Chapter TWENTY Lexi

My heart thumps in sync with the bass-heavy anthem reverberating through the arena. Every cell in my body vibrates with the electric charge of anticipation, as if I'm a live wire, plugged into the collective buzz of the crowd. The air is thick with tension, the kind that heralds in those defining moments that can make or break a season. I lean over the boards, scanning the ice for Noah and Wes, their forms just two amongst the flurry of jerseys.

"Let's go! This is it!" I whisper to myself, though my voice is lost beneath the roar of excitement from the stands. I can't help but feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins, an echo of my days racing across similar ice. The weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders; tonight, I'm not just a spectator, I'm guardian and ally to these athletes.

Suddenly, the puck drops, and like the crack of a starting pistol, everything accelerates. Players surge forward, blades slicing into the ice with precision, a dance of speed and strategy unfolding before me. Noah, with his deft handling, dodges an opposing defenseman, his movements fluid and determined. There's something akin to poetry in the way he skates—like he's writing verses on the ice that only a few can truly read.

I catch sight of Wes, too; his presence on the ice is commanding, magnetic, even. He's a force to be reckoned with, and as he intercepts a pass meant for an opponent, I feel a surge of pride. His focus is laser-sharp, and he maneuvers through the players with the confidence of someone who knows this game isn't just physical—it's mental warfare.

The clang of a puck against the goalpost sends a shiver down my spine, and I jolt forward, gripping the railing. It's a relentless back-and-forth, the players pushing themselves to the brink, every pass and shot a desperate plea for supremacy. It's almost balletic, this chaos, this whirl of color and motion—until it’s not.

"Watch the wing!" I find myself shouting, caught up in the moment, as if they could hear me over the cacophony. My professional demeanor wars with the hockey enthusiast inside me, the girl who grew up breathless with each play, each near miss that could have turned the tide.

I barely register the cold seeping through my boots, nor the ache in my clenched fists. All that matters is the game, the exhilarating symphony of sticks and pucks, grunts and shouts, blending into a soundtrack I know by heart. And as each second ticks down, I'm reminded why I'm here, why I've chosen this path of healing and support.

Because this, right here, with the ice beneath their feet and hope coursing through their veins, is where legends are born and dreams are either realized or dashed. And I, Alexis Turner, am part of that. Part of something greater—a story still being written, one shift, one game, one season at a time.

I would miss this in Illinois.

The puck sails past the blue line, and my breath catches as Noah pivots, his skates carving arcs into the ice as he tracks its path. His focus is singular, a captain on his quest, but from the corner of my eye, I see Wes barreling down the opposite wing, a blur of determination and raw power.

"Come on, boys," I mutter under my breath, leaning forward as if I could will them toward victory with my posture alone.

And then it happens—a perfect storm of bad luck and physics. The opposing forward streaks across the ice, his eyes locked onto the puck like a missile seeking its target. But in his path are both Noah and Wes, converging at the same point, unaware of the impending collision.

"Look out!" My voice is lost in the roar of the crowd, a silent plea swallowed by the din.

Their three bodies meet with a sickening crunch, the sound reverberating through the arena and ricocheting around my ribcage. Time slows, the game's rhythm skips a beat, and the crowd falls into a hush laden with dread.

For a moment, I'm frozen, memories of my own childhood injury and the repeat collisions with Noah and Wes flashing behind my eyelids—I feel pain, fear, the hollow echo of dreams shattering. But this isn't about me. This is about Noah and Wes, about their futures hanging in the balance.

My training kicks in, propelling me over the barrier and onto the slick surface of the rink. My heart pounds against my chest, each beat a drumroll as I skate toward them, my ponytail whipping behind me.

“Turner, you wait for Drew!” Thompson yells behind me. I ignore him. Drew’s been so scarce lately, shuffling my intern hours off on filler like the cheer practice, that I didn’t even look for him when I arrived.

And he’s not coming out—so someone has to.

"Noah! Wes!" I call out, my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through me.

I reach them, dropping to my knees. Wes's grimacing, his hand hovering near his shoulder, while Noah is trying to push himself up, wincing as he puts weight on his leg.

"Easy," I say, my hands moving with practiced efficiency, gentle but firm. "Let me look."

Around us, players hover like specters, their expressions a mix of concern and frustration—the game paused, their comrades in pain. But my world narrows to the two men before me, their well-being my sole focus.

"Talk to me," I urge, locking eyes first with Noah, then with Wes, looking for signs of clarity, shock, the will to fight.

"Lexi, I'm fine," Wes grunts, his voice rough, but there's a vulnerability there that belies his words.

"Stay still for a second, okay?" I press, my tone leaving no room for argument.

I kneel on the ice, my hands steady despite the chaos around me. Wes's shoulder hangs at an unnatural angle, a clear sign of dislocation, his face contorted as he clutches it close to his chest. The way he winces with every shallow breath tells me this is more than just a simple pop-out; there might be ligament damage.

"Okay, Wes, I need you to focus on breathing for me. Slow and steady," I instruct, flashing back to countless hours spent studying injury protocols. "We're going to immobilize your arm before moving you."

To my side, Noah tries to put weight on his leg and fails, collapsing back onto the ice with a curse. His leg isn't positioned quite right—the bend of his knee suggests a possible meniscus tear or worse, a full ACL injury. Given his history, the latter would be catastrophic, not just for the game but for his season, maybe even his career.

"Hey, Noah, look at me," I say, catching his gaze. It's filled with frustration, that rebellious spark of his dimmed by the reality of injury. "Don't try to stand. We need to brace that leg before we do anything else."

Their injuries are severe, yes, but manageable if treated correctly. This is where my expertise comes in—where my years of study morph into action. As I run through the evaluation protocols in my head, I'm acutely aware of their trust in me. They're my responsibility, and it's up to me to make the call that could define their futures.

"Shoulder's bad," Wes admits through gritted teeth.

"All right, let's take this one step at a time," I say, my mind racing to assess, to plan, to support. I can't let personal feelings cloud my judgment—not when their careers, their passions are at stake.

"Can you breathe okay?" I ask, touching Noah's wrist lightly, gauging his pulse. To Wes, "Any numbness?"

They answer, their voices strong but laced with pain, and I feel a swell of pride amidst the worry. These are athletes—my athletes—and I'll be damned if I don't do everything in my power to protect them.

"Let's get you off the ice and properly checked out," I decide, looking back to see that Drew is skating out toward us. And he has medics with him. Good. Maybe Drew was in the stands—sometimes, the bravest thing an athlete can do is acknowledge when they're hurt, and the smartest thing a physical therapist can do is listen—to their bodies, to their hearts, to the subtle cues that whisper the difference between a quick recovery and a lasting damage.

"Stick with me, guys," I say, offering a smile that's equal parts reassurance and challenge. "We're going to get through this together."

It's not just their physical well-being hanging in the balance; it's the team's morale, their shot at victory, and possibly the trajectory of their careers. But right now, all I can think about is ensuring they receive the care they need. Because that's what I do—I heal, I support, I fight for my athletes' chance to play another day. And I'll be damned if I let them down now.

With the medics flanking either side, my eyes dart between Noah's grimace and Wes's clenched jaw. The crowd's anxious murmurs fade into the background as Coach Thompson jogs onto the ice.

"Coach," I say. "Both injuries are severe. Wes's got a dislocated shoulder, Noah might have a torn ligament. We need to rule out fractures."

"Lexi, what are you saying? Can they play?" Coach's voice is urgent, almost desperate.

"I doubt it.”

Thompson grimaces. He turns to Drew. “I want a real medical opinion,” he snaps.

Drew shoots Thompson a look. “Let her work." He is brisk but not unkind; there's no room for softness when careers are on the line.

Thompson nods grudgingly and steps back.

“What do you think?” Drew’s asking me—relying on my opinion.

My fingers probe gently around Wes's shoulder, feeling the abnormality beneath his pads. He tries to mask the pain, but his sharp intake of breath gives it away.

“Where were you?” I ask Drew as I work.

His eyes darken. “Thompson asked me to start the ice baths for after the game. Maybe he’s psychic.”

Maybe he wanted you out of the way, I think.

Wes cries out as I press at the area around his shoulder.

"Easy, Wes. You're in good hands," I reassure him, trying to convey confidence I'm not entirely sure I feel. His nod tells me he hears more than my words, he feels the promise behind them.

"Stabilize first, assess after," I instruct the nearby EMT, who nods and gets to work on Noah's leg. The bond between an athlete and their physical therapist is sacred, built on moments like this—of vulnerability, trust, and the silent understanding that we're in this fight together.

"Lexi," Wes starts, his voice strained. "I can't feel..."

"Hey, hey," I cut him off gently, my hand finding his. "Focus on my voice, okay? You're going to be all right. We'll take it one step at a time."

"Will I..." He doesn't finish, but he doesn't have to. The fear in his eyes speaks volumes.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." The coach's demands echo in my head, but right now, it's just Wes and me on the ice. "You're strong, Wes. Stronger than anyone I know."

Wes’s grip tightens minutely around my hand—a silent a lifeline in the eye of uncertainty. And in that moment, the world narrows down to the task at hand, to the trust placed squarely on my shoulders. The cold bites at my cheeks as I kneel on the ice, my senses numb to everything but the task before me. I'm a fortress of calm amidst the chaos, even as my heart thunders against my ribs.

"Lexi," Wes’s voice is strained, his usually steady tone laced with pain. "I can still play. Just pop it back in, tape it up, and I'm good to go."

"Easy, Jacobs." My words are gentle, almost motherly. "I know you'd skate through a hurricane for this team, but we've got to think long-term here."

"Long-term is now," he insists, the words accompanied by a wince as he tries to move. "We need this win, Lexi. The team needs me. My scholarship…my mom…"

A groan from my other side pulls my attention. Noah is lying flat, his leg stretched out awkwardly. Unlike Wes, he doesn't try to mask his discomfort; instead, he lets it show in the hard set of his jaw, the furrow between his brows deepening.

"Dammit, Turner, you've seen me skate with worse. Just give me something for the pain and let me back out there," Wes growls, frustration seeping into his voice like a storm cloud threatening to burst.

"Even if I did, Wes, your arm might not agree with your hero complex," I reply, trying to keep the mood light despite the gravity of the situation. "That could turn a short recovery into a season-ender."

"Season-ender?" His voice cracks like thin ice, the fa?ade of the untouchable bad boy melting away to reveal the raw fear beneath. "No, screw that. I'm not leaving my team hanging."

I look between the two of them, each so different yet united in their resolve. The weight of their trust sits heavy on my shoulders. They're not just athletes under my care; they're people I've come to respect... and more.

"Lexi, we need a decision," Thompson presses, hovering over us.

"Give me a minute!" I snap, then immediately soften my tone for Wes and Noah. "Guys, listen to me. I'm going to do everything in my power to get you both back out here when you're ready. But I won't risk your health for one game."

Their eyes meet mine, and there's an unspoken agreement in that shared glance. They trust me to make the call, even if it's the last thing any of us want. Their nods are reluctant, their expressions a mix of resignation and unyielded spirit.

“I agree,” Drew says. “They’re out.”

Before Thompson can protest further, Drew blows the whistle around his neck and signals off-ice. A stretcher for both Wes and Noah are wheeled out, a spectacle that Thompson doesn’t have time to stop.

"All right, let's move them," I signal to the medics, and as the stretchers glide across the ice, carrying away more than just two injured players, I feel the weight of impending decisions heavy on my chest. But that weight doesn't bow me. It galvanizes me—because I am Lexi Turner, healer of warriors, guardian of dreams, and no matter what comes next, I stand ready.

"Trust me, guys," I assure them, my confidence bolstered by their faith in me. "I won't let you down."

"Never thought you would," Noah says, his eyes softening with a gratitude that does funny things to my heart—no matter how much I try to keep this professional. His voice is slurred with pain, and as he is lifted away, he calls back, “Think about what I said the other night—Lexi, this is real.”

Then, he promptly passes out.

I suddenly feel Wes’s gaze on me, intense. A stretcher is lowered onto the ice next to him.

“What is he talking about, Lex?”

I avert my gaze, pretending to be engrossed with the medical supplies in my bag. "It's nothing," I mutter, my palms sweating against the cool handles of the bag.

Wes grabs my wrist, forcing me to look at him, his startling blue eyes now tinged with concern...or is it something more? Is there pain that has nothing to do with his shoulder? "That didn't sound like nothing."

I try to pull my hand away, but he doesn't let go. His grip is firm yet gentle. "It's between Noah and me," I say, fighting the urge to reveal too much.

With a sigh, he releases my hand. His expression is unreadable, a thoughtful furrow in his brow as he acknowledges my words with a curt nod. Yet, something in his gaze is less fiery, more reserved. "Okay then."

I can't tell if it's pain or disappointment I see. To mask my own discomfort, I start fussing about with his gear again. “I'll see you in the hospital later," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Do you want me to call your mom?”

He looks at me, surprised. "No need for that," he says quickly, the words rushing out like a reflex. His gaze averts down to the ice, focusing on anything but me. He's quiet for a moment, his jawline tight, before he finally speaks. "And as far as coming to the hospital—don't bother, Lex."

His words cut through me like a winter chill, and I'm left standing there, my breath visible in the cold rink air as the medics start to wheel him away. I can't help but watch as he's taken off ice, his tall figure receding in the distance until I'm left alone on the frozen expanse. There's an indescribable silence that follows—the quiet before the storm—and I feel it reverberating in my chest. Suddenly, the weight of everything just got a little heavier. It's clear there's more at stake now, and it's not just about hockey anymore.

I follow the trail they've left on the ice as I let Wes's words sink in. Don't bother, Lex. The finality in his voice echoes hauntingly in my mind. Stinging, like the bitter cold that seeps through my layers and resonates along every nerve ending, making me realize that nothing will ever be the same again.

Everyone is looking at me. Coach Turner, the assistant coaches, the spectators, Drew—and my face flames. In the sudden void his departure leave, I know there are no winners tonight—only broken hearts and bruised egos.

“Turner, off the ice,” Thompson barks—but it’s softer than his usual tone.

As the players resume their positions and the puck drops, I can only watch, hoping that my next choice won't be the one that shatters hearts. With bated breath, I wait for the next collision, the next shot, the next scream from the crowd that might signal triumph or disaster.

And as the game plays out in front of me, I realize that no matter the outcome, nothing will ever be the same again. Not for Noah, not for Wes, and certainly not for me.