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Lehane is on me this time, right on my ass, sweeping his stick in an attempt to take the puck from me. He’s a dirty player. I’ve seen him do sneaky shit dozens of times without the refs catching him. I switch the puck to my weak side, and Lehane swings his stick at my leg, the move clearly intentional.
I’m waiting for the referee to take his head out of his ass and call a penalty for slashing. The bastard gets away with it, like he does everything else, which only fuels my rage.
I pass the puck to Tucker, with just enough clearance to sail past Lehane’s skate. Tuck takes the shot, and with seconds left on the clock, the horn sounds, blaring through the event center.
I raise my arms in the air to celebrate our win, about to join my teammates, when someone punches me in the back with their glove. Spinning around, I shove Lehane. Stumbling backward, he smirks. He removes his gloves, dropping them to the ice. I do the same, because I’m not backing down from him.
As we square off, he points to the stands—where Bex is sitting next to Taylor. “I still remember her perfect pink nipples. Her tight pussy. She’s a good fuck, isn’t she?” I want to rip the stupid grin from his lips. “Your girl can suck a cock like a whore on—”
Before he can finish his sentence, I land a punch to his jaw. I keep swinging, backing him up against the glass, as I dodge his fist. He gets a good hit on me, on the right side of my nose that sends a shooting pain through my face. Our teammates surround us. The linesmen try to pull us apart.
Even though we won the game, I can’t let him win. He can’t disrespect my girl and then walk away. My fist connects with his nose, then his jaw, each punch more powerful than the last. The final shot forces his eyes shut, and he stops swinging at me.
His blood covers my skin, coloring my knuckles. I can’t feel my hand anymore. Is it broken? The fight ends with Lehane sinking to the ice and me accidentally elbowing a linesman in the face. Reality sinks in.
What did I do?
Lehane might have cost me everything. My position on this team. My future in the NHL. No one is going to sign a player with a bad track record and fucked-up hand.
Dr. Clarke, the team doctor, slides the curtain over and steps into the bay where I’ve been waiting in the emergency room. He’s treated my injuries before, but this time, he wanted x-rays to confirm his suspicions.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” He sits in the chair next to my bed.
“Bad news, I guess.”
He nods. “I spoke to the attending physician. Your x-rays confirm you have three broken knuckles and a slight fracture. While this isn’t a life-changing injury, it will impact your ability to play hockey for at least the next month.”
“What about the Frozen Four?”
“I’m sorry, it doesn’t look good for you.”
I can’t decide whether I want to scream, cry, or punch something. “What’s the best-case scenario?”
“Maybe three weeks, if you’re lucky. But I don’t want to push it.”
Staring down at my splinted fingers, I can’t believe how much my hand has swollen in the last hour. This isn’t the end of the world. But it sure feels like it right now.
“Does Coach know?”
“Yes.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “I stopped by the waiting room. The entire team is out there.”
“Is Bex here?”
“Yeah. She knows, too.”
“Can I leave?”
“Not yet. They need to take care of your hand first.”
“Can I see Bex?”
He pushes himself up from the chair. “Let me see if they’ll allow her to come back and sit with you for a while.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
He disappears into the busy room, leaving the curtain open a crack. I lean back, my eyes pointed up at the ceiling, and pray for a miracle. What if the bones shift during the healing process? What if I can never play hockey again? I try to block out the pain. It’s something fierce, the intensity growing with each second that passes.
I refuse to take any pain medication. My dad had addiction problems early on in his career. He loved the bottle, clung to it like it was his last hope. I won’t get in the habit of using something as a crutch. Aspirin will have to be enough.
A few minutes later, Bex steps between the hole in the curtains, with a sad look on her beautiful face.
“Hey,” she whispers, approaching the bed. “How are you feeling?” She slips her fingers between those of my good hand. Her warmth leeches into my skin.
“Okay,” I lie.
“You look better than the other guy,” she jokes. “Kellan’s nose is broken, shattered in two different places. You broke his jaw, too. They have to wire it shut.”
