Page 22

J ax

Pain had become a familiar companion.

Three days after Philadelphia, Jax sat in the dim light of his apartment, a cold pack pressed to his orbital bone. The television flickered in front of him, volume muted as SportsCenter replayed the grainy security camera footage for what felt like the thousandth time. Without sound or context, the images painted their own damning story—Jax towering over average-sized men, his defensive reaction looking disproportionate, his opponent crashing through a table in what appeared to be excessive violence. "MORE BLOODSHED EXPECTED FOR GAME 3" scrolled across the bottom of the screen, below a split-image of his bruised face alongside Wilson's smirking one.

Jax's jaw clenched, sending a fresh wave of pain through his skull. Fucking vultures. The movement made him wince. He should turn off the television. He should stop watching. But it was like picking at a scab. The footage never showed him walking away from verbal provocations at first. Never showed the first punch thrown at him. Never captured what they'd said about Lauren.

Penalty kneaded his thigh, purring in oblivious contentment while Tripod watched from her perch on the windowsill, her three-legged silhouette stark against the city lights. The cats had been his only consistent company since the team returned from Philadelphia with a commanding 2-0 series lead. Now they were preparing for Game 3 at home tomorrow—possibly without him. Lauren had been working long hours at her clinic.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. Kane.

Wilson's running his mouth to media. Says Game 3 will be "different" without you in the lineup. Coach shut down questions about your status, but these vultures smell blood. You seeing the doc this afternoon?

Jax's thumb hovered over the keyboard before he tossed the phone aside without responding. What was there to say? Up 2-0 in the series, heading into a pivotal game three, and here he was, sidelined by some fans with a grudge against him.

He shifted position, biting back a groan as the movement sent daggers through his ribs. The bruising there had deepened to an ugly purple-black, courtesy of the second asshole in the bar. The orbital fracture throbbed with steady discomfort rather than acute pain. The prescribed meds helped take the edge off without completely clouding his thoughts.

His phone buzzed again, this time with a call. Lauren's name lit up the screen, her contact photo—taken at the shelter with Tripod in her arms—momentarily cutting through the darkness swallowing him. He answered immediately.

"Hey," he managed, trying to keep the pain out of his voice.

"Just wrapping up at the clinic," Lauren said, exhaustion evident despite obvious effort to sound normal. "Full schedule today."

"You shouldn't work so hard," Jax said, concern overriding his own discomfort.

"Says the man who blocked three shots with his body in game two," Lauren countered gently. "I'm guessing you haven't slept, despite medical recommendations."

The accuracy of her assessment almost made him smile, but the movement would hurt too much. "Sleep and I are currently negotiating terms."

"I'm coming over," Lauren said. "With food. Real food, not whatever protein bars are scattered around your coffee table."

Jax's gaze fell to the wrappers littering his table. Busted.

"You should rest," he protested weakly, though the prospect of her presence was the first thing that had penetrated his dark mood in days.

"I need to see you," Lauren corrected softly. "I'll rest better knowing you're properly taken care of."

That warmed something in Jax's chest that had been growing increasingly cold with isolation and media bombardment.

"If you insist, Dr. Mackenzie."

"I do, Mr. Thompson. Thirty minutes."

After disconnecting, Jax made a halfhearted attempt to tidy the apartment, gathering wrappers and bottles into a garbage bag. Each bend sent fresh lightning through his ribcage, a brutal reminder of injuries still very much in the acute phase. By the time he'd cleared the most obvious evidence of neglect, sweat beaded on his forehead and his breathing had shortened to desperate pulls.

He lowered himself back onto the couch, where Penalty immediately reclaimed his position on Jax's lap. The simple weight of the cat made him grit his teeth. If merely having a kitten on his lap caused this much pain, how the fuck would he handle playoff hockey tomorrow night?

The thought sank like a stone in his gut. For the first time in his career, he was facing the real possibility of missing a crucial playoff game. Not just any game—game three with a chance to go up 3-0 in the series, at home, with momentum on their side. The team doctor had been blunt about the orbital fracture timeline. He would like to see him wait two weeks before playing again.

Tomorrow's game was a hell of a lot sooner than that.

Lauren let herself in with the key he'd given her weeks earlier. The sight of her—still in scrubs, hair escaping its practical ponytail, shadows under her eyes—hit Jax with unexpected force. Here was someone who understood exhaustion yet still prioritized him.

"You look worse than yesterday," she said with blunt honesty, though her eyes held nothing but concern as she set down a bag of groceries and moved immediately to his side.

"Look who's talking," Jax replied, his attempt at humor falling flat.

Lauren's gaze assessed him with clinical precision. "You've been watching that garbage." She nodded toward the muted television still showing freeze-frames of the bar incident.

"Can't seem to stop," Jax admitted, reaching for the remote to finally kill the power.

Lauren's expression hardened with indignation. "They never show the whole story."

"Won't matter tomorrow," Jax said darkly. "Wilson's already telling reporters he's 'disappointed' I might not be in the lineup to 'finish what started in Philly.'"

Instead of responding, Lauren moved to the kitchen, returning shortly with water and his medication. "You're due for another dose," she said, her tone shifting to professional assessment. "The orbital fracture recovery depends on consistent anti-inflammatory protocol."

Jax took the pills gratefully. "They're helping more than I expected."

"Good," Lauren nodded. "When's your evaluation tomorrow?"

The question seemed innocent enough, but Jax knew what lay beneath it. The team doctors would determine his game three availability, and that decision would impact far more than just hockey.

"Ten a.m.," he said. "Coach wants a full assessment before morning skate."

Lauren paused in unpacking takeout containers. "Full assessment meaning...?"

"Meaning they'll evaluate where I actually am in recovery," Jax explained, watching her reaction. "The swelling's down more than they expected this soon."

"Reduced swelling doesn't mean healed bone, Jax."

"I know that."

"Do you?" Her voice had taken on an edge. "Because it sounds like you've already decided to play."

Jax didn't deny it. "I need to know what the actual medical assessment says. If I can play with proper protection—"

"Proper protection?" Lauren's eyebrows rose. "Like what? A cage that'll limit your peripheral vision against guys actively targeting you?"

"I know the risks," Jax interrupted, frustration bleeding into his voice. "This isn't my first rodeo."

"It's your first orbital fracture," she countered, setting aside the food containers and crossing her arms. "And combined with the concussion—"

"Which has improved significantly," Jax added.

"—it creates a risk that goes beyond normal hockey injuries," Lauren finished. "You know what the doctors are going to say. You just don't want to hear it."

The accusation stung because it was true. "The team needs me," Jax said, voice quieter. "We're up 2-0, but Philly's desperate. They'll come out swinging tomorrow."

"So your solution is to risk permanent damage?" Lauren's voice rose. "To put your career, your health, your vision at stake for one game when your team is already winning the series? They could win the next three games and you'd still be in the running to win the finals."

"That's way too fucking close," Jax countered, frustration building. The pain in his head sharpened with his rising anger, but he pushed through it.

"Two more games then. And that's only if the Chill doesn't win. There's a whole team without you, you know."

"You don't understand." The words came out harsher than he intended.

"Explain it to me then." Lauren's voice dropped, the quiet intensity cutting deeper than her raised voice had. "Help me understand why you'd risk everything for one game."

His phone rang with Coach Vicky's distinctive tone, interrupting their increasingly heated exchange. Jax hesitated, then answered, putting it on speaker out of respect for Lauren's presence.

"Thompson," Vicky's voice emerged without preamble. "You watching the pre-game stuff for tomorrow?"

"No, Coach," Jax admitted, glancing at the now-dark television. "Just about to eat."

"Turn it on," Vicky directed, her tone carrying unusual tension. "Sportsnet. You need to see this."

Lauren reached for the remote, her movements sharp with lingering frustration as she located the channel. The pre-game show materialized on screen—analysts breaking down tomorrow's Game 3 matchups.

Wilson's face filled the screen, a smirk playing at his lips. "It's unfortunate that certain players can't maintain their composure away from the rink," he was saying. "We're looking forward to a different outcome in Game 3. When key pieces are missing from their defense, our offense has more... opportunities."

"What a piece of work," Jax muttered, rage simmering beneath his ribs.

"There's more," Vicky said grimly.

The segment continued with Wilson discussing their defensive pairings. "We've seen what happens when Thompson isn't available to protect their zone," he said with barely disguised glee. "Game two would've gone very differently if we'd capitalized on our chances in the third. We won't miss those opportunities again."

"Bastard's practically announcing their game plan," Vicky growled. "Target our defensive zone coverage and exploit Thompson's absence."

"They won't have that chance," Jax said, decision crystallizing. "I'll be there."

Silence hung on the line for a moment. "Medical hasn't cleared you," Vicky reminded him, though her tone lacked conviction.

"They will," Jax replied with certainty. "I'll pass whatever tests they put in front of me."

"Your call, Thompson," Vicky said finally. "But don't do anything stupid. We need you for the whole run, not just game three."

After disconnecting, silence settled heavily in the apartment. Lauren hadn't spoken during the call, but her expression had hardened, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"Lauren," Jax began, knowing they needed to address the obvious implications.

"Don't," she cut him off, her voice tight. "Don't tell me you're not already planning to play tomorrow, no matter what the doctors say."

The accusation—accurate though it was—ignited a defensive spark in Jax's chest. "That's not fair. I haven't even been evaluated yet."

"And if they say you shouldn't play? That another hit could cause permanent damage?" Lauren challenged. "Will you accept that?"

Before Jax could form a response, his phone chimed with an email from Stephanie in PR: Media Advisory: Service Dog Program Investigation . Jax scanned its contents with increasing disbelief.

Team Management has been notified by animal control authorities that complaints have been filed regarding the service dogs' presence at Charm City Arena. The complainant (identity confidential) alleges insufficient training certification and improper handling protocols, demanding immediate suspension of the program pending investigation. Legal is addressing but media has this. Preparing official response. Will keep you and Dr. Mackenzie updated.

Jax handed the phone to Lauren wordlessly, watching as she read the email.

"This is absurd," Lauren said, color draining from her face.

"This is dirty tactics," Jax said. "Philly fans getting desperate."

"They're targeting the dogs now? Charlie, who's helped Oliver manage anxiety attacks? The service program that's providing valuable training for animals helping people with actual disabilities? That's beyond hockey rivalry into genuinely malicious territory."

The protective rage in her voice matched Jax's own internal response—violation of acceptable boundaries, movement from professional disagreement to personal attack.

"What are we going to do?"

"That settles it," Jax said quietly, a strange calm settling over him as clarity emerged from chaos.

"Don't give up," Lauren urged, misinterpreting his tone.

"I'm not giving up," Jax replied, meeting her gaze with newfound resolve. "Just the opposite."

Lauren looked at him blankly for a moment before understanding dawned in her eyes. "No." She was already shaking her head. "No, Jax, you can't—"

"I'm playing tomorrow," he stated flatly, decision crystallized with absolute certainty. "I'm going in and ending Wilson once and for all."

"No. No. You can't." Lauren stared at him, disbelief giving way to something darker, more wounded. "It's bad enough you want to play hurt, but you're going to single out Wilson. Hurt him? Take him out for the rest of the finals?"

Jax set his jaw. "I don't have to play the whole game to do that. I can finish this right after the puck drops."

"Stop." Lauren held up a hand, her entire body rigid with tension. "Just stop."

"Lauren, try to understand—"

"I understand perfectly," she cut him off, her voice trembling with emotion. "I understand that you've already made your decision, regardless of medical advice, regardless of the risks, regardless of..." She trailed off, swallowing hard.

"Regardless of what?" Jax pressed, something in her expression sending ice through his veins.

"Regardless of what it does to me," Lauren finished, voice barely above a whisper. "Regardless of what it means for us."

Her words hit him like a body check. The raw hurt in her eyes made him want to backpedal, to reassure her, but the pressure of responsibility—to his team, to his identity—pushed back with equal force.

"That's not fair," Jax said again, an edge creeping into his voice. "This isn't about you. This is about my team, my responsibility."

"It is about us," Lauren countered, rising to her feet. "Because your decisions affect both of us now. Because I care about what happens to you. Because I can't just sit by and watch you potentially sacrifice your health, your future—our future—"

"I can take Wilson," Jax interrupted, frustration building. His head throbbed with each heartbeat, pain mixing with mounting anger.

"Yeah," she gave a half laugh that contained no humor. "But should you?"

"He needs it."

"And what about what you need?" Lauren challenged, tears gathering in her eyes. "What about your brain? Your vision? The orbital fracture is millimeters from your eye, Jax. One bad hit and you could—"

"I know the risks," Jax repeated, his own voice rising as he struggled to his feet. "I've been playing this game my entire life. I understand what's at stake better than anyone."

"Clearly not," Lauren shot back, her voice breaking. "Because if you did, you wouldn't gamble your future on one game. On one stupid, pointless act of revenge."

"Wilson's the problem." Jax towered over her now, the pain in his ribs and face forgotten in the heat of the moment. "I take him out. I can sit out a few games. I can't walk away now."

"I'm not condoning your assassination plans, but isn't there anyone else on the team who can take on Wilson? Someone who doesn't have a fucking concussion?"

He blinked at her language. "Now, you're becoming a WAG."

"Don't joke with me. Kane's a big guy."

"It's not Kane's job to set the tone. It's mine. I'm dispensable."

The words hung in the air, revealing more than he'd intended. Lauren stared at him, her anger momentarily giving way to shock.

"Is that what you think?" she asked quietly. "That you're dispensable?"

Jax looked away, suddenly exposed. "On the ice, we all have roles. Mine is to protect the team, whatever it costs."

"And off the ice?" Lauren pressed, moving closer to him. "Are you dispensable there too? To me? To us?"

"That's different," Jax muttered, uncomfortable with the direction this was taking.

"Is it?" Lauren challenged. "Because it sounds like you've spent so many years being the enforcer, the guy who sacrifices his body for others, that you don't know how to value yourself anymore. Like you don't believe you're worth protecting."

Her words struck too close to home, hitting a vulnerability he rarely acknowledged even to himself. "What do you want from me, Lauren?" he demanded, his voice raw. "To sit out while Wilson runs our guys? While he targets Ethan again? While he tries to derail our playoff run?"

"I want you to care about yourself as much as I care about you!" Lauren cried, the tears finally spilling over. "I want you to see that you have value beyond what your body can endure! I want you to understand that watching you deliberately put yourself in harm's way is tearing me apart!"

The naked emotion in her voice momentarily silenced him. She'd never been this open, this vulnerable about her feelings for him.

"Three days ago, you were lying in a hospital bed because of violence," she continued, her voice quieter but no less intense. "Three days ago, I was terrified I was going to lose you. And now you're voluntarily putting yourself back in a situation where you could be permanently injured." She wiped angrily at her tears. "I don't think I can watch you do that, Jax. I don't think I'm strong enough."

Her admission hit him harder than any punch. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I need time," Lauren replied, voice shaking despite her obvious effort to steady it. "Time to think about whether I can be part of this. Whether I can stand by and watch you make this choice."

"Lauren—" Jax took a step toward her, ribs screaming in protest.

"No." She held up a hand again, stopping him. "Please don't. Not right now. I need space to figure this out."

"So you're just leaving?" Jax asked, disbelief warring with rising panic. "In the middle of all this, you're walking away?"

"I'm not walking away," Lauren corrected, hand on the doorknob. "I'm taking a step back. There's a difference."

"Feels the same from where I'm standing," Jax replied coldly, his hurt transforming into anger.

"I watched Mark die because of head injuries," Lauren said, her voice shaking. "I stood in a hospital room while doctors explained that one too many concussions had caused irreversible damage. And now I'm watching you risk the same thing."

Her words landed like a physical blow. Jax's anger deflated, replaced by a wave of shame.

"I'm not asking you to choose between hockey and me," she continued, each word deliberate. "I'm asking you to choose a future where you can still recognize your own children someday. Where you can remember their names. Where you don't end up with traumatic brain injury because you refused to let your body heal."

"Lauren, I—"

"This isn't about hockey versus us," she cut him off. "It's about your long-term health versus one game. And if you can't see the difference, then maybe we do want different things."

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair," Lauren countered. "Not the injuries, not the timing, not having to watch someone I care about deliberately put himself in danger when there are other options."

The real question hung between them, unspoken but deafening in its silence: What matters more to you, Jax? Your pride or your future?

"I need to play tomorrow," Jax said finally, the words feeling like stones in his mouth.

Lauren nodded slowly, as if he'd confirmed something she already knew. "And I need to not watch you do it."

She gathered her purse with trembling hands, pausing at the door. For a moment, Jax thought she might turn back, might offer some compromise, some way forward. Instead, she spoke without looking at him.

"I love you, Jax. I think I have for a while now. That's why this hurts so much."

The first declaration of love between them, delivered as a goodbye. The cruel irony wasn't lost on him.

"Lauren—"

"Take care of yourself. Please." Her voice broke on the plea. "Even if you don't think you're worth protecting, you are to me."

The door closed behind her with a soft click that somehow felt more final than a slam would have. Jax stood motionless in the middle of his living room, pain radiating from his ribs and orbital bone, but nothing compared to the hollow ache spreading through his chest.

I love you too , he thought, the words trapped behind his stubborn pride and fear. But she was already gone, the apartment suddenly vast and empty without her presence.

Tripod meowed quietly from the windowsill, observing him with unblinking eyes. Penalty curled against his ankle, unaware of the seismic shift that had just occurred. The cats remained, the takeout containers remained, but something essential had walked out with Lauren—something he hadn't fully appreciated until its absence left him unbalanced, adrift.

He sank back onto the couch, his injuries forgotten in the face of this new, deeper pain. Tomorrow he would face Wilson, face the consequences of his choice. But tonight, he faced the possibility that in protecting his team, he might have lost something even more valuable.