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L auren

May 2 nd , Second Round Playoffs – Game 1 of 7

Lauren clutched her program, the paper crumpling slightly in her grip as the players circled during warm-ups. The air smelled of beer and nachos, undercut by the faint chemical scent of freshly smoothed ice.

She watched Jax like she would an injured animal—noting the slight hitch in his crossovers, the careful way he twisted to take passes on his left side. To the average fan, he probably looked fine. To her trained eye, those ribs were still bothering him more than he'd admitted. He was taped and padded as much as he could be. She could only hope Wilson spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice.

Her stomach knotted each time Jax winced slightly after a hard turn. She knew how badly bruised ribs could limit movement, how each breath could send sharp pain through the torso. The mental image of Wilson targeting that vulnerable spot made her physically ill.

"Gonna be a bloodbath tonight," said the man behind her, his voice carrying easily in the pre-game buzz. "Wilson's gunning for Thompson after last time."

"About time Thompson remembered what he's paid for," his friend replied, the words shooting an unexpected chill down Lauren's spine. "Been playing soft since February."

On the ice, Wilson skated deliberately past center ice during warm-ups, his red Philadelphia jersey vivid against the white background as he stared down the Chill players. Even from the stands, his body language screamed challenge.

Lauren's phone buzzed.

Watching the pre-game. Your mountain man looks focused. And his nemesis looks like he's auditioning for hockey villain of the year.

She smiled at Barb's text despite her nerves. Barb was at the clinic, holding down the fort so Lauren could be here tonight since the next game would be in Pennsylvania. Accurate assessment , she replied. Wilson's been moved to center their second line. Coach thinks he'll target Jax early to establish dominance.

Hockey is weird. Also, keep me posted. I'm invested in this rivalry now.

Two women in the row ahead turned around, glancing at Lauren before whispering to each other. One held up her phone, showing what appeared to be a social media post with Jax's photo alongside Lauren's. The #BeastAndTheBeauty hashtag was clearly visible even from Lauren's seat. The women smiled at her with uncomfortable familiarity before turning back.

"Dr. Mackenzie," Mr. Collins nodded as he settled into the seat beside her. "I left the television on so the cats could watch the game."

"That's all we need is Penalty learning hockey tricks," Lauren said.

The arena darkened for player introductions, spotlights dancing across the ice. When Jax's name boomed through the speakers, the response was thunderous—though Lauren caught conflicting shouts mixed with the cheers.

"Hit somebody, Thompson!" "Earn your paycheck!"

A group near the glass held up a banner that read "UNLEASH THE BEAST" with Jax's number emblazoned beneath it. Another fan several rows down wore a split jersey—half Chill colors, half white lab coat, with "DR. BEAUTY & MR. BEAST" written across the back.

Lauren's cheeks warmed. She'd known the relationship was public, but seeing it commodified by strangers was jarring.

The puck dropped with a tension that seemed to electrify the building. Both teams established a physical presence immediately, bodies colliding along the boards with dull thuds that made Lauren wince.

Midway through the first period, it happened. Wilson's line matched up against Jax and Marcus. On their first shift together, Wilson delivered a punishing check that sent Marcus crashing into the boards, the sound carrying even to Lauren's seat.

The crowd roared, anticipating retaliation. Lauren's fingers dug into her armrest, her chest tight. She could almost feel Jax's internal struggle from across the arena.

On the next play, Jax delivered a perfectly timed hip check that separated Wilson from the puck without crossing into penalty territory.

"What the hell was that?" complained the man behind her. "Wilson just ran his partner and Thompson does nothing?"

"Told you," his friend replied. "Lost his edge. Maybe his vet girlfriend neutered him."

Heat rushed to Lauren's face. She kept her eyes fixed forward, pretending she hadn't heard, though her pulse hammered in her ears.

A nearby fan wearing a press badge scribbled in a small notebook. Lauren caught the phrases "Thompson restraint" and "evolution or weakness?" before the reporter tucked the notebook away.

When Kane scored a power play goal late in the first period, the arena erupted. Lauren watched Jax join the celebration along the boards, genuine joy breaking through his game face. The scoreboard flashed 1-0 as the period ended.

During intermission, Lauren struggled to focus on Barb's texts, the comments from behind her still stinging.

Just caught the highlights. Your boy is playing smart. Wilson looks PISSED.

Lauren's phone buzzed with another notification—someone had tagged her in a Twitter poll: "Has Thompson gone soft since dating Dr. Mackenzie? Vote now!" The options were "Yes, she's tamed the beast" and "No, he's evolving his game."

Her hand trembled slightly as she closed the app. She hadn't realized how deeply fans would involve themselves in their relationship, how quickly they'd assign her responsibility for changes in Jax's play style.

As the second period began, Lauren noticed Philadelphia's strategy shift. They were targeting the younger players now, particularly Ethan and Oliver. If they couldn't provoke Jax directly, perhaps they could force his hand by threatening those he protected.

The tension in the arena ratcheted higher with each shift. Lauren leaned forward, her chest tightening with each hit, each near-collision. She caught herself holding her breath whenever Jax was on the ice, her doctor's mind cataloging every grimace, every careful adjustment of his posture after contact.

It happened in an instant. Ethan carried the puck through the neutral zone, eyes searching for Kane breaking free. From her elevated position, Lauren saw what the rookie couldn't—Wilson closing fast from his blind side. The Philadelphia player wasn't aiming for a clean check. His body was positioned for maximum damage.

The collision was sickening. Wilson drove his shoulder directly into Ethan's head, sending the younger player crumpling to the ice like a marionette with cut strings. The crowd surged to its feet in unified outrage as officials whistled the play dead.

Lauren's heart slammed against her ribs. As a medical professional, she recognized the telltale signs of concussion immediately—the momentary unconsciousness, the unnatural posture as Ethan fell. Her hands clenched into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms.

Her eyes shot to the bench. Jax stood rigid, his expression transforming from concern to controlled fury as trainers attended to Ethan on the ice. When he vaulted over the boards for his next shift, purpose radiated from every movement.

"Here we go!" shouted someone nearby. "Wilson's gonna get what's coming now!"

The officials assessed Wilson a five-minute major penalty for the illegal check to the head. Ethan was helped to the locker room, visibly dazed, while Wilson sat in the penalty box wearing a smirk that suggested the consequence was worth achieving his goal.

The jumbotron cut to a close-up of Jax's face. His jaw was clenched, eyes burning with barely contained rage. Lauren felt a chill. This was a side of him she'd glimpsed but never fully witnessed—the enforcer poised on the edge of violence.

But Jax didn't retaliate. Despite the provocation, despite the team culture that would have justified it, despite the crowd's bloodthirsty encouragement—he channeled his obvious anger into aggressive but controlled defensive play.

A rumble of discontent spread through the stands, punctuated by occasional shouts of 'Come on!' and 'Do something!'"

"What the actual fuck?" the man behind Lauren exploded as the period ended with the score still 1-0. "Wilson takes out our rookie with a headshot and Thompson just skates away? Fucking embarrassing."

"Heard his girlfriend doesn't like the fighting," his friend replied, loud enough to ensure Lauren would hear. "Turning our enforcer into a goddamn pussy."

Lauren's cheeks burned. She stared straight ahead, unwilling to turn around but unable to escape the venom in their voices. She glanced at the press section, where reporters were typing furiously on laptops. One headline on a screen read: "THOMPSON RESTRAINT: EVOLUTION OR SURRENDER?"

Her phone vibrated with a text from Barb: Wilson should be ejected. How are Jax's ribs holding up?

Lauren's fingers shook slightly as she typed: Wilson should be arrested. Jax is hurting but won't show it. Some fans here think he should have fought Wilson.

Barb's response was immediate: Fuck those fans. Tell them to try playing with bruised ribs.

"Hey!" A sharp female voice cut through the toxic commentary. "You want to repeat that with your mom standing here?"

Lauren turned to see a striking woman with light brown hair standing in the aisle, hands on her hips as she stared down the hecklers. Her expression was thunderous.

"I—we were just saying—" the man stammered.

"I heard exactly what you were saying," the woman cut him off. "And since you apparently understand hockey as well as you understand basic human decency, let me explain something. Thompson is playing exactly the game his coach wants. That's why we're winning."

She gestured at the scoreboard. "Or would you prefer he take a stupid penalty so Wilson gets exactly what he wants? Is that your brilliant hockey strategy?"

The men mumbled something incoherent, suddenly fascinated by their phones.

The woman caught Lauren's eye and gave her a nod before sliding into a seat a few rows in front of her. It took Lauren a moment to place her—Allison, Kane's wife, whom she'd briefly met at O'Malley's.

When the teams returned for the third period, Ethan was noticeably absent from the bench. Coach Vicky had adjusted the line combinations to compensate for the missing forward.

Lauren focused on Jax as he took the ice. Her hands twisted the program into a mangled shape as she watched him settle into his defensive position. Even from this distance, she could see the careful way he breathed—shallow inhales to minimize rib movement, a technique she recognized from treating patients with similar injuries.

The large screen showed a replay of Wilson's hit on Ethan, followed by Jax's restrained response. The crowd's reaction was mixed—some applause for his discipline, but also audible grumbling.

"Fans want old-school Thompson back," someone commented loudly. "This new version's boring as hell."

On the ice, Jax won a battle along the boards, making a smart defensive play that launched a counterattack. The crowd appreciated the move, but without the visceral excitement that a fight would have generated.

The third period unfolded with championship-level intensity. Philadelphia pressed aggressively while the Chill countered with structured defense, clinging to their slim lead.

With five minutes remaining, Wilson's line matched against Jax and Marcus again. As Philadelphia established offensive zone pressure, Wilson positioned himself directly in front of Sven, using his size to screen the goaltender while delivering subtle jabs to Jax's already-tender ribs—provocations just below the threshold of penalty-worthy offense.

Lauren gripped the armrests, her knuckles white. Each impact made her wince as if she could feel the pain herself. She bit her lower lip hard enough to taste blood, watching Wilson deliberately target Jax's injury.

"He's going after the ribs," Mr. Collins observed quietly beside her. "Thompson's playing hurt."

"Yes," Lauren whispered, her throat tight. "He is."

The breaking point came with brutal clarity. Wilson, frustrated by Jax's restraint, abandoned any pretense of hockey and delivered a blatant crosscheck directly to Jax's injured ribs—a deliberate target of known vulnerability. The force sent Jax momentarily to his knees despite his substantial size.

Lauren half-rose from her seat, a strangled sound escaping her throat. In that moment, professional detachment vanished entirely—this wasn't just a player being hit, it was Jax, her Jax, and every protective instinct she possessed screamed in outrage.

The officials' whistles shrieked immediately, assessing Wilson another major penalty. As he was escorted toward the box, the Philadelphia player shouted something at Jax that Lauren couldn't hear but could easily interpret—a final provocation, an accusation disguised as challenge.

The arena held its collective breath, waiting for the retaliation that hockey tradition demanded.

It never came.

Instead, Jax simply rose to his feet, adjusted his helmet, and positioned himself for the power play.

The jumbotron caught Wilson's face as he shouted from the penalty box: "You've gone soft, Thompson! What happened to you?"

For just a moment, doubt flickered across Jax's features—a microsecond of uncertainty, visible only to those who knew him well. Then his game face returned, but Lauren had seen it—the question that had landed, the seed of doubt planted.

"Are you kidding me?" The man behind Lauren was practically apoplectic. "Wilson's been running our guys all night, targets his bad ribs, and Thompson just takes it? What are we paying him for?"

"To win hockey games," Alison called back. "Which is exactly what he's doing. Now shut up and watch the power play."

As if on cue, the Chill converted the opportunity, Kane burying a perfect pass from Oliver to extend their lead to 2-0. The insurance goal effectively sealed the game.

When the final buzzer sounded on the Chill's victory, Lauren felt a complex mixture of emotions—relief at the win, pride in Jax's restraint, concern for both Ethan's condition and Jax's obviously painful ribs, and lingering unease from the hostility she'd overheard.

Near the press box, a reporter was recording a segment. "Thompson's refusal to engage Wilson physically will certainly be the talk of hockey media tomorrow. Has the league's most feared enforcer permanently changed his approach, or is this a strategic choice for this series only? The debate is already raging on social media..."

As she gathered her things, a hand touched her shoulder. She turned to find Allison standing beside her.

"First time dealing with the armchair enforcers?" Allison asked, nodding discreetly toward the men who were now slinking away.

"That obvious?" Lauren managed a smile.

"I've had a year of practice with these yahoos," Allison replied. "Kane's been called everything under the sun when he doesn't play the way some fan thinks he should." She extended her hand. "We met briefly at O'Malley's. I’m Kane’s wife."

"I know. I’m Lauren Mackenzie," she replied, shaking the offered hand.

“Oh, I know.” She grinned.

"Thank you for what you said."

"Hockey wives and girlfriends stick together," Allison said. "Are you coming to the team dinner? I can give you a ride so you don't have to wait while the boys are tied up with media."

The simple solidarity in the offer nearly undid Lauren after the tension of the game. "That would be great, actually."

As they made their way toward the exit, Allison leaned closer. "For what it's worth, the team knows exactly what Jax did tonight. Choosing discipline over retaliation? That's leadership. The idiots in the stands don't get a vote."

Lauren nodded, grateful for Allison's support, but she couldn't shake the image of Jax's momentary hesitation after Wilson's taunt—the fleeting doubt that had crossed his face. Despite the win, despite his disciplined performance, something had gotten through.

And as a woman who knew what it meant to care for wounded creatures, Lauren recognized the look of an animal questioning its own instincts.