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L auren

February 21 st – Countdown to Playoffs

"You realize you've watched more hockey in the past two weeks than in your entire life combined," Barb observed, dropping into the seat beside Lauren with a cardboard tray of nachos balanced precariously in one hand.

Lauren accepted her drink without taking her eyes off the ice where the Chill were currently running warm-up drills. "It's growing on me," she admitted, watching as Jax tracked a puck along the boards, his movements powerful despite his size.

"Mmm, I bet it is," Barb said, following Lauren's gaze. "Specifically, player number sixty-seven seems to be 'growing on you' quite a bit."

"It's not like that," Lauren insisted, though the excuse sounded hollow even to her own ears. Three games in two weeks was a lot for her. She normally just stayed home and read.

"Right. And I'm just here for the nachos," Barb said, popping a cheese-laden chip into her mouth. "Not because the backup goalie has an ass that won't quit."

"Sven?" Lauren laughed. "I thought you were Team Dmitri after he winked at you last week."

"A woman can appreciate multiple works of art," Barb said with a dignified sniff. "Besides, the Russian is definitely taken. The red head in the section below us hasn't stopped glaring at me since I waved at him."

Lauren took a sip of her beer, surveying the arena as it slowly filled with fans. It was strange how quickly the foreign environment had become familiar—the rhythmic thumping of bass-heavy music, the scrape of skates on ice, the buzz of anticipation that built as game time approached.

A group of teenage girls in front of them were scrolling through their phones, giggling as they showed each other something on screen.

"Oh my god, did you see Jax's latest hit compilation?" one asked. "Three million views since yesterday."

"The comments are fire," another replied. "Someone called him 'The Grim Reaper on Skates.' So accurate."

"@HockeyFightCentral is predicting he'll destroy Wilson tonight," a third girl added. "After what happened last game? It's gonna be bloody."

Lauren leaned forward slightly, catching a glimpse of the screen. A Twitter thread with thousands of comments showcased various angles of Jax's previous fights, with armchair analysts debating his technique and ferocity. The social media storm surrounding him was intense, with fans analyzing his every move like scholars of violence.

"Speaking of jealous glares," Barb murmured, subtly nodding toward a group of women in the lower section, "the Thompson fan club has noticed your regular attendance."

Lauren followed her gaze to where several women in Chill jerseys with THOMPSON 67 across their shoulders were indeed watching her with undisguised curiosity. One leaned over to whisper to another, both looking up at Lauren with speculative expressions.

"That's ridiculous," Lauren said, though she felt a blush creeping up her neck. "No one even knows who I am."

"Except the players, who've seen you at multiple games, sitting in the seats that a certain enforcer personally arranged for you," Barb pointed out. "Trust me, honey, in the hockey world, that's practically a Facebook relationship status update."

One of the women pulled out her phone, angling it subtly in Lauren's direction. "They're definitely taking pictures," Barb whispered. "You'll probably be on HockeyWAGsWatch by morning."

"On what?"

"It's an Instagram account that tracks players' potential girlfriends. Very creepy, very thorough."

Before Lauren could formulate a suitably dismissive response, her attention was drawn to the ice where the mood had suddenly shifted. The players had been loose and relaxed during warm-ups, but now there was a tightness in their movements, a tension visible even from the stands.

"Something's wrong," Lauren said, sitting forward.

"What do you mean?" Barb asked around a mouthful of nachos.

Lauren watched as Coach Vicky huddled with Kane, Jax, and Marcus at the bench, their expressions grim. Kane seemed to be arguing, his usually easy demeanor replaced by focused intensity. Jax stood like a statue, his face unreadable, but Lauren had come to recognize the way his shoulders set when he was bracing for a fight.

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "But look at them."

The Philadelphia Phantoms were tonight's opponents—the team with Brady Wilson, whose cheap shot on Ethan had triggered Jax's viral fight. The rematch had been circled on calendars ever since, with sports media hyping the potential for retribution.

Nearby, a group of men in Chill jerseys were loudly discussing the upcoming game. "Thompson's gonna murder Wilson tonight," one declared. "I heard he got fined ten grand for that last fight, but it was worth every penny."

"Did you see that interview with Wilson yesterday?" another replied. "Calling Thompson a 'goon with no skill who only knows how to fight'? Man's got a death wish."

The third fan glanced toward the ice where Jax was now taking practice shots. "My buddy works security at the arena. Says the players are all terrified of Thompson. Like, they won't even make eye contact in the corridors before games. Guy's got this whole 'silent killer' vibe."

Lauren had been nervous about attending, afraid of seeing the Jax she'd first glimpsed on television—the enforcer whose cold rage had made her recoil. But over the last two weeks of caring for Penalty together, of quiet conversations at the shelter and text messages that evolved from updates on the kitten to personal check-ins, she'd come to see how much more there was to him than that public persona.

The buzzer sounded, ending warm-ups. As the teams left the ice, Jax glanced up at her seat, a ritual he'd established in the games she'd attended. Usually, he'd offer a small nod or the ghost of a smile. Tonight, his eyes found hers, but his expression remained somber, almost apologetic.

Lauren felt an unexpected pang in her chest. She'd grown accustomed to that small acknowledgment, that private connection in a public space, and its absence left her with a hollow feeling she hadn't anticipated.

"Okay, something is definitely going on," Barb agreed, picking up on the tension now. "Do you think it has to do with Wilson?"

"Maybe," Lauren said, unease settling in her stomach. "I guess we'll find out."

The answer came sooner than expected. When the starting lineups were announced, Oliver Chenofski's name was conspicuously absent, replaced by Ethan in the first-line left wing position. The rookie looked simultaneously thrilled and terrified as he took his place for the opening face-off.

"Where's Chenny?" Barb wondered, scanning the bench.

Lauren's eyes found him at the far end, still in his equipment but wearing a team-issued ball cap instead of his helmet—the universal signal that a player wasn't participating. He sat apart from the others, his usually animated face drawn and pale.

The mystery deepened when, during a first-period timeout, the arena screens showed a close-up of the bench. Oliver was visibly struggling, his breathing labored as he spoke intensely with the team trainer. The camera quickly cut away, but not before Lauren recognized the signs of what looked like a panic attack.

As a vet who'd worked with fearful animals, Lauren was familiar with the physical manifestations of anxiety. The rapid breathing, the unfocused gaze, the tension that seemed to vibrate through Oliver's slender frame—all classic indicators of a system in fight-or-flight mode.

She wasn't the only one who'd noticed. Jax hovered near Oliver during the next line change, saying something that made the younger player nod gratefully. When Jax returned to the ice, he positioned himself directly in front of Wilson, a human shield between the Phantoms' center and his team's bench.

The Phantoms players gave Jax a wide berth on the ice, his reputation creating an almost visible force field around him. Even the referee seemed wary, watching him with extra attention as if expecting an explosion of violence at any moment. Lauren realized with sudden clarity the weight of the mantle he carried—the fear he inspired created space for his teammates, but it also isolated him, marked him as something apart.

"I'm starting to see why they call him the enforcer," Barb observed. "It's not just about the fighting, is it?"

"No," Lauren said softly, something warm unfurling in her chest as she watched Jax deliberately drawing Wilson's attention, absorbing a punishing check that allowed Kane to break free with the puck. "It's about protection."

The first period ended with the score tied 0-0, but the real drama seemed to be unfolding off the ice. During the intermission, Lauren checked her phone and found a text from Jax: Oliver's having a rough night. Anxiety issues that usually stay private. Media's already asking questions. Might get complicated.

She hesitated, then typed back: Is there anything I can do to help?

The reply came quickly: Actually, yes. Meet me at the medical room entrance after the game? Oliver might need a ride home. Team doesn't want media seeing him like this.

Lauren blinked in surprise. It was an unexpected request, but one that spoke of trust.

Of course , she replied. Just tell me where to go.

When she looked up from her phone, Barb was watching her with raised eyebrows. "So, are you going to tell me why you're suddenly smiling at your phone like a teenager with a crush, or do I have to guess?"

Lauren briefed her friend on the situation, careful to keep her voice low despite the arena noise. "It's not a big deal," she insisted when Barb's expression turned knowing. "He's just asking for help with a teammate."

"Uh-huh," Barb nodded skeptically. "Because you, a veterinarian with no connection to the team, are the obvious choice to help a hockey player having an anxiety attack."

Put that way, it did seem strange. "Maybe he just doesn't want to involve more people than necessary," Lauren suggested, though the explanation felt thin even to her own ears.

"Or maybe he trusts you," Barb said, unusually serious. "And that's kind of a big deal for a guy in his position."

Before Lauren could respond, the teams returned to the ice for the second period. The atmosphere had shifted, an edge of meanness entering the game as Philadelphia seemed to sense vulnerability. Wilson in particular played with a targeted aggression, deliberately finishing his checks against the Chill's smaller players.

Two rows ahead, a fan held up his phone to capture a video of the action on the ice, and Lauren caught a glimpse of what looked like a live Twitter feed streaming alongside the game. Comments scrolled past rapidly:

@PhantomFanatic: Wilson going after their rookies. Smart. Make Thompson lose his cool.

@ChillFactor67: If Wilson keeps this up, Thompson's gonna send him to the hospital. #GlovesDrop

@HockeyAnalyst: Interesting psychological warfare happening. PHI trying to get Thompson to take a bad penalty that could cost the game.

The game was being dissected in real time by thousands of voices, all focused on Jax, all expecting violence. The pressure must be immense, Lauren realized—to carry not just his team's expectations but the bloodthirsty anticipation of an entire fan base.

Midway through the period, the inevitable confrontation came. Wilson caught Ethan with a borderline hit, nothing as flagrant as the previous incident but enough to send the rookie sprawling. The crowd rose as one, anticipating Jax's response.

Lauren found herself holding her breath, her hands gripping the armrests of her seat. This was the moment of truth, the test she'd been dreading.

Jax approached Wilson with measured steps, saying something that made the Phantoms' center laugh derisively. But instead of dropping his gloves, Jax simply positioned himself between Wilson and Ethan, helping the rookie to his feet before skating calmly to the bench.

The crowd's reaction was mixed—some cheers for the restraint, but also a swell of disappointment from those who'd come expecting blood. Two men behind Lauren groaned audibly.

"What the hell was that? Thompson's gone soft."

"Season ticket prices aren't worth it if he's not gonna fight anymore."

Lauren exhaled slowly, a complicated pride blossoming in her chest. The criticisms from the "fans" behind her stung on Jax's behalf, and she felt a surprising urge to turn around and defend him—to explain that what they'd just witnessed was strength, not weakness.

The game continued with increasing intensity, but Jax maintained his composure even as the Phantoms targeted him with increasingly obvious provocations. It was a masterclass in restraint, and Lauren wasn't the only one noticing. Coach Vicky gave him more ice time than usual, a clear endorsement of his disciplined approach.

By the third period, the strain was showing on both teams. Liam Castillo, the Chill's starting goaltender, had been brilliant, turning away shot after shot with acrobatic saves that had the crowd on its feet. But with five minutes remaining in a still-scoreless game, disaster struck.

A scramble in front of the net sent bodies flying, and Liam crumpled awkwardly, his leg bent at an angle that made Lauren wince. The arena fell silent as trainers rushed onto the ice, the goaltender's pain evident even from a distance.

"That's a knee," Lauren said, medical training kicking in as she assessed the injury. "MCL or ACL from the way it bent."

"Is that bad?" Barb asked.

"If it's torn? Season-ending," Lauren replied grimly.

The crowd watched in somber silence as Liam was helped off the ice, unable to put weight on his injured leg. Sven Lindholm, the backup goalie, quickly stretched and took his place in net, his lanky frame somehow seeming smaller in the suddenly crucial role.

The game resumed with a new tension. Without their star goaltender, the Chill's playoff hopes hung in the balance. Everyone in the arena knew it, including the Phantoms, who pressed their advantage with renewed vigor.

With two minutes left, Wilson broke free on a partial breakaway, bearing down on the inexperienced Sven. Jax, caught slightly out of position, had a split-second decision to make—take a penalty by hooking Wilson from behind, or let him have the scoring chance against the nervous backup goalie.

Lauren could almost see the calculation in Jax's eyes before he made his choice. He lunged, stick extended in a desperate attempt to disrupt the shot without taking a penalty. It wasn't quite enough. Wilson's shot whistled past Sven's glove, breaking the deadlock with 1:47 remaining.

The arena deflated as the Phantoms celebrated, Wilson making a point of skating past the Chill bench with an exaggerated fist pump. The final minutes ticked away without a response, and when the buzzer sounded, Philadelphia's 1-0 victory felt like more than just one loss in a long season.

"Well, that was dramatic," Barb said as fans began filing out of the arena. "What now? Are you still meeting Jax?"

Lauren checked her phone, finding another text: Medical room entrance in 20. Oliver's calmer but still shaken. Thanks for doing this.

"Yes," she confirmed, gathering her coat. "I need to find the medical room entrance. Any idea where that is?"

Barb's fan knowledge proved useful as she guided Lauren through the arena's back corridors, eventually finding the unmarked door Jax had described. "Want me to wait with you?" she offered.

Lauren shook her head. "I've got this. You go ahead, I'll text you tomorrow."

"Details," Barb insisted with a meaningful look. "I want all the details."

After her friend left, Lauren was alone in the quiet corridor, the sounds of the departing crowd fading to a distant murmur. She leaned against the wall, suddenly uncertain about what she'd agreed to. What did she know about helping a professional athlete through an anxiety attack? Her expertise was limited to four-legged patients who couldn't articulate their fears.

As she waited, Lauren realized how much she'd been looking forward to seeing Jax after the game, regardless of the circumstances. The past two weeks of texts, shared moments at the shelter, and their growing connection had created an unexpected space in her life that was distinctly Jax-shaped. Standing in this cold hallway, she admitted to herself that she missed him when he wasn't around, an awareness that was both thrilling and terrifying.

The door opened before she could second-guess herself further, revealing Jax in team-issued sweats, his hair still damp from the shower. His expression lightened when he saw her, relief evident in the slight relaxation of his shoulders.

"You came," he said, as if he'd half-expected her to change her mind.

"I said I would," Lauren replied simply.

He held her gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between them. "Thank you," he said finally. "Oliver's inside with our team doctor. He's better, but..."

"But you're worried about him going home alone," Lauren finished, understanding intuitively.

Jax nodded. "He lives in my building. I'd take him myself, but Coach called an emergency meeting about Liam's injury, and as alternate captain, I need to be there."

"Of course," Lauren said. "I'm happy to help."

Jax hesitated, then added, "There's something else you should know. Oliver has medication for his anxiety, but he sometimes struggles with the side effects. He's been trying to manage without it recently. That's partly why tonight happened."

Lauren processed this information, understanding the delicacy of the situation. "I won't pry," she assured him. "And this stays between us."

Gratitude flickered across Jax's face. "I knew I could trust you with this," he said quietly.

Before she could respond, the door opened again, and Oliver emerged accompanied by an older man in a suit who must be the team doctor. The young hockey player looked exhausted, his usual vibrant energy depleted, but the panicked edge she'd observed earlier had subsided.

"Oliver, this is Dr. Lauren Mackenzie," Jax introduced her. "She's going to give you a ride home."

Oliver looked between them with confusion. "You don't have to do that. I can get an Uber."

"It's no trouble," Lauren assured him. "I'm heading in that direction anyway." A white lie, but a kind one.

Oliver seemed too drained to argue. "Okay. Thanks." He turned to Jax, genuine remorse in his expression. "I'm sorry about tonight. I thought I had it under control."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Jax said firmly, placing a gentle hand on Oliver's shoulder. "We're a team. We have each other's backs, on and off the ice."

The simple statement carried weight, and Lauren found herself moved by the evidence of the bond between teammates. This was a side of sports she'd never considered—the vulnerability, the trust, the genuine care.

"I should get to the meeting," Jax said reluctantly. "Text me when you get him home?"

Lauren nodded, understanding that his concern went beyond mere courtesy. "I will."

As they prepared to go their separate ways, Jax caught her eye one more time. "About tonight," he said softly. "I know it wasn't the outcome any of us wanted."

Lauren knew he wasn't just talking about the score. "You played well," she said, meaning it. "Sometimes that's not enough to win, but it still matters."

Something in her words seemed to reach him, a shadow lifting from his expression. "Yeah," he agreed. "It still matters."

As he turned to leave, Lauren felt an inexplicable urge to reach out, to touch his arm, to establish some physical connection before he walked away. She resisted, but the wanting lingered, a new and unsettling awareness of how much she'd come to value his presence.

The drive to Oliver's apartment was initially quiet, the young player staring out the window with the thousand-yard stare of someone emotionally drained. Lauren didn't push conversation, recognizing the need for decompression.

"So, you and Jax," Oliver finally said, breaking the silence. "How long has that been a thing?"

Lauren nearly missed a turn, caught off guard by the direct question. "We're not—it's not a thing," she stammered. "We're colleagues. Sort of. I'm his kitten's vet."

Oliver raised an eyebrow, the gesture making him look more like his usual self. "Uh-huh. And you're driving me home at midnight because of veterinary ethics?"

"I'm driving you home because Jax asked for my help," Lauren corrected, keeping her eyes on the road. "And because it seemed like you could use a friendly face."

Oliver was quiet for a moment. "He's a good guy, you know," he said finally. "The best, actually. Everyone sees the enforcer, but inside the locker room, he's the one who notices when something's off. The one who checks in privately instead of calling you out."

Lauren thought of the gentle way Jax handled Penalty, the patience he showed Taffy's rehabilitation exercises, the text messages he shared about Penalty's progress that had gradually evolved into daily conversations.

"I'm starting to see that," she admitted.

"He's been different lately," Oliver continued. "More focused, less... I don't know, resigned? Like he's finding a new way to play." A thoughtful pause. "Started around the time you showed up at games."

"I doubt there's any connection," Lauren said, though warmth bloomed in her chest at the thought.

Oliver shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. But today, when Wilson was gunning for me and Ethan, the old Jax would have dropped the gloves without thinking. Instead, he played it smart. Protected us without crossing the line." He glanced at her with unexpected perception. "That matters to you, doesn't it? The control."

Lauren's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "It's a quality I value in anyone," she said carefully.

Oliver nodded, accepting her non-answer. "Well, whatever's happening between you two, it's good for him. And that makes it good for the team."

"Is it good for him, though?" Lauren found herself asking. "I saw how some fans reacted when he didn't fight Wilson. They seemed... disappointed."

Oliver made a dismissive noise. "Those aren't real fans. They just want blood. The guys who matter—the team, Coach Vicky—we all noticed what he did tonight. It takes more strength to walk away than to throw punches. But it's gotta be hard when your whole identity is built around being the enforcer."

Lauren considered this. "Does he ever talk about what comes after hockey?"

"Not really," Oliver said. "Most guys have some plan—coaching, broadcasting, business ventures. Jax keeps that part of himself private. I think maybe he doesn't want to hope for too much."

They arrived at his building, a modern high-rise not far from the water. "This is you?" Lauren confirmed, pulling into a visitor's spot.

"Yeah. Thanks for the ride. And for..." Oliver gestured vaguely, encompassing the evening's events.

"Anytime," Lauren said, meaning it despite their brief acquaintance. There was something inherently likable about Oliver, a vulnerability beneath the confident exterior. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

He nodded, then hesitated with his hand on the door handle. "For what it's worth, the fan girls have noticed. They're calling you 'The Mountain Tamer' on the forums."

Lauren groaned, covering her face. "That's ridiculous. And slightly offensive."

Oliver grinned, the expression transforming his tired face. "Welcome to hockey, Dr. Mackenzie. Nothing's ever just a little bit dramatic."

After making sure Oliver got safely into his apartment, Lauren texted Jax as promised: Mission accomplished. Oliver's home safe. How's the meeting going?

She was halfway home when her phone buzzed with his reply: Still ongoing. Liam's MRI tomorrow, but it doesn't look good. Team's on edge.

Without overthinking it, she typed: You did everything right tonight. I hope you know that.

There was a long pause, long enough that she thought perhaps she'd overstepped. Then: It means a lot hearing that from you.

Lauren stared at the message, something warm and unfamiliar settling in her chest. She was in dangerous territory, her carefully constructed professional boundaries crumbling with each text, each shared moment. But sitting in her car at a red light, the night quiet around her, she couldn't bring herself to regret it.

She hesitated, then typed one more message before she could second-guess herself: I missed our post-game talk tonight. Rain check?

His reply came almost instantly: Definitely. Coffee tomorrow? I know a place with maple bacon donuts.

Lauren smiled, remembering their conversation at the shelter where she'd mentioned her weakness for that particular pastry. He'd been paying attention to the little things, just as she'd been cataloging his preferences and habits without fully acknowledging why.

Perfect. Text me the details in the morning , she replied.

Goodnight, Lauren. And thank you. For everything.

As she drove the final miles home, Lauren stared at the empty road ahead, the implications of that simple coffee invitation settling in her stomach like stones. She was good at boundaries. Careful. Professional. Yet here she was, deliberately stepping over lines she'd drawn years ago. What alarmed her wasn't the crossing itself, but how easy it had been—like opening a door she'd always known was there.