Page 14

The roar of the crowd was deafening, our home arena packed to capacity for the matchup against our biggest rivals. I stood at the blue line during the national anthem, trying to focus on the flag instead of the pain radiating through my shoulder or the scouts I knew were watching from the stands.

This game mattered. Not just for the team's ranking, but for my future. Representatives from at least three NHL organizations were here, evaluating talent, making notes that could determine the trajectory of my career.

And I was playing injured. Seriously injured, if the increasing intensity of the pain was any indication.

I scanned the crowd briefly, my eyes finding Lucas almost automatically. He was at the edge of the rink with Nate and Ava, the three of them huddled together with notebooks and cameras. Even from this distance, I could see the concern in his expression as he watched me.

The anthem finished, and the crowd erupted into pre-game cheers. My stomach churned with a toxic mixture of determination and dread as I skated into position for the opening faceoff.

"You good?" Tristan asked quietly as he passed me, his captain's instinct for team wellness clearly picking up on something.

"Fine," I replied automatically. "Let's do this."

The first period went better than I'd dared hope. I used my size and experience to compensate for the limited mobility in my right arm, positioning myself carefully to block shots and clear rebounds without overextending. Coach seemed satisfied, even giving me a rare nod of approval during a line change.

But by the second period, the pain medication I'd taken before the game was wearing off. Each check, each sudden movement sent jolts of agony through my arm. Worse, the opposing team had noticed my weakness, deliberately targeting my right side.

"They're coming after your shoulder," Zach muttered during a break in play. "Want me to run interference?"

I shook my head. "I can handle it."

But as the period wore on, it became increasingly clear that I couldn't. My reactions were slowing, my passes less precise. Coach was starting to give me looks from the bench, his earlier approval turning to confusion and then frustration.

With three minutes left in the second, disaster struck. A rival forward caught me against the boards, driving his shoulder directly into my injured side. The impact was like an explosion of white-hot pain, so intense I couldn't even cry out. I went down to one knee, the arena seeming to spin around me as I struggled to breathe through the agony.

Tristan was suddenly at my side, his voice urgent in my ear. "Sean? You okay, man?"

I couldn't speak, could barely nod as I forced myself back to my feet. The trainer had appeared at the boards, clearly ready to come onto the ice, but I waved him off. The whistle hadn't blown—leaving now would cost the team a penalty we couldn't afford in such a tight game.

Somehow, I made it through those last excruciating minutes until the buzzer signaled the end of the period. The moment I was off the ice, my legs nearly gave out. Zach was there instantly, one arm around my waist as he guided me toward the locker room.

"You're done," he said firmly, no room for argument in his tone. "This is insane, Sean."

I wanted to protest, to insist I could finish the game, but the pain was overwhelming now. In the locker room, I collapsed onto a bench in the far corner while Coach addressed the team, outlining strategy for the final period.

"Sean," he barked, noticing my absence from the huddle. "Get over here."

"He's hurt, Coach," Zach said before I could move. "His shoulder."

Coach's eyes narrowed as he approached, taking in my labored breathing and the way I cradled my arm. "How bad?"

"I can play," I said through gritted teeth, even as my body screamed otherwise.

"Like hell you can," Coach muttered, gesturing to Dr. Shaw, who had followed us into the locker room. "Shaw, check him out."

The team fell silent as the trainer approached. He was gentle but thorough, his practiced fingers probing my shoulder in a way that made me bite my lip to keep from crying out.

"Not good," he pronounced after a moment. "Severe sprain, possibly a partial tear. He's done for the night at minimum."

"No," I protested, pushing myself upright despite the wave of dizziness that washed over me. "Coach, I can—"

"You're benched, Sean," Coach cut me off, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Jensen, you're up."

I watched helplessly as the team huddled without me, discussing strategy for the final period. Zach threw me a sympathetic glance before joining them, leaving me alone on the bench with Dr. Shaw.

"You should have come to me weeks ago," the trainer said quietly as he began fashioning a makeshift sling. "This didn't happen tonight. It's been building."

I didn't answer. The truth was too humiliating to voice aloud, especially now that it had all been for nothing. I was benched anyway, but instead of a few weeks of controlled rest, I was facing who knew how long of recovery—possibly surgery—and all while the scouts who had come to evaluate me watched someone else take my place.

"You need imaging," Dr. Shaw continued, helping me into the sling. "First thing tomorrow. I'm calling the sports medicine clinic now to get you in."

I nodded numbly, too overwhelmed by pain and disappointment to argue. As the team filed out for the third period, Tristan paused beside me.

"We'll win this for you," he promised, his captain's authority making it sound almost possible.

"Thanks," I managed, trying to summon a smile. "Go get 'em."

Once they were gone, the locker room fell eerily quiet. Dr. Shaw left to make his call, promising to return with stronger pain medication. Alone with my thoughts, I felt the full weight of my failure crashing down on me.

My phone buzzed in my bag, and I knew without looking that it would be my father, demanding to know why I wasn't on the ice. I couldn't face that conversation yet. Instead, I closed my eyes, trying to breathe through another wave of pain.

The door opened, and I braced myself for Dr. Shaw's return or Coach's disappointment. Instead, I heard a familiar voice, soft with concern.

"Sean?"

Lucas. I opened my eyes to find him standing a few feet away, his expression a mixture of worry and relief.

"Hey," I said weakly. "Come to get the scoop on the injured star?"

It was a cheap shot, unfair and untrue, but pain and humiliation made me lash out. To his credit, Lucas didn't rise to the bait.

"No," he said simply. "I came to see if you were okay."

The sincerity in his voice undid me. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I turned away, unable to bear his witness to my breakdown.

"Not really," I admitted, my voice cracking. "Pretty far from okay, actually."

I heard him move closer, felt him kneel beside the bench where I sat. "What can I do?" he asked.

What could he do? What could anyone do? The damage was done, the consequences inescapable. And yet, having him there, asking that simple question, made the crushing weight on my chest ease just slightly.

"Just stay?" The request slipped out before I could overthink it. "For a minute, at least."

"Of course." Lucas settled on the bench beside me, close but not touching, respecting my space even as he offered his presence. "As long as you need."

We sat in silence for a moment, the distant roar of the crowd marking the progress of the game without us. I wondered if they were winning, if Jensen was filling my spot adequately, if the scouts had already written me off.

"It's been bad for weeks," I confessed suddenly, the words spilling out like water through a broken dam. "The shoulder. I knew I should have rested it, seen a doctor. But I couldn't let everyone down."

"And now?" Lucas prompted gently.

I laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in the empty locker room. "And now I've let everyone down anyway. Best of both worlds."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" I gestured to the empty room, the ice I wasn't playing on, the future slipping away with every throb of pain in my shoulder. "Look around, Lucas. This is what failure looks like."

"No," he said firmly. "This is what happens when someone pushes themselves too hard for too long. It's not failure, Sean. It's human."

When was the last time anyone had expected me to be simply human, with all the frailties and imperfections that entailed?

"My dad's going to kill me," I whispered, the fear that had been driving me all along finally surfacing. "This was my shot, my chance to prove I could make it to the next level. The scouts were here tonight, and I blew it."

"If one game determines your entire future, then it's not much of a future," Lucas pointed out. "The scouts will be back. You'll heal. And if your dad can't understand that, then that's on him, not you."

The door swung open again, and Dr. Shaw returned, pill bottle in hand. He paused briefly at the sight of Lucas, but didn't comment on his presence.

"Here," he said, offering me two tablets and a water bottle. "This should help with the pain. Coach wants you to come out to the bench for the last few minutes if you're up to it. Team morale."

I nodded, accepting the medication gratefully.

After he left, I turned to Lucas. "I should go out there," I said, though the thought of facing everyone—the team, the crowd, the scouts—made my stomach churn.

"I'll walk with you," Lucas offered. "If you want."

I did want that, more than I could admit. Having him beside me would make it bearable somehow. But I shook my head.

"Better not," I said reluctantly. "It's a team thing, and you're—"

"Press," he finished for me. "I understand. I'll check on you later?"