Page 18

J ax

"Deeper knee bend, Thompson! You're babying those ribs."

Coach Vicky's voice cut through the rhythmic scrape of skates on ice. Jax gritted his teeth and dropped lower into his stance, ignoring the sharp protest from his left side. Three days after Montreal, the bruise had faded to a sick yellow-green mess, but the deep tissue pain still felt like a knife between his ribs with every crossover.

He pushed harder into the lateral drill, focusing on his edges rather than the pain. Seven games left in the regular season. No time for weakness.

"Better," Vicky barked as he completed the sequence with proper form. "That's what I need tomorrow. Clean transitions. Solid edges."

Jax nodded, sucking air through his teeth. Playoff practices hit different—every drill with purpose, every rep with do or die implications. The margin for error had shrunk to nothing.

"Thompson, Adeyemi. Here. Now."

Vicky waved them toward the whiteboard while the forwards hammered through a separate drill at the far end. She scrawled new line combinations with quick, aggressive strokes.

"Philly's shuffled their lines since last meeting," she said, tapping the marker against Wilson's name on the second line. "Wilson's centering their grinders now, with those rookie wingers who can barely grow facial hair."

The Phantoms were a wild card pick that won their first round games. As luck would have it, the Chill would face them in round two.

Marcus studied the board with his usual laser focus. "They're isolating his volatility from their skill players," he observed. "Containing his chaos while maximizing his intimidation factor for the kids."

"Exactly," Vicky confirmed. "Which means Wilson's looking to set the tone early tomorrow. Especially after you embarrassed him last game, Thompson."

The unspoken message hung in the frigid air. Wilson would be gunning for him specifically—pissed about how Jax had ignored his bullshit and instead made the game-saving defensive play that left Wilson looking like an ineffective goon.

"Same system as Montreal?" Jax asked, already mapping matchups in his head.

"With modifications." Vicky's eyes narrowed. "I want you two against their top line primarily, but you'll see shifts against Wilson when I need it. Here's the deal—you play it smart, play it physical when necessary, but keep your ass out of the box."

Jax nodded, understanding the tightrope he needed to walk. Play tough enough to protect his teammates without taking penalties that could cost them playoff positioning.

"We can handle it," Marcus stated confidently. "Our metrics against physically aggressive forechecking systems show significant improvement over the past six games."

"Glad your spreadsheets agree with my eyes," Vicky replied dryly. "Now go work with Sven on low-slot coverage. Kid's still cheating on backdoor threats."

As they skated toward their goaltender, Marcus gave Jax a sidelong glance. "Your defensive positioning has improved 23% since implementing the adjusted neutral zone stance," he said casually. "Despite the rib limitations."

Coming from stats-obsessed Marcus, this was practically a love letter. "Thanks," Jax acknowledged. "Been working on it."

"Indeed," Marcus agreed. "As has your general demeanor. Off-ice factors appear to be having positive correlation with on-ice performance metrics."

Jax nearly caught an edge, surprised by the personal observation from his typically data-focused partner. "Off-ice factors?"

Marcus's expression remained neutral, though something like amusement flickered in his eyes. "Statistical analysis indicates players in stable personal relationships demonstrate 17% greater consistency in performance variables across high-pressure situations," he stated matter-of-factly. "Your recent metrics align with this pattern."

The formal phrasing couldn't disguise what was essentially Marcus's version of chirping him about Lauren. From anyone else, Jax might've told them to fuck off. From Marcus, it felt oddly like approval.

"Any other statistical insights you'd care to share?" Jax asked, allowing a small smile.

"Several," Marcus confirmed seriously. "But they would likely violate socially acceptable boundaries of conversation between teammates, according to Kane's frequent corrections of my observational commentaries."

Jax actually laughed at that, drawing startled looks from nearby players who rarely heard such a sound from him. "Probably smart to listen to Kane on that one."

The rest of practice was relentless—special teams drills, breakout sequences, defensive zone coverage that left Jax's lungs burning and ribs throbbing. By the final whistle, sweat plastered his under-armor to his skin, and the pain in his side had graduated from sharp stabs to a deep, pulsing ache.

As Vicky ended the session with final instructions for tomorrow's game, Jax's mind drifted momentarily to Lauren. The playoff schedule would mean less time together—especially if they advanced. Road trips, video sessions, recovery treatments. The rhythm of playoff hockey was all-consuming.

For the first time, he wondered how she would handle it—not just the reduced time together, but the intensity that came with elimination hockey. The way he changed during playoffs, grew more focused, more insular. Previous relationships had faltered under the strain. Lauren was different, but was she different enough?

After practice, Jax was heading for the trainers' room when Stephanie from PR materialized beside him, tablet in hand and fierce purpose in her stride.

"Thompson, got a minute?" she asked, though it wasn't really a question.

"Can it wait until after I ice these ribs?" Jax countered, already knowing the answer.

"This'll be quick." Stephanie guided him toward a quiet corner of the hallway. "I need you at the children's hospital next Tuesday. Photo op with the therapy dogs. The board's looking for more community engagement that doesn't involve you bleeding on someone."

Jax stiffened. "I've got recovery scheduled after the back-to-back—"

"Already cleared it with medical." Stephanie's smile was pleasant but unyielding. "Your Q scores are up 43% since the service dog program launched."

She sounded like just like Marcus.

"We need to capitalize on this momentum—show the gentle giant side of Jax Thompson. The league office is still watching, you know."

The league office needed to get off his ass.

"Fine," he said again. "Tuesday afternoon."

"Perfect." Stephanie's smile widened. "And Thompson? For Philly tomorrow—keep it clean. We're building something with your image here. Don't derail it by going caveman on Wilson."

She was halfway down the hall before Jax could respond.

"Thompson," Coach Vicky's voice called from the opposite direction. She jerked her head toward her office, and Jax followed, ribs protesting with each step.

Vicky shut the door behind them. "Just had Stephanie in here about tomorrow's game," she said, dropping into her chair. "I told her you'll play your game, not hers."

Jax stayed standing, confused by the conflicting messages. "So what exactly do you want from me tomorrow?"

Vicky leaned forward, elbows on her desk. "If Wilson crosses the line, I need you to respond. Not with stupid penalties, but with the message that actions have consequences. I can't have him pulling his shit for seven games."

"Four," Jax said. "Just like Montreal."

"I don't want it even in game one."

"Stephanie just told me to keep it clean. Build my image."

"Stephanie's job is PR. My job is winning hockey games and protecting this team." Vicky's gaze hardened. "Sometimes that means bringing the lumber, Thompson. Just be smart about when and how."

"So play physical but clean, unless Wilson does something dirty, then respond but don't take penalties?" Jax couldn't keep the edge from his voice. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," Vicky said, unfazed by his tone. "Ice those fucking ribs before you leave. You're favoring your left side, and Philly's video coach will spot it in about five seconds."

"The whole damn league knows about my ribs," Jax said. "Wilson will target them regardless."

"Which is exactly why I need you at one hundred percent." Vicky's expression softened slightly. "Look, I know this series is going to be a war. Wilson's got a personal vendetta against you since that hit last season."

Jax remembered. Wilson had taken a run at Dmitri, and Jax had stepped in. The resulting fight had left Wilson with a broken orbital bone and a grudge that ran deeper than hockey.

"This isn't just about standings anymore," Vicky continued. "Philly's built their identity around intimidation. If we let them set the tone in Game 1, we'll be playing catchup the entire series. The team needs you to be the wall—especially with home ice advantage on the line."

The pressure of her words settled on Jax's shoulders. This wasn't just another game—it was the pivot point for their entire playoff run. How he handled Wilson tomorrow would set the course for everything that followed.

"I'll be ready," he promised.

In the locker room, his phone showed a text from Lauren: Breakfast meeting ran long. Still up for lunch between your practice and my afternoon clinic?

With all the conflicting demands pulling at him—play tough but clean, protect teammates but stay out of the box, be an enforcer but fix your image—Lauren's straightforward desire to see him felt like solid ground.

Definitely , he replied. Meet at Carlo's in 30?

Her confirmation came quickly, with an addition: Perfect. Ice those ribs before you leave.

"Someone's looking cheerful," Kane observed, dropping onto the bench beside him. "Let me guess—lunch plans with the doc?"

"Your observational skills are remarkable," Jax replied dryly, though without real irritation.

Kane grinned. "Team dinner tomorrow after Philly—Lauren should come."

The invitation was significant. Team dinners with partners weren't for casual flings. That Kane would extend such an invitation spoke volumes about how the team viewed Jax's relationship with Lauren.

"I'll ask her," Jax said, considering. "She might have clinic hours. I can't keep her schedule straight, but I'll check."

Kane nodded. "Good. And Thompson?"

"Yeah?"

"Ice those ribs before you leave," Kane instructed, his captain's authority evident despite his casual tone. "You're hiding it well, but Marcus noted your left side rotation is 12% restricted compared to baseline. Whatever the hell that means."

Jax sighed. "Between you, Marcus, Lauren, Coach, and PR, I apparently can't hide anything."

"That's what teams do," Kane replied simply. "On and off the ice. Cover each other's blind spots, notice what needs attention."

Jax dutifully reported to the medical room. He sat with an ice pack strapped to his side, competing expectations weighing on his mind. After the cold therapy, heat would follow. The endless cycle of care for an injury that had no time to properly heal. Not with Philly—and Wilson—waiting tomorrow.

When he arrived at Carlo's twenty minutes later, Lauren was already there, seated in a corner booth with a clear view of the door. The moment she spotted him, her face brightened in a way that still caught him off guard—the simple, unguarded pleasure she took in seeing him.

As he slid into the booth across from her, she studied him with a professional eye. "How bad are the ribs today?"

"Six out of ten," he admitted, knowing she'd see through any attempt to downplay it. "Practice was intense."

She nodded, accepting his honesty without pressing. This was what separated her from others he'd dated—her ability to acknowledge his physical reality without trying to change it. "Did you ice after?"

"Yes, doctor," he said with a small smile. "And heat's scheduled for later."

"Good." She pushed a glass of water toward him. "I ordered you the protein bowl. Figured you'd need the recovery fuel."

The small gesture—knowing what he needed without him having to ask—struck him more deeply than it should have. How easily she'd slipped into his life, fitting herself around its edges without trying to reshape it.

"What?" she asked, catching his expression.

"Nothing. Just..." he hesitated, searching for words. "This is new for me. Having someone who gets it. Gets me."

Her eyes softened. "It goes both ways, you know."

"Team dinner tomorrow after the game," he said. "Kane specifically asked if you'd come."

"Team dinner?" Lauren repeated, surprise evident in her voice. "That's... significant, isn't it?"

"It is," Jax confirmed. "But only if you want it to be. No pressure."

Lauren was quiet for a moment, turning her water glass between her fingers. "The playoffs are about to get intense, aren't they?" she asked finally. "I've been reading up on what that means. The schedule, the travel, the pressure."

The question behind her question was clear—what would this mean for them?

"It's all-consuming," Jax admitted. "Long days, longer nights. Some guys don't see their families for weeks except on FaceTime."

"And what about you?" Lauren asked, her gaze direct. "How do you handle it?"

"Before? I shut everything out. Focused only on hockey." He met her eyes. "But now..."

"Now there's me," she finished softly.

"Now there's you," he agreed. "And I don't want to shut you out. But I don't know how to do both yet—how to give everything to the team and still have something left for... us."

The confession cost him, but he needed her to understand what was coming. The playoffs changed people—changed relationships. He'd seen enough marriages strain under the weight of postseason hockey to know the toll it took.

Lauren reached across the table, her fingers finding his. "We’ll figure it out." she said.

The server arrived with their food, momentarily breaking the connection. But as they ate, something had shifted between them—an unspoken understanding, a deeper awareness of the challenges ahead and their commitment to facing them together.

"About Wilson," Lauren said casually, surprising him with her knowledge of the specific matchup. "He's the one who targeted your ribs in the last regular season game, isn't he?"

Jax nodded, impressed by her recall. "You've been doing your homework."

"Well, I care about what happens to you out there." She took a sip of her water. "So what's the game plan? And don't tell me 'just play hockey' because I've watched enough games now to know there's more to it than that."

Jax hesitated, torn between keeping the uglier side of hockey separate from her and sharing the reality of what tomorrow would bring.

"Coach wants me to send a message early," he admitted finally. "Let Wilson know there are consequences if he goes after our skilled guys. Stephanie wants me to keep it clean for PR reasons. The team needs me to be both enforcer and shutdown defenseman." He exhaled slowly. "It's a lot of boxes to check."

Lauren listened without judgment, her expression thoughtful. "And what do you want?" she asked.

The question caught him off guard. What did he want? No one—not Vicky, not Kane, not Stephanie—had asked him that.

"I want to play good hockey," he said slowly. "I want to protect my team without risking our chances to advance. And..." he paused, the truth surfacing, "I want to finish this series healthy enough to enjoy the off-season. With you."

The admission hung between them, weightier than he'd intended. It wasn't quite a declaration of future plans, but it was closer than he'd come with anyone in years.

Lauren's fingers tightened around his, her touch grounding him. "Then that's what I want too," she said softly.

The moment stretched between them, filled with unspoken promises. Then Lauren's practical side reasserted itself.

"But first, you need to get through tomorrow with those ribs intact," she said, squeezing his hand once more before releasing it. "So eat your protein, Thompson. Doctor's orders."

Jax smiled, feeling the pressure of tomorrow's game ease slightly under her steady gaze. Whatever came with Philly, with Wilson, with the playoffs—he wouldn't be facing it alone anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, that would make all the difference.