Chapter TWENTY THREE Lexi

I push open the door to Wes's hospital room, my heart hammering against my ribcage. The sterile scent of antiseptic fills my nostrils here, too, as I step inside, trying to weave a mask of confidence into my features. Wes lies propped up in the bed, his shoulder bandaged and immobilized, but it's the iciness in his ice-blue eyes that sends a chill down my spine.

"Hey," I begin, my voice echoing slightly in the too-quiet room. "How are you feeling?"

He shifts, his jaw tightening. "What does it look like, Turner?" His tone is as cold as the compress probably tucked beneath his sling.

"Like you've seen better days," I quip, forcing a tight smile, not letting him see he's gotten under my skin. The guy could cut glass with his mood right now.

"Thanks for the observation." He looks away, staring out the window at the gray sky beyond. “But I told you not to bother coming.”

I pull up the visitor's chair and sit down, crossing my legs. Ignoring the sting of his dismissal, I dive headfirst into safer waters. "So, the Aces pulled through without their star forward and their captain." I watch his face for a reaction. "We won the game."

"Great," he says flatly, not meeting my gaze. "Party on without me then."

I let out a laugh that doesn't quite sound genuine. "Oh, come on, Jacobs. You know it's not the same without you stirring up trouble on the ice. And Noah being all... captain-y."

The corner of his mouth twitches, and I know I've scored a tiny point. "Captain-y, huh? Is that a technical term, Sports Medicine Major?"

"Very technical. Only the most elite understand it." I lean back, a playful challenge in my voice. "You'd have been proud, though. Hartley actually passed the puck for once. Voluntarily."

"Miracles never cease," he mutters, but there's a glimmer of warmth creeping into his voice.

"Exactly. Maybe he finally realized hockey is a team sport. Or maybe... it was just because you weren't there to hog the puck." I raise an eyebrow, inviting him to banter back with me.

"Ha. Funny." Wes finally cracks a small grin, and the tension in the room eases just a fraction. "Just for that, when I'm back on the ice, I'll score a goal exclusively for you. No hogging involved."

"Promise?" I ask, holding his gaze.

"Promise." And there it is, the faintest spark of the Wes Jacobs I know, the one who can charm his way out of (or into) anything. But as our eyes lock, there's something else there, too—something that feels dangerously like hope fluttering in my chest.

"Promise" hangs between us like a puck suspended mid-air, moments before a critical shot. Wes shifts slightly on the hospital bed, wincing with the movement, but his blue eyes are steady on mine. Maybe it's the softened look in them or the way the harsh hospital light seems less sterile suddenly, but I feel the room's chill starting to thaw.

"Mom's coming to stay," he says out of nowhere, and it takes me a second to switch gears.

"Your mom?" The surprise must be evident in my voice because he nods, a trace of vulnerability flickering across his usually stoic face.

"Yep. She's moving here temporarily. We're getting an apartment together." His fingers fiddle with the edge of the thin hospital blanket. "She doesn’t want me leaving school, but she can do chemo here. It’ll help me be less anxious, her all alone. Gonna take care of each other, I guess."

My heart squeezes tight, sympathy mingling with admiration. "That's... really brave, Wes." I mean every word. It’s not just about hockey with him, despite his tough exterior.

"Brave or stupid," he mutters, trying to smile, but there's no real humor in it. “I’m going to be a guy living with his mom.”

"Brave," I affirm. "Definitely brave."

There's a comfort in the silence that follows, a shared understanding that some battles are fought off the ice, too. I rack my brain, trying to come up with something to say that won't sound hollow or insincere—or spark another fight—when my thoughts drift to Noah and his own quiet strength in the face of adversity.

"Speaking of brave," I start, hesitating for a fraction of a second, "I think you deserve to know what Noah was talking about on the rink. He, um, he told me he had feelings for me." My words hang heavy, laden with implications and unspoken feelings.

Wes's expression doesn't change immediately, but I see the flicker of something—pain? resignation?—in his face before he schools his features into practiced indifference. "Did he now?"

I nod, biting my lip. "I went to see him earlier, just before I came here." Guilt gnaws at me; I'm not even sure why I'm confessing this to Wes. Maybe because I need him to understand that my heart isn't swayed by grand gestures or confessions made in vulnerable moments. It’s won in small doses, in the little things that add up to the big realizations.

"Sounds like a soap opera episode," Wes quips, but the sharpness is gone from his tone. He's trying, I can tell. Trying to be the friend, the teammate who handles things with grace, even when they hurt.

"More like a bad romcom," I retort, trying to keep the mood light, even as my pulse races with the weight of my own confession hovering on the tip of my tongue. But it stays there, unspoken for now, as we both pretend that this conversation is just another play in our ongoing game of verbal hockey.

I shift awkwardly in the sterile hospital chair, the plastic creaking under the tension. Wes stares out the window, his profile etched against the waning light of the day. His jaw clenches as he turns back to me, the ice-blue intensity of his gaze locking onto mine.

"Look, Lexi," he starts, voice measured but distant, "if you've got feelings for Noah, I get it. He's a great guy—captain material. You have my blessing or whatever."

The words sting more than I expect, and I'm momentarily frozen, my mind scrambling to redirect this conversation that's veering off course. "Wes, no," I interject quickly, "you've got it all wrong."

Wes studies me, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh, he turns his gaze toward the window, where the orange hues of sunset spill across the sky. "I guess I always figured you and Noah would end up together. You're both so... good." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice, and it stings more than I expect.

"Good?" I scoff, crossing my arms. "You make it sound like we're a pair of golden retrievers."

"Lexi, c'mon. You know what I mean." He shifts uncomfortably in the hospital bed, wincing as he moves his shoulder. "You're the kind of girl who deserves someone who can give her everything. Not a guy who spends as much time in the penalty box as he does on the ice."

"Is that what you think this is about?" I throw my hands up, exasperated. "Matching stat sheets? Because if it is, then you've got me all wrong, Wes. I don't care about 'good' or 'bad,' I care about real. And whatever this is between us—it's the realest thing I've felt in a long time."

"Lexi..." His voice trails off, and for a moment, there's a vulnerability there that I've never seen before. He raises a brow, skepticism still written all over his face, and I realize it's now or never. I need to lay it all out on the line, just like I'd coach one of the Aces through a game-changing play.

"Listen," I say with more conviction, leaning forward so that there's no space for misunderstandings between us, "I care about Noah, yeah, but not like that. The person I want... it's you, Wes. Always has been."

A flicker of surprise crosses his features, and I rush on before he can interject. "And I’ve decided on Chicago—or, rather, against it. I'm not going anywhere. My plans are right here in Ashville with the Aces. I want to be part of what we're building, on and off the ice. I want to show what I can do, not just for others, but for us—for you and your mom. I’m going to help Noah, too. His ankle isn’t going to be the easy road your shoulder will be. He’s going to need help down an alternate path."

For a moment, the room is silent except for the faint beeping of the monitor beside his bed. I watch as something shifts in Wes, the walls he's built around himself wavering in the wake of my confession.

"Lexi..." His voice trails off, and there's a vulnerability there that I've only seen glimpses of before. It's raw and real, and it makes my heart ache to see him this way—yet it also fills me with hope.

"Your mom won't be alone in this, and neither will you," I say softly, reaching out to gently grasp his hand, mindful of his injured shoulder. "I'm staying. After the playoffs, for your recovery, for whatever comes next. We're a team, Wes. And I'm playing for keeps."

I inch closer to the edge of Wes's hospital bed, where he lies cocooned in a tangle of white sheets and that slightly sweet sterile scent of antiseptic. The room is dim, save for the slant of sunlight that dares to trespass through the blinds, casting long shadows across his face.

"Look, I know you've got your hands full with... well, everything." My voice echoes slightly in the quiet room. "But your mom doesn't have to go through chemo alone, and neither do you. I've learned a thing or two about physical therapy, you know?" A tentative smile plays at the corners of my lips. "I could help her with some exercises, make sure she's keeping up her strength, but not overdoing it. And you," I pause, gauging his reaction, "you're going to need someone to keep that stubborn shoulder in check."

His gaze softens, thawing into something like gratitude—or is it something more? It's hard to tell with Wes, but I feel like I'm on the right track.

"Lexi, I—" He tries again, the rough timbre of his voice betraying a tremor of emotion. I watch as he swallows hard, as if the words are caught somewhere in his throat.

"Hey, it's okay," I interject quickly, not wanting him to strain himself. "You don't have to say anything. Just think about it, all right?"

But Wes shakes his head, eyes locked onto mine, and I realize he's not struggling with the offer, but rather with something much weightier.

"Lexi, I need to tell you something," he says, and there's an urgency there that pins me in place. "I've been an idiot about a lot of things, but one thing I know—"

He pauses, draws in a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is laced with a raw honesty that makes my heart skip a beat.

"I love you, Lexi."

The words hang in the air between us, charged and potent, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. The world narrows down to this room, to Wes, to the truth that resonates in his confession.

"God, Wes," I exhale, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep within me, borne out of relief, joy, and a love that's been simmering just beneath the surface for longer than I care to admit. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that."

I bridge the gap between us, my heart pounding out a rhythm that's as reckless as it is hopeful. Wes watches me, vulnerable. My hands are surprisingly steady as I cup his face, and with a courage I never knew I had, I lean in.

Our lips meet, and it's a collision of every unsaid word, every stolen glance we've ever shared. His mouth is warm and insistent against mine, and for a moment, there's no injury, no pain—just Wes and me and the kind of kiss that writes its own rules.

"Ouch!" Wes hisses suddenly, pulling back with a wince.

"Oh my God! Your shoulder!" Panic floods through me as I spring back, hands flying to my mouth. "I'm so sorry, I forgot!"

He grunts, rubbing at his shoulder with a pained smile. "It's okay," he says, though his voice is strained. "Worth it."

I hover, unsure whether to laugh or launch into an apology spree. But then, his hand finds mine, and he tugs me gently back toward him. This time when our lips touch, it's a softer connection, more careful but no less charged.

We're both grinning as we adjust to accommodate his injury, finding a new rhythm that's uniquely ours. And as we kiss again, this perfect imperfection of a moment, I can't help but think that happiness doesn't always come neatly packaged—it sometimes arrives with a bump to a dislocated shoulder and in the middle of a hospital room.

I pull back, biting my lip as Wes's ice-blue eyes search mine, looking for something I'm not sure I can put into words.

"Lexi," he says softly, breaking through my whirlwind of thoughts. "What are we doing?"

His question hangs in the air, thick and heavy. I know what he's really asking: Are we a real thing? Can two people who started on opposite sides of an invisible line truly find common ground?

"Us?" I try to sound nonchalant, but my voice trembles slightly. "We're... figuring things out." I sigh. "Look," I start again, softer this time. "I'm not saying I have all the answers. But I do know one thing—I want to be here with you, bumps and bruises and all. And maybe that makes me a glutton for punishment, or maybe it just makes me a girl who's crazy about a certain stubborn hockey player."

"Even if he's more trouble than he's worth?"

"Especially then." I smile, my resolve strengthening. "Because for the record, Wes Jacobs, you are worth it. More than you know."

A slow grin spreads across his face, the one that's equal parts mischief and charm—the one that's been driving me mad since the day we met. "So, you're saying you love me? I’m not imagining it because of the pain meds?"

My heart skips a beat, but I don't hesitate. "Yes, you idiot, I'm saying I love you."

And just like that, the walls come down. Wes reaches for me, his touch gentle, and I lean into it, letting myself believe in this moment, in us.

"I love you too, Lexi Turner. And I swear, I'll spend every day proving it to you."

"Good," I say, settling beside him. "Because you've got a lot of penalties to make up for."

"Lexi," Wes murmurs against my lips, the previous tension melting away into something warm and right.

"Yeah?" I whisper back, my own smile impossible to contain.

"Stay with me tonight? We can watch stupid TV...and maybe not talk about hockey for once?"

"Sounds like a perfect plan," I agree, because staying here with Wes feels like the only place in the world I'm supposed to be. We're in love, actually, properly in love, and despite the comedy of errors that seems to follow us, that fact alone is enough to make everything else seem unimportant.

"Fantastic." He chuckles, and then winces again. "But maybe start with a little less contact. I'm still pretty banged up."

"Got it," I reply, laughing softly. "Minimal contact—except for this."

I lean in, pressing my lips to his in another kiss that's sweet and promising—a celebration of new beginnings and the funny way life has of bringing people together, even when they start as rivals on a cold patch of ice.