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J ax

The medical center's examination room felt colder than the practice rink.

Jax sat on the edge of the table, his bare torso mapped with fading bruises as Dr. Rivera carefully examined his orbital fracture. The team physician's expression gave nothing away as he manipulated the specialized light, studying the injury from multiple angles.

"The swelling has decreased significantly," Dr. Rivera noted, making a mark on his tablet. "And the fracture line appears to be stabilizing well. Better than expected, actually."

Hope flickered in Jax's chest, though he kept his expression neutral. Behind Dr. Rivera, Coach Vicky leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her face equally unreadable.

"So I can play?" Jax asked, cutting to the chase.

Dr. Rivera exchanged a glance with his colleague, Dr. Patel, who had been reviewing Jax's concussion protocol results.

"Medically speaking," Dr. Rivera began carefully, "the orbital fracture has shown remarkable improvement. With a properly fitted full face shield, it would be physically possible for you to play."

Jax caught the precise wording. "But you don't recommend it."

"No," Dr. Rivera confirmed. "I don't. The fracture is still acute, and while the bone is stabilizing, it's millimeters from your eye. Another significant impact could cause displacement that might compromise your vision."

"And the concussion?" Coach Vicky asked, speaking for the first time.

Dr. Patel stepped forward. "All cognitive tests are within normal parameters. No lingering symptoms of photosensitivity, no reported headaches for the past thirty-six hours." She paused. "However, with your history of previous concussions, we would typically recommend at least another week of non-contact activity."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken implications. Jax glanced at Coach Vicky, who maintained her neutral expression.

"Bottom line," Jax said, looking between the two doctors. "Can I play tonight? Not should I—can I?"

Dr. Rivera sighed. "With a properly fitted face shield, adequately taped ribs, and the understanding that you'd be assuming significant risk of further injury? Yes, you could physically play."

"But we're strongly advising against it," Dr. Patel added firmly.

Coach Vicky finally pushed off from the wall. "Thank you for your thorough assessment, doctors. I'd like a moment with Thompson."

The physicians nodded, exiting with clipboard notes that would officially document their professional advice—advice Jax was already certain he wouldn't follow.

When the door closed, Coach Vicky's posture remained rigid. "You heard them."

"I did."

"And?"

Jax met her gaze directly. "I'm playing."

Vicky studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "I figured as much. But I needed to hear you say it." She pulled up a chair, sitting at eye level with him. "This isn't like taping an ankle or playing through a bruised shoulder, Thompson. This is your eye. Your brain."

"I know."

"Do you?" Her voice sharpened. "Because once you're on that ice, Philly's going to target you. You know that, right? First shift, Wilson and his goons will be hunting you."

"Let them try," Jax replied, a familiar cold focus settling over him. "I've handled Wilson before."

"How's Lauren feel about this decision?"

The question landed like a body check—unexpected and jarring. Jax broke eye contact, glancing at his phone. Five missed calls to Lauren, all unanswered.

"She doesn't know yet," he admitted. "She was in emergency surgery all morning."

"And if she did know?" Vicky pressed.

"She wouldn't approve," Jax said flatly. "She made that clear last night."

Vicky nodded, unsurprised. "Relationships and hockey. Always complicated." She stood, retrieving her clipboard. "Get fitted for the shield. Report to physiotherapy for rib taping. Team meeting at four."

At the door, she paused. "Thompson? Whatever happens tonight, I respect your decision. Just make sure you're playing for the right reasons."

After she left, Jax sat motionless, her parting words echoing uncomfortably. He reached for his phone again, thumb hovering over Lauren's contact. Calling again would just reach her voicemail. Instead, he typed a message:

Medical cleared me to play with protection. I know you wouldn't agree with my decision, but I need you to understand why I have to do this. Not just for the team. For me. Please call when you can.

He hit send, knowing the words were insufficient but hoping they might bridge the growing gap between them. Then he slid off the examination table, steeled himself against the pain, and headed toward the equipment room to begin playoff preparations.

THE FACE SHIELD FELT like a cage. The face shield felt like a cage.

Jax adjusted it for the tenth time as he sat in his stall, the familiar pre-game rituals of the locker room unfolding around him. Dmitri paced in front of the whiteboard, muttering in Russian. Liam was in his usual corner, eyes closed, visualizing saves. Kane moved systematically through the room, offering personalized encouragement to each player.

"How's it feel?" Kane asked, stopping at Jax's stall.

"Like I'm looking through a fishbowl," Jax replied honestly. "Peripheral vision's fucked. Going to be tough tracking passes on the weak side."

Kane nodded, understanding the technical challenge. "We'll compensate. Ethan's been prepping all day for this. Kid's been watching Wilson footage like it's game film before the Super Bowl."

"What do you mean?" Jax asked, suddenly alert.

Kane shrugged. "Just saying the kid's dialed in. Been unusually quiet, too. You might want to check in on him before we hit the ice."

Across the room, Ethan sat silently taping his stick with careful focus. The rookie's usual pre-game chatter was noticeably absent, replaced by an intensity Jax had never seen before.

Before he could approach, Dmitri dropped onto the bench beside him, his voice low enough that only Jax could hear.

"You don't look right, big man," the Russian said bluntly.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Jax muttered.

"Not talking about your ugly face," Dmitri replied, gesturing to the shield. "Talking about what's behind your eyes. You're conflicted."

Jax glanced at his teammate, surprised by the insight. Dmitri's usual joking manner had been replaced by something more serious.

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Dmitri said softly. "I know that look. You're thinking about doctor girlfriend. About what she said."

Jax stiffened. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"My father was boxer," Dmitri continued, ignoring Jax's resistance. "Great champion in Russia. Kept fighting after doctors said stop. Now he doesn't remember my name some days." He tapped his temple. "Brain doesn't heal like bones, Thompson."

The words hit Jax harder than he expected. "The team needs me."

"Team needs you for long run, not just tonight," Dmitri replied. "Sometimes real strength is knowing when to step back." He clapped Jax on the shoulder. "Whatever you decide, we support. That's what family does."

Coach Vicky entered, game notes in hand. The room fell silent.

"Philly's watching tape as we speak," she began without preamble. "They're expecting to exploit gaps in our coverage. They're planning a physical game to test our resolve."

She paused, her gaze sweeping the room. "They're going to be disappointed."

Vicky moved to the whiteboard, diagramming matchups. "Thompson's back, running modified minutes with enhanced protection. We've adjusted the defensive pairings."

She highlighted specific coverage responsibilities, the X's and O's translating to real-world positioning that would need to become instinctive during the speed and chaos of playoff hockey.

"One final thing," Vicky said, her tone shifting. "You've all heard about the service dog program investigation. It's bullshit. Legal's confirmed the complaints were filed by the same Philadelphia connections that coordinated the bar incident. The league's security office is fighting back."

A murmur ran through the room—anger at the targeting of a program that had become important to the team, especially to players like Oliver.

"Thirty minutes to warmups. Get ready."

As the room erupted into renewed pre-game energy, Jax checked his phone one last time. Still nothing from Lauren. He tucked the device away, trying to focus solely on hockey. For the next three hours, nothing existed except the game.

After Vicky left, Jax made his way to Ethan's stall. "You good, kid?"

Ethan didn't look up from his stick taping. "All set."

"Listen," Jax said, dropping his voice. "Don't try to do too much out there. Wilson's going to be looking to make a statement. Just play your game."

Ethan finally looked up, something unfamiliar and cold in his eyes. "Don't worry about Wilson."

Something in the rookie's tone raised alarm bells, but before Jax could press further, Kane called the team together for final preparations.

HE ROAR OF THE HOME crowd washed over Jax as he stepped onto the ice for warmups. Twenty minutes later, sitting in the locker room for final preparations, the sound still echoed in his ears—expectant, hungry, a physical force pressing against his consciousness.

Kane delivered the traditional captain's speech, emphasizing opportunity over pressure. Vicky reinforced key tactical points. Equipment staff made final adjustments to gear.

And then it was time.

The team tunnel vibrated with accumulated energy as the starting lineup was announced over the arena speakers. Jax wasn't starting—part of the managed minutes approach—but the crowd roared when his name was included in the full roster announcement.

From his position in the tunnel, Jax scanned the stands, eyes automatically seeking the WAGs section where players' partners sat together. His heart sank when he didn't see Lauren among them. The realization shouldn't have stung—he'd known she was in surgery—but the physical absence hit harder than expected.

The starting lineups took the ice, Philly's Wilson among them, smirking during the national anthem like he knew something no one else did. Jax watched from the bench, his protective instincts flaring as Wilson's gaze kept drifting toward the Chill's bench.

The referee skated to center ice. Players settled into position for the opening faceoff. Kane versus Philadelphia's center.

The puck dropped.

What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion.

Ethan, positioned on the wing for the opening faceoff, didn't go for the puck. Instead, he made a beeline for Wilson, dropping his gloves before he'd even reached the Philadelphia enforcer. The sudden, unexpected attack caught Wilson off guard. Ethan landed two solid punches before Wilson could even react.

The arena erupted. The refs immediately moved in but gave the players the traditional space to settle their business. Wilson recovered quickly, his experience in these situations evident as he squared up properly.

"What the fuck?" Jax was on his feet, hands gripping the bench railing. This wasn't the plan. This wasn't what they'd prepared for.

On the ice, Ethan was fighting with reckless abandon, no technique, just pure fury. Wilson landed several hard shots, but the rookie kept coming, landing a surprising uppercut that sent Wilson staggering backward.

Both benches were on their feet now, the crowd in a frenzy as the rookie and the veteran enforcer traded blows. Blood was visible on Ethan's face, but he showed no sign of backing down.

"Somebody get the fucking kid out of there!" Jax shouted, but the linesman were letting it play out—playoff hockey's unwritten rules in full effect.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but was probably only thirty seconds, the officials stepped in, separating the fighters. Wilson's face was marked with unexpected damage, his expression a mixture of surprise and rage. Ethan was breathing hard, blood dripping from a cut near his eye, but there was satisfaction written all over his face.

As the officials escorted both players off the ice—game misconducts for both, ejected before the game had even properly begun—Ethan skated past the bench. His eyes met Jax's briefly, a silent message passing between them.

I handled it so you didn't have to.

Coach Vicky was beside Jax in an instant, her voice low but firm. "You're done. Locker room. Now."

"What? But Wilson's gone, the threat—"

"This isn't a discussion, Thompson." Her expression was stone. "Line combinations are already fucked with Ethan gone. I need players I can trust to follow the game plan."

The implication was clear—she thought Jax had put Ethan up to this. Had somehow orchestrated this pre-emptive strike.

"Coach, I didn't—"

"Locker room. Now. We'll discuss it after."

There was no arguing with that tone. Jax made his way down the tunnel, frustration and confusion warring in his chest. What the hell had Ethan been thinking? And why did Vicky think Jax was behind it?

In the empty locker room, Jax carefully removed the face shield, the weight of his failed comeback settling over him. He hadn't even stepped on the ice, hadn't played a single shift, and now he was watching the game on the monitor above the equipment manager's desk.

The first period was a disaster. With both Ethan and Wilson ejected, the line combinations scrambled, and Jax confined to the locker room, the Chill looked disorganized and tentative. Philadelphia capitalized, scoring twice on defensive breakdowns.

Dr. Rivera appeared during the first intermission, checking Jax's orbital fracture with professional detachment.

"Since you're out," he said, "we should do a proper assessment of those ribs."

"They're fine," Jax muttered, still watching the monitor where the team was regrouping.

"Humor me."

The examination confirmed what Jax already knew—the ribs were badly bruised, possibly cracked, and any significant contact would risk further damage.

"How long for full recovery?" Jax asked finally, accepting the reality of his situation.

"Three games minimum," Dr. Rivera replied. "Possibly more, depending on how they respond to treatment."

A memory surfaced—Lauren in the hospital, her voice tight with fear as she talked about Mark's death, about the cumulative damage that had finally claimed his life. About watching someone she cared for make choices that led to irreversible consequences.

Jax nodded slowly, a decision crystallizing. The team needed stability, not the distraction he'd become. Ethan's reckless stand-in had only made things worse, creating chaos instead of resolution. And Lauren...shit...he had been a fucking idiot for almost screwing that up. She was right. He should have listened to her. He only hoped that it wasn't too late for them.

"Tell Coach I'm sitting out games four and five, if there is one." Jax said.

Dr. Rivera blinked in surprise. "That's... actually very sensible. I'll let her know."

After the doctor left, Jax checked his phone again. Still nothing from Lauren. The game continued on the monitor, Philadelphia extending their lead to 3-0 by the middle of the second period. The Chill looked lost, their defensive structure breaking down repeatedly without the steady partnership of Jax and Marcus.

By the third period, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Philadelphia won 4-1, making the series 2-1, with momentum now firmly on their side heading into game four as they headed back to Philadelphia. But he didn't care about that right now. He needed to see Lauren. Tell her that he loved her and had been the biggest moron on the planet for not giving her what she needed from him.

Post-game, Coach Vicky found Jax in the training room, where he was receiving treatment for his ribs.

"Rivera told me your decision," she said without preamble.

What changed your mind?"

“Lauren.”

She nodded.

"The team needs me for the long run. Playing puts that at risk."

"That's leadership, Thompson. I'll adjust the lines." Vicky studied him for a long moment. "Did you put Ethan up to that stunt?"

"Nope. I had no idea what he was planning. I would have stopped him if I'd known."

She nodded slowly, accepting his word. "Kid says he did it on his own." She sighed heavily. "Rookies."

"I'm sorry," Jax said, meaning it. "But we've got this."

"We do. Get yourself healthy," Vicky said, turning to leave. "We're going to need you before this run is over."

After treatment and a shower, Jax finally checked his phone to find a text from Lauren:

Just out of surgery. Heard about the game. Are you okay?

Relief washed over him. She was reaching out. The door wasn't closed.

Never actually played. Long story. Can I see you tonight?

Her response came quickly: I'm at home. Come over when you can.