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PRESTON

T his sucked.

One week post-surgery and I was itching to play hockey—the feeling overwhelming me. I felt like a part of me was missing, a limb or part of my heart, and I wanted it back. For a guy who wasn’t sure what the future held for me, this settled the argument. I wasn’t ready to be done playing hockey.

I stood from the seats, stretching lightly as I did my walk around the rink. The team practiced, the coaches huddling and plotting something. We had a game tomorrow, and it mattered that we won. The guys felt it. We all did. The team had been great and supportive of me, but I wasn’t on the ice.

Walking around the rink was as much physical activity as I could do, and if I moved a little too fast, I felt it near the incision. It tugged and stung.

The other reason I was worked up and pissed? Jordan refused to have sex with me despite me trying numerous times. I had a post-op appointment in an hour, and hopefully, I’d be cleared for more activity on and off the ice .

All this inaction let me sit with my thoughts more, and while I wasn’t a fan of it, time helped settle the last few months.

My parents were trying again, and while their relationship wasn’t my business, I supported my mom trying to be happy.

Plus, the way they were there for me in the hospital was so different than the tournament. I’d be okay. Our family would be okay.

And yeah, I wanted to play hockey professionally.

It was like I had to have it taken away to realize I wanted it more.

What a fucking time to learn that, when I wasn’t on the damn ice.

I forced a deep breath as I walked around the rink, using the free time to walk as much as possible.

Jordan helped me catch up on classwork, talking to my teachers and getting my assignments for me, but nothing replaced the feeling of skating.

Nothing.

“Gentlemen, circle up.” Coach Reiner stood with his hands on his hips, his face set in determination.

J.D. stood next to him, the two of them eyeing the guys as everyone circled up around them and kneeled.

I moved closer to the ice, not stepping onto it because one wrong move could tear open my incision.

The atmosphere was suddenly tense, the weight of last week’s loss still lingering.

Coach cleared his throat, his voice tense.

“Alright, listen up. Last week? That’s in the rearview mirror.

We lost a championship, yeah, and I’m not gonna stand here and pretend it doesn’t sting.

But tonight, we have something to prove—not to anyone else but to ourselves.

Because the measure of a team isn’t just how they handle the wins.

It’s how they handle the losses, the setbacks, the punches to the gut. That’s where champions are made.

“Now, I know you’re feeling the weight of being down a key guy tonight.

Preston’s not out there, and I know that hits hard.

” He paused, stared at me, nodded, and kept going.

“But let me tell you something—this is hockey. Injuries happen. Challenges happen. What defines us is how we step up, how we adapt, how we rise to the occasion. And let me make something else clear: eyes are on us tonight. You know what I’m talking about.

There are scouts in that crowd—whether they’re here officially or unofficially, they’re watching.

They want to see who’s got the grit, the heart, and the ability to perform under pressure.

They’re looking for leaders, for players who don’t back down when things get tough, who rise above adversity and put the team on their back if they have to. ”

“Okay, Coach!”

“Heard, chef.”

“We got this!” The guys hollered, their voices echoing off the ice and making me smile. I’d do the same thing if I was there.

“So, here’s the deal,” Reiner continued.

“We’re not just playing this game for a win.

We’re playing to remind ourselves—and everyone watching—who the fuck we are.

We’re the team that fights for every puck, that outworks, outskates, and out-hustles every opponent.

The team that doesn’t just bounce back—we break through.

“Tonight, we play for Preston. We play for each other. We play for the pride of wearing this jersey. But most of all? We play to prove that nothing, and I mean nothing , can keep this team down. So get out there. Show them. Play the kind of hockey that makes them remember your name.”

The team clapped and catcalled, the sense of unity filling the air, making my chest ache. I wanted to be out there so fucking badly, but once the guys ended practice on a cheer, they rushed me.

“You’ll be back soon, Charming, don’t worry.”

“I won’t take your starting spot this year. Next year, maybe,” a punk ass freshmen said. “So watch your back.”

They high-fived, hugged, and reassured me before they disappeared into the locker room. J.D. approached me with a half-smile, his penetrating gaze already seeing through me .

“You okay?”

I shrugged. “I mean, as well as I can be. I want to be out there.”

“You will be soon.” He ran a hand over his jaw, his eyes narrowing. “You look different. Why?”

“You’re way too perceptive.” I barked out a laugh. “What a time for me to realize I want to play professionally. I wasn’t sure if I wanted it the way Quentin and some of the other guys do. But now that I can’t skate? I want it more.”

“I know what you mean. It takes losing something for you to feel the gravity of it. Well, good news, Charming, you’ll be back next week, and a damn appendectomy isn’t an injury. It’s not gonna make scouts view you negatively. So show up tomorrow, cheer the team on, be there for us, but don’t pout.”

“I’m not pouting,” I replied, anger edging my voice. The lack of playing was really getting to me.

“Hm, you are. It’s all over your face. Work on that for the game tomorrow.

Reiner says all the time that coaches and scouts want talent, sure, but how you interact off the ice makes a difference.

They want to invest in the future.” J.D.

reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “I’m fucking stoked that you wanna play professionally.

I knew it. Reiner wasn’t sure, but I saw something in you and called it, so thanks for letting me win that bet. ”

“You two are so strange.” I almost laughed.

“Let us know how your follow-up appointment goes.” J.D. released me and held my gaze. “And think about how you can be there for the team tomorrow to showcase your character.”

He left me, my thoughts continuing to spiral. I had to get through my post-op and then I could figure out how to work through this headspace.

My phone buzzed with Jordan’s name popping up.

Jordan: Hey, you want me to take you to your appointment?

Preston: No, I’ll just head there from here .

It’d be easier, and I was in such a foul mood she didn’t need to see me like this. I was pouting, as J.D. said, and while she and I hadn’t quite discussed what we were, I didn’t want to give her any reason to ditch me. Being a needy, annoying pouter was not sexy, so it was best to hide it.

The doctor gave me the once-over, checking the incision and poking around to make sure everything looked like it was healing properly.

“Good news,” she said, “everything’s on track, but you need to take it easy.”

Of course, “taking it easy” basically meant no hockey, no skating, and no lifting anything heavier than a textbook for another two to three weeks.

She encouraged me to keep walking and staying active in small ways, but she made it clear that anything strenuous—anything that could stress my core—was completely off-limits.

“You’ll thank yourself later,” she said, like that would make sitting on the sidelines any easier.

The kicker? She reminded me that I’d probably need four to six weeks before I could even think about returning to the ice.

“Listen to your body,” she added, but all I could think was how much I wanted to get back out there and stop feeling like a benchwarmer in my own life.

My mood hadn’t improved by the time I returned to the house. Quentin was still with the team, stretching and ensuring all was good with our team trainer. Logan was probably at the library, but Jordan was home. I could sense her the second I walked in.

She wore black leggings that hugged her curves and a cropped sweatshirt that showed off her stomach. My core tightened at the hint of her skin, the urge to grab hold of her and kiss her senseless right there. But I had to be careful still.

I asked the doctor about sex, and I wasn’t fucking cleared.

Jordan’s long black hair swished side to side as she walked from the living room to the kitchen, giving me a great view of her ass, and I groaned. She slept with me every night and took care of me, making sure I had drinks and food and everything.

And all I focused on was hockey.

It was easier than worrying about what the hell this was between us. I scrubbed a hand over my face, irritated and annoyed. She’d been great—a great fucking friend to me. It messed with me.

Was she doing this as a friend or because she had feelings for me? It wasn’t like I could ask her out for another date either. I couldn’t do anything.

“Hi,” she said, her voice soft as she leaned against the wall with her arms crossed. Her gaze took me in, but there wasn’t warmth on her face. “How was your checkup?”

“Not great.”

“What does that mean?” Her brows furrowed, and her eyes lit up with annoyance. ”Give me more than that.”

“What do you want to know? That I can’t even skate for another two weeks, probably not play hockey for four more? That I can’t have sex yet? That I have to watch the team play and miss a whole month?” I hated how I sounded. I hated the annoying edge to my tone.

I was spiraling and taking it out on Jordan. Closing my eyes, I pinched my nose, wishing like hell I could get it together. Between the pain, the lack of hockey, and the unknown with Jordan, I was a mess.