Chapter TEN Lexi

Game night, and the roar of the crowd swallows my thoughts as I look around the arena, a sea of cheering fans undulating like a living thing. The air buzzes with electricity, thick with anticipation. The bright lights glint off the ice, a stark white stage set for tonight's battle. Players zip across the rink, their sharpened blades carving arcs of frost, their bodies colliding with the force of storms clashing.

We’re tied up, and I couldn’t be tenser.

"Go Thunderbirds!" hollers the opposing section of blue and gold, the chant rippling through the stands like a wave. On the bench, my guys slam their sticks against the boards, a rallying cry the Ashville Aces on the ice. I'm on my feet, leaning over the boards, every muscle tensed, every sense honed in on the play. The puck drops, and it's like releasing a spring wound tight—chaos erupts. Sticks clash, players weave an intricate dance of raw power and finesse. The game is a language I speak fluently, each pass and shot a word, each save a punctuation mark in this story of sweat and steel.

"Come on, come on..." I whisper, tracking our lead scorer as he darts toward the goal. I can't help but get caught up in the thrill, the chase of victory that runs parallel to my own mission. But beneath the excitement, there's always that undercurrent of readiness, the professional vigilance waiting to spring into action.

Puck on a stick, Noah glides across the ice like a force of nature, sidestepping a defender with the ease of a seasoned captain. Cassidy screams his name girlishly from the side of the rink. I can feel my eyes roll. Noah pivots, aiming for that shot that might just be the game-changer, it happens—a collision, brutal and unplanned. His figure skews awkwardly, colliding with an opposing player whose bulk sends shockwaves through the rink. I wince from my vantage point; I can almost feel the twist of his ankle from here, the way his body contorts unnaturally before he crashes to the ice.

"Damn it," I mutter under my breath, already anticipating the sharp sting of pain he must be feeling. I see him grimace, hand reaching down to cradle the joint in a silent confirmation of injury. The arena's collective gasp is a background hum to the pounding in my ears—this is what I've been bracing for.

But there's no time to dwell because, in the next heartbeat, Wes, looking back at Noah, takes a hard check into the boards that would have lesser men seeing stars. The Thunderbird who checked him spins away, sneering, and Wes staggers forward, hand clasping his shoulder, a grimace etched deep into his features.

"Trainee!" The call from Drew snaps me into motion. “Bishop first. I’ll take Jacobs.”

I'm over the barrier and onto the ice before my brain fully processes the move. My skates bite into the frozen surface, propelling me forward with urgency.

Stay calm, Lexi. They need you focused , I remind myself, even as my heart races and adrenaline surges through my veins.

I reach Noah, dropping to my knees beside him. "Talk to me, Captain," I say, trying to keep my voice steady as I assess the damage. He tries to mask the pain with a tight smile, but his eyes betray him.

"Twisted it again—same one—when I landed," he grunts, and I nod, hands already at work.

"Okay, let's get this stabilized." I'm all business, the world narrowing to the task at hand. I secure his ankle with practiced efficiency, the cold pack in my kit providing temporary relief. As I wrap the compress around the swelling joint, I can feel the stare of a few thousand spectators boring into me, but they fade away—it's just Noah, his ankle, and the ice beneath us.

"Keep pressure on this," I instruct, locking eyes with him to ensure the message gets through. He nods, gritting his teeth against the discomfort, but trust shines through the pain. It's a look I've earned, one that speaks louder than any cheer from the crowd.

Beside us, at rink’s edge, Cassidy is calling Noah’s name, sounding hysterical. I don’t have time for her. A sharp whistle pierces the charged air, and I'm up again—this time to Wes, at Drew’s side. Wes’s brooding expression is twisted in pain as he clutches his shoulder, and my gut clenches. I glide over, skates carving a path on the ice, my medical bag bumping against my side.

"Hey there, tough guy," I quip, trying to ease the tension as I kneel beside him. "How's the arm feeling?"

"Like Dean's been using it for punching practice," Wes grumbles, but his attempt at humor doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Can you move it at all?"

"Bit stiff," he hisses as Drew palpates the area, watching his face for signs of increased pain. It's not dislocated—that much is clear—but a hard check like that could mean a sprain or even a tear.

“We need to reduce the swelling first, figure out the rest later,” Drew says.

"All right, we're going to ice this now," I inform Wes, reaching for a cold compress from my kit. "You know the drill—cold now, heat later."

"Always so commanding," he teases weakly, but complies, allowing me to position the cold pack against his shoulder. I secure it with a wrap, ensuring it won't slip while he's benched.

"Try not to flex or rotate it too much," Drew advise, and my gaze locks onto Wes’s, which seems to flicker with a mix of pain and stubborn resolve. "I'll check on you after the period ends."

"Thanks, Doc," Wes says, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. Then, he looks at me as I add another strip of tape. "Guess you're not just a pretty face, after all."

"Keep your charm, Jacobs. Save it for when you're not in agony," I shoot back, though a smirk tugs at my lips. I cast a quick glance back at Noah, who's now on the bench, watching us with an unreadable expression.

"Can you get yourself to the box?" I say, already thinking two steps ahead.

He nods, pushing up with his good side.

As we skate back to the bench, my mind races while the match roars on around us. The blur of the game swoops around me, a symphony of shouts and the slice of skates against ice that vibrates right through my bones. I point at the bench beside Noah and address Wes.

"Sit. Down." My tone brooks no argument, and surprisingly, he complies, flashing me a half-grin that doesn't quite reach those piercing blue eyes.

"Never thought I'd be so glad to see you skating toward me," Wes admits, his voice a low rumble. "You're like some kind of... hockey angel."

"Only you could turn an injury into a pick-up line, Jacobs," I quip, but I'm checking his pupils, making sure he's not just putting on a brave face. "Stay put. Like Drew said, we need to reassess after this period, okay?"

"Can't make any promises, Turner," he replies, but there's a note of respect there that wasn't before. Even Wes Jacobs can acknowledge a job well done.

I leave him with a stern look, already turning back to Noah. Two of our best on the sidelines and the game's intensity hasn't dropped one iota. I keep one eye on the clock, counting down the minutes until I can properly assess their injuries off-ice.

"Alexis Turner, folks," the announcer’s voice booms suddenly during a brief lull, echoing around the arena. "Showing once again why she's an indispensable part of the Aces family!"

A cheer erupts from the crowd, a wave of noise that crashes over me, but I don't let it distract. Flattery won't help these guys heal faster.

I rewrap Noah's ankle, double-checking the support, then catch Wes trying to test his shoulder's mobility out of the corner of my eye.

"Jacobs!" I snap, sharper than intended, and he winces, settling back against the boards. "If you mess up my handiwork..."

"You'll what? Bench me?" he challenges, but there's no heat in it. He knows I'm right.

"Try me," I say with a smirk, and for a moment, we're not athlete and therapist, but two rivals who understand each other better than anyone might guess.

As the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the period, I'm already planning. Noah needs an X-ray, and Wes might be looking at an MRI if that shoulder doesn't improve. But for now, they're both stable, and that's a small victory.

"I'm going back in," Wes announces abruptly, right as Coach Thompson glides over, a hard look etched on his face.

"No," I interject, my voice steady with conviction. "You're both out for the rest of this period."

Coach Thompson studies me intently, then shifts his gaze to Noah and Wes. "We need you two back out there," he insists in his gruff voice.

Against my better judgement, I feel a surge of frustration. "You need them healthy more," I counter. "A few minutes on the bench now might mean they can play the next game."

Despite my passionate objection, Coach Thompson seems unmoved. He’s a seasoned warrior of the ice, hardened by decades of hollering from the sidelines and echoing locker-room pep talks. "This game is crucial, Alexis," he growls, his beady eyes darting between us.

"I am fully aware, Coach," I retort, crossing my arms over my chest. "But pushing them now isn't going to do any good."

"You're here to keep them in the game, not bench them," he says pointedly before turning to the injured men beside me. "Are you two all right?"

Noah grimaces, nodding as he tests his ankle. I glare at him. He should know better. Wes just shoots me a challenging look, back straight, jaw set. He’s ready to throw himself back in the fray, regardless of the consequences.

“I’m good,” Noah mutters, but his pained grimace tells me otherwise. No one seems to read him as well as I can.

“Good enough for me,” Coach Thompson declares, giving them both an approving nod. He skates off towards the bench, leaving me simmering with frustration and worry.

“Wes… Noah…” I begin, my voice cracking slightly under the weight of my concern. “Please let me do my job.”

“You do yours, Turner,” Wes interrupts, his icy gaze locking with mine. "We'll handle ours." His smile is sharp, full of reckless defiance.

"I'm not sitting out the third," Noah chimes in, his tone not as harsh as Wes’s but firm nonetheless. His easy smile belies the pain I know he's in.

Then, they’re both up and out, and the crowd cheers, drowning out any new objections. The puck zips across the ice like it's got a life of its own, and Wes chases it down with the ferocity of a man who hasn't just had his shoulder popped back into place minutes before. I can't help but wince when he takes a hit, body slamming against the boards, but he doesn't falter. If anything, the contact seems to ignite something within him, and he's back in possession, maneuvering around the opposition with an agility that belies any pain he might be feeling.

"Unbelievable," I breathe, pride and frustration swelling in my chest for this relentless star forward who refuses to be benched by injury or by me . I know I’m just an intern, but the disrespect stings.

On the other side of the rink, Noah orchestrates the team with the precision of a maestro, ankle taped up tight and brace concealed beneath layers of padding. When he snipes a shot from the blue line, threading the needle through a sea of sticks and skates, the puck finds the back of the net, and the arena erupts into a cacophony of cheers. He raises his stick in triumph, and though his eyes are hidden beneath his helmet, I know there's a glint of satisfaction there.

"Nice shot!" I can't stop myself from shouting, even though he can't hear me over the din.

As the match surges forward, every check and dodge, every sharp turn and slapshot, I'm right there with them. My gaze never lingers too long on one; I'm constantly scanning, ready to leap into action should either show signs of worsening.

When the final buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the game, the score in our favor, the rush of relief is almost dizzying. Noah and Wes make their way back to the bench, their strides less sure now, the adrenaline ebbing away to reveal the true extent of their injuries.

Coach Thompson intercepts us before Drew and I can rush over to my wounded warriors. "You've done enough, Turner," he warns, his voice stern and authoritative. His brows knit tightly, a clear sign that he's not in the mood for argument. He nods at Drew. “Leave ‘em be. Meet me in my office. Now.”

Drew’s jaw tenses, but he nods, curtly, and he’s gone in a flash. I can only hope he’ll go to bat for the right course of action. I think he will.

But that leaves me and Thompson alone. A sudden chill washes over me despite the heat of the stadium lights. "I was just doing my job," I defend hastily.

His gaze narrows further, casting a long shadow on his weathered face. "You're here to assist, not to interfere with my players."

My heart skips a beat at his words. The implication isn't lost on me. I'm just an intern. My instinct is to counter his remark, to defend my actions, but the icy coolness of his stare silences me.

"I won't hesitate to bench you if you step out of line again," Coach Thompson adds, voice steely. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," I manage to reply, swallowing around the lump forming in my throat.

The euphoria from the victory is quickly evaporating, replaced by a gnawing worry. Biting my lower lip, I nod at him and step back, watching as he strides off towards the staff offices.

They're both slumped on the bench now, exhaustion seeping from every pore, their faces glistening with sweat. The crowd is still chanting their names, but I doubt either of them can hear it over the thundering pulse in their ears. Noah rubs at his ankle, a grimace twisting his handsome features. Wes’s hand is pressed against his shoulder, his lips pressed into a thin line as he attempts to quell the pain rippling through him. It's clear that they've pushed themselves beyond their limits.

But I can’t rush over to them. My place is here, on the sidelines, torn between wanting to ensure they're okay and respecting Coach Thompson's warning. Around me, the celebration carries on, oblivious to my inner turmoil. The team's win is celebrated with raucous cheers and laughter, the air thick with excitement and relief. I can't help but feel that it all rings hollow when the cost is so high.

With a heavy heart, I force myself to turn away, to focus on packing up the medical kit, which now looks woefully inadequate for what may lie ahead. The metallic clink of the instruments echoes my loneliness amidst the jubilant crowd.