Chapter FOURTEEN Noah

The clock's relentless ticking echoes in my head—a constant reminder of the long hours that have morphed into a rote routine. I've become all too familiar with the crushing weight of responsibility that rests on my shoulders as we’ve won game after game this season—we’re hovering near a championship now. It's not just about the game anymore; it's about proving myself worthy of the letter 'C' emblazoned on my jersey.

I glide across the ice, the chill biting at my cheeks, the sharp scrape of my skates against the rink a symphony to my ears. Practice has become my sanctuary, a place where the pressure simmers down to a dull roar and my focus narrows to the puck at my stick. Drenched in sweat beneath layers of padding, I zigzag through drills, each stride fueled by sheer determination. The sting of exhaustion gnaws at my muscles, but I push harder, faster, because slowing down isn't an option—not when every pass, every shot counts.

I ignore the ache in my ankle—Wes is right. It’s easy once you’re used to it.

"Keep up, Captain!" one of the rookies calls out, his voice teasing. I toss him a grin—half cocky, half encouraging—and fire off a pass that lands tape-to-tape on his stick.

"Nice shot, Bishop!" comes another shout from the bench. Coach Thompson.

"Thanks, but save the cheers for the game," I shoot back, my breath coming out in visible puffs.

My smile might be easy, but there's nothing casual about the way my heart hammers against my ribcage. Each practice is a battle against my own limits, and I relish the fight, even as my body screams for mercy. This is what it means to lead—to set the pace and never show any sign of weakness. I see Wes skating circles around me all morning, and I saw him leave with Lexi last night. Even today, they keep going off to the side, putting their heads together in secret little talks. He doesn’t look at all injured, at all weak. In fact, he looks like a winner.

"All right, boys, bring it in!" Coach bellows, clapping his hands to signal the end of practice.

We huddle together, a mass of adrenaline and ambition, our breaths mingling in the frosty air. I'm right in the middle, where I need to be, ready to lift spirits or crack a joke when the tension gets too thick. I avoid looking at Wes, though.

"Listen up," I start, my voice cutting through the cold. "We're only as strong as we are united. Let's take this energy and bottle it up for the next match."

A chorus of sticks banging against the ice greets my words—a resounding affirmation that they're with me, that we're in this together. It's moments like these that make the long hours and sleepless nights worth it. And as we disband, I skate off the ice, the heaviness of my role as captain eclipsed by the lightness of being part of a family—a team that plays and fights as one.

***

The air in the locker room is electric, each breath a crackle of pure anticipation. We're on the cusp of something monumental, the kind of game that gets etched into memory and replayed in slow motion during restless nights. It's us versus them – the age-old clash with the Highlanders, our rivals who've tasted victory one too many times for my liking. But not this time; we've come too far, worked too hard.

"Biggest game of the season tonight, boys!" Dean slaps his stick against the bench, his grin all confidence and swagger. "Time to show those Highlanders what real hockey looks like."

The stakes are sky-high: win and we cement our lossless legacy, lose and it's a year of what-ifs. We rewrite history.

"Let's make 'em wish they never stepped onto the ice," I add, my voice steady, strong.

The team erupts in cheers, the sound a battle cry that fills the room with unshakable resolve. I grab my helmet, ready to lead the charge, when it happens – a sharp twist, a misstep as I rise from the bench. Pain explodes in my ankle, white-hot and searing. For a moment, I see nothing but blinding light against my eyelids.

"Captain down!" someone calls out, half-joking until they see my face contorted in pain.

"Shake it off, Bishop," Coach says, but his smirk has faded, replaced by concern.

I try to stand, testing my weight on the injured ankle, but it's no use. The pain is a vice, tightening with every movement. Emotions churn within me, frustration and fear mingling in a bitter cocktail. I can't be sidelined, not now, not when everything we've worked for hangs in the balance.

"Damn it," I hiss through clenched teeth, slamming a fist against the bench. The echo rings louder than any cheer, a stark reminder of my sudden vulnerability.

"Easy, Noah," Coach kneels beside me, his seasoned eyes assessing the situation. "We need you."

"Coach, I can play through it," I assure, the words a lifeline I'm desperate to believe.

He gives me a look, one that says he's heard that line before, from players who didn't know when to back down. But I'm different, I want to tell him. I have to be.

"Let's get that checked out first," he says, firm yet not unkind. "But I would say it’s best if you can tough it out for the greater good."

Greater good... The words sting more than the injury. It's a test of wills, my heart battling my head, the desire to push through the pain clashing with the responsibility I have to the team, to myself. As they help me up, I'm struck by the weight of what lies ahead – a pivotal game that could slip through our fingers, and the realization that sometimes being a leader means bearing the pain. I won't give up. Not yet. There's still time before the puck drops, time to face this head-on and emerge victorious. After all, isn't that what captains do?

***

Tape hisses as it wraps tightly around my ankle, a firm grip steadying my heel. Lexi's skilled fingers move with precision, deft and sure as she secures the bandage, her touch professional but not without compassion. I wince, not from the pain – which is there, throbbing insistently – but from the realization that under her gentleness, she’s, well, mad.

"Keep still, Noah," Lexi chides gently, focused intently on the task at hand. Her ponytail sways as she leans in closer, assessing her work. "You need this to be stabilized properly if you're going to stand a chance out there."

"Thanks, Doc," I say, trying to keep the mood light despite the weight of worry settling in my chest. The locker room feels colder now, the buzz of anticipation for the game ahead overshadowed by the dull ache of my injury.

"Ha, not a doctor yet," she says, flashing me a grin that doesn't quite reach her eyes. I can tell she's concerned, maybe more than she's letting on. There's a diligence in her movements, a quiet intensity that speaks volumes about her dedication. She's seen injuries like mine before, knows the risks and the stakes.

"Could've fooled me." I attempt a smile, hoping to mask the mix of gratitude and something else – something warmer, more dangerous – that flares up whenever she's near. Lexi's whip-smart, fiercely independent, and yeah, easy on the eyes too. Not that I'd ever admit that out loud. Not now, not with Cassidy and I…dating?

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she retorts, but there's a hint of playfulness in her voice. "Especially not back on the ice faster."

"Can't blame a guy for trying," I counter, watching her as she packs away her medical supplies.

"Try focusing on recovery instead." She stands, crossing her arms over her chest, her jersey fitting snugly over her athletic build. "And don't even think about pushing yourself too hard, got it?"

"Got it," I reply, though we both know I'm terrible at following orders when it comes to sitting out. Especially not when Wes pushes through. But Lexi, she's got this way of making me want to listen, to actually consider that maybe the smart play isn't always the most reckless one.

"Good." She nods, satisfied, turning away.

I wince as I shift my weight, the motion pulling at the tender skin around the bandage. Across the room, Lexi's back is to me, her attention on restocking the medical supplies. The silence between us isn't awkward—not exactly. It's thick with words we're not saying, heavy with a tension that feels like it's more than just concern for my sprained ankle.

"Hey, Lexi?" My voice breaks the stillness, and she turns, those piercing green eyes locking onto mine. "Do you think... I mean, how bad do you reckon this is? Honestly?"

She strides over, her movements efficient and sure, the very image of professionalism. But I see the way her brow furrows, the slight bite of her lower lip, and I know she's worried. For the game or about me, I can't tell.

"Your ankle will heal, Noah," she says as she takes a seat next to me, her tone matter-of-fact but not unkind. "And I—I think Thompson is wrong to be pushing you like this. You don’t have to say it. I know he’s ignoring what Drew recommends, what I’d recommend. But you need to take it seriously. No messing around, okay?"

I nod, trying to digest her words while battling the urge to reach out, to bridge the gap between professional concern and personal care. "I get it. I just—"

"Just what?" Her head tilts inquisitively, and I'm caught in her gaze, wanting to dive into the depths of whatever we're skirting around.

"Nothing," I manage, forcing a laugh that sounds more hollow than humorous. "Just gotta make sure I'm ready for the match, right?"

"Right." She doesn't smile, though. Instead, she studies me, and I feel like she's reading every page of the book I didn't realize I'd been writing. "You're pushing yourself too hard, Noah. This isn't just about the game."

"Isn't it?" I challenge, but even to my own ears, it sounds defensive. I am the captain. The team relies on me. And yet, here I am, unsure if I'm fighting for the win or for something else entirely.

"Sometimes I wonder if you remember how to be anything other than Captain Bishop," Lexi murmurs, and her words sting like an accurate slapshot.

"Maybe I don't want to," I admit softly, half to myself. The confession hangs in the air.

"Everyone needs a break, Noah. Even you." Her hand hovers near mine, not touching, but the warmth radiates across the small space.

Lexi helps me up, her hand steadying my elbow as I test my weight on the injured leg. Moments later, the rink's cold seeps into my bones, a chill that's more than just physical—it's anticipation, fear, adrenaline. It's playoff season, and every shift on the ice counts. Coach Thompson is rinkside, watching us like a hawk.

"Let's see you skate," she says, and there's an edge to her voice that's new. Worry, maybe, or frustration. With me? With the situation? With Thompson? Hard to tell.

I don’t see Drew. He was here at the start, but now, where did he run off to?

I push off, gliding across the ice, the familiar scrape and hiss of blade on rink drowning out everything else. Each stride sends a jolt up my leg, but I keep going, faster, harder. If I can feel the pain, it means I'm still in this fight.

"Looking good, Bishop!" Coach calls out. His approval comes with a wink—a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken code among players: Hide your weaknesses, play till you drop.

"Take a break, Noah!" Lexi shouts from the bench, but I shake my head. There's no time for breaks, not when the championship is on the line.

The rest of practice blurs—a series of drills, shots, checks—each one a battle between my body's protests and my mind's stubborn refusal to yield. Lexi watches, her brow furrowed, clipboard clutched like a shield. She's scribbling notes, no doubt planning my rehab schedule down to the minute.

"Enough," Coach finally says, stepping onto the ice, whistle around his neck unheard above the din. "You're done for today, boys."

I want to argue, to claim I can handle more, but I nod, conceding this round, and skate off the ice.