it.

My gaze roves over my teammates, my brothers, and the staff members who support us in everything we do.

And then I catch sight of Amelia in the corner. Her eyes are glassy, but they won’t meet mine.

“I’ll be okay,” I say, my gaze focused on her. “Now, go kick some Dallas ass.”