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J ax

April 18 th , First Round Playoff-Game 1 of 7

Montreal's top line came at them like a freight train. Their center dangled through the neutral zone, forcing Jax to pivot and backpedal, his edges digging deep into the ice. A drop pass to their winger nearly caught him flat-footed, but Jax extended his stick, just disrupting the play enough for Marcus to slide over and clear the zone.

"Nice stick, Thompson!" Vicky barked from the bench.

By the third period, Jax's legs felt like they were filled with cement. Twenty-five minutes of ice time already, more than he'd logged all season, and they were only up by one. Sweat stung his eyes as he gasped for breath during a rare stoppage in play. His ribs screamed where he'd taken that hit in the corner.

Worth it though. He'd separated their star winger from the puck without taking a penalty.

Sven tapped his pads with his blocker. "You're making my job easy, big man," the goalie said, his Swedish accent thicker when he was tired. "Keep pushing them wide."

Five minutes left on the clock. 2-2 game. Jax glanced at the bench as he lined up for the faceoff, catching Vicky's eye. She gave him a short nod. No message necessary—shut this shit down.

Montreal's top line jumped over the boards, fresh legs against his burning ones. Their center won the draw clean, kicking it back to their defenseman, who loaded up for a one-timer. Jax read it coming and threw himself into the shooting lane, the puck stinging as it caught him just below the elbow pad.

The puck skittered toward Marcus, who snagged it and immediately looked up ice. This was it—exactly the breakout they'd drilled for hours. Marcus slid it to Jax, who hit Kane in stride as he crossed center ice. Kane found Dmitri flying down the wing with speed.

Dmitri's shot clanged off the goalie's pad, the rebound kicking right to Ethan's tape. The rookie didn't hesitate, burying it top shelf where mama hides the cookies.

The bench erupted, sticks banging against the boards. As Jax glided back for fist bumps, he caught Vicky's eye again. This time her nod carried something more than instruction—respect.

Jax's next two shifts were all about lockdown defense. Clear the zone. Keep it simple. No heroes. When the final horn blared and the Chill escaped with a 3-2 win, the satisfaction hit differently than the adrenaline rush of demolishing some guy in a fight. This was deeper. Sustainable.

"That," Kane declared in the locker room afterward, still breathing like he'd run a marathon, "was fucking beautiful hockey."

"Beautiful is subjective," Marcus replied, unlacing his skates with careful attention to each loop. "But statistically speaking, we executed the system at approximately 87% efficiency. So yes—fucking beautiful indeed."

"Only you, Adeyemi," Dmitri laughed, flicking a sweat-soaked wristband in the defenseman's direction. "But yes, was good."

Jax just nodded, too focused on the agony in his side to celebrate. The trainer pressed an ice pack against his ribs where that spear had caught him late in the third. The bruise was already blooming purple beneath his compression shirt.

Kane slid onto the bench beside him, voice dropping low enough that only Jax could hear. "That hit you took... that was deliberate. Rousseau was gunning for you all night."

"Part of the job," Jax muttered, wincing as the trainer found a particularly tender spot.

"No." Kane's eyes hardened. "That wasn't hockey. That was personal. I heard what he said to you during warmups."

Jax's jaw tightened. Rousseau's taunts about being a "has-been enforcer" and "dinosaur of the league" shouldn't have bothered him, but they'd struck closer to home than he'd admitted.

"Rousseau's an asshole," Kane continued. "But he's not wrong about one thing—league's watching you. Different standard." He clasped Jax's shoulder. "You played smart tonight. That's why we won."

The simple acknowledgment from the team captain meant more than Kane could know. Jax gave a short nod, the most he could manage through the pain.

"Thompson." Coach Vicky appeared in the doorway, jerking her head toward the corridor. Jax hauled himself up, every muscle protesting.

"Medical after media," she instructed, her eyes narrowing at his careful movements. "That rib needs imaging."

"It's just a bruise," Jax countered, trying not to wince as he shifted. "Had worse in juniors."

"Not a request," Vicky replied, though her tone carried more concern than command. "You're too important to this system to risk further injury. Imaging tonight, treatment protocol tomorrow."

The words hit harder than the cross-check had. Important to the system. Not just a heavy fist or intimidating presence, but a crucial tactical piece. Jax nodded once, accepting both the directive and the recognition behind it.

"Coach," he hesitated, "if this is worse than we think—"

"Then we adjust," Vicky said firmly. "But I'm not letting Montreal dictate our lineup through cheap shots. That's what they want."

Jax knew she was right. The Montreal coach had a reputation for targeting key defensive players, wearing them down physically to create space for their skilled forwards. The thought of sitting out even one playoff game made his stomach twist.

The media scrum was the usual post-game circus. Jax stuck to the script about system adjustments, keeping his answers vague enough to avoid giving Montreal's coaching staff anything useful for next time. He attributed his increased minutes to "team needs" rather than anything else.

He was nearly in the clear when a Hockey Night in Canada reporter slipped in one final question.

"Your partnership with Dr. Mackenzie on the service dog program has generated considerable positive attention," the guy said, his tone professional but his eyes watchful. "Any comment on how that collaboration developed or its impact on your community involvement?"

Jax kept his face neutral, even as his pulse kicked up. The question was framed around the program, but the underlying curiosity was obvious. Everyone wanted to know about the enforcer and the vet. She and the dogs were there tonight and the crowd loved them as they strutted their stuff during the first period's intermission.

"The program speaks for itself," he replied evenly. "Dr. Mackenzie and Parkside Animal Rescue are doing important work with service dogs, and the arena provides excellent training opportunities. My involvement is just one part of a community initiative the entire organization supports."

Clean deflection. Textbook media training. But something made him add, "Dr. Mackenzie's expertise with animal behavior is impressive. The shelter is fortunate to have her involvement, as is the team."

The reporter's mouth curved knowingly. Before he could follow up, the PR director stepped in, ending the session. Saved by the buzzer.

As Jax headed toward medical, a Montreal beat reporter shouted a question from behind the cordon: "Any response to Rousseau's podcast comments about 'dinosaur enforcers who should be extinct'?"

Jax froze mid-step. Podcast comments? That explained the targeted hit. He forced himself to keep walking, pretending he hadn't heard, but his mind was churning. Rousseau was a social media darling with a massive following. If he was publicly gunning for Jax, this series just got more complicated.

Medical confirmed what Vicky suspected—a nasty bone bruise to the ribs that would require treatment but, thankfully, no fracture. The doctor's expression grew serious as she examined the bruising.

"This is right on the edge, Thompson. Another hit here..." She let the implication hang.

"How long?" Jax asked, his voice tight.

"You're cleared for practice, limited contact. Game-time decision for Game 2." She held up a hand before he could protest. "And that's generous. Most guys would be sitting a week minimum."

The news settled like a weight on his chest. Game 2 was critical—teams that went up 2-0 in a series won over 80% of the time. If he couldn't play...

His phone buzzed with a text as he was leaving medical. Kane again: Meet me in the video room. Need your eyes on something.

Jax found the captain hunched over a laptop, game footage already queued up. Kane didn't look up when Jax entered, just said, "What's the damage?"

"Bone bruise. Game-time for Thursday."

Kane winced. "Shit. That's what I was afraid of." He gestured to the screen. "Look at their forecheck pattern when you're not on the ice."

Jax lowered himself carefully into the chair beside Kane, studying the clip. "They collapse to the middle more. Taking away the quick outlet."

"Exactly. When you're out there, they stay wide, respect your reach." Kane ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "They've been studying our zone exits. Without you..."

"Ethan's not ready for those minutes," Jax concluded, naming the rookie defenseman who would likely fill his role.

"No, he's not." Kane met his eyes directly. "I need you out there Thursday. But I need you for the whole series more."

The honesty in Kane's voice—this wasn't just captain talk, this was friend to friend—made Jax nod slowly. "I'll be smart about it."

"See that you are." Kane clapped him gently on the shoulder, mindful of his injury. "Because Lauren would kill me if I let you do something stupid."

"You're scared of my girlfriend?" Jax asked, lips twitching.

"Terrified," Kane confessed with a grin. "Anyone who can put her arm inside a horse for a living deserves healthy respect."

The easy way Kane referred to Lauren as his girlfriend felt right in a way Jax hadn't expected. "Fair point."

By the time Jax finally escaped the arena, midnight had come and gone. Every part of him ached, from his burning legs to his throbbing side to the knot at the base of his skull.

In his truck, he checked his phone and found a string of messages—Mr. Collins confirming Tripod's meds, Kane wanting to review film over breakfast, and three from Lauren:

I've got to leave. I've got an emergency at the clinic. I'll be listening to the game.

Followed by: That spear in the third looked painful. Ribs ok?

And finally: Impressive win. You must be exhausted. Text when you're home safe, regardless of the hour.

He had been wondering where she had gone.

Just leaving the arena , he replied. Ribs bruised but not broken. Medical clearance for practice tomorrow with modified contact. Game-time for Thursday.

Her response came almost instantly: Glad it's not serious. Ice/heat rotation and anti-inflammatories. Doctor's orders.

Which kind of doctor are you again? Jax texted back.

The kind who knows pain management transcends species , came her quick reply. And the kind who worries about hockey players who take the end of the stick in the ribs because the refs are fucking blind.

Don't make me laugh. It hurts.

Do you want to come over? I'm still at the clinic. I'm going to be awhile.

I do, but I'm beat.

I understand. Go home and rest those ribs. Your cats are waiting, and there's ibuprofen in your medicine cabinet, second shelf.

The simple fact that she knew where he kept his painkillers made him close his eyes in contentment.

Congrats on the win.

One down, three to go.

Before turning the key in the ignition, Jax opened his browser and searched "Rousseau podcast enforcer." The results loaded instantly—a hockey podcast from yesterday, Montreal's star forward openly mocking "old-school enforcers like Thompson" and claiming the Chill were "living in the past with guys who can't play real hockey."

Jax's jaw tightened. So it was going to be like that.

His apartment was dark and quiet when he finally dragged himself through the door. Both cats were curled together on his bed. They barely cracked an eye as he moved around the bedroom, too sleepy to bother with their human. He took the pills, and tumbled into bed, careful not to disturb the cats.

If only Lauren was here, it would be a perfect night. But as he drifted toward sleep, Rousseau's words and the doctor's warning battled in his mind. Game two loomed just forty-eight hours away, and suddenly the stakes felt much higher than just one playoff win.