Chapter THREE Wes

The puck's a live wire under my stick, the crowd's roar a tidal wave behind me. I'm in the zone—dekes smooth as silk, skates slicing the ice like it's butter. There's something about the rink that makes everything else fade away; it’s just me, the ice, and the game. The scoreboard is tight, but my muscles are loose, coiled springs ready to unleash.

"Jacobs, heads up!" That's Thompson from the bench, his warning barely cuts through the din of the arena. I glance up, just in time to see the opposing team’s defense barrel toward me, grim determination etched on his face. Guy's got more beef than a butcher shop, and he's aiming every pound directly at me.

I try for a sidestep—a move I've pulled off a thousand times before—but the guy's like a force of nature, unpredictable and wild. Our collision is thunderous, a meeting of titans, and I feel the jolt right through my shoulder. It's like a dark whisper from my past, a reminder of battles fought and the fragility beneath this armor of muscle and sinew.

"Damn," I hiss, the pain sharp but familiar. Mom's voice echoes in the back of my mind, a relentless mix of worry and pride. "Don't you go hurting yourself now, Wes." But pain's an old friend, one that knows when to show up uninvited. One I know how to push aside—have learned to.

My breath comes out in a foggy burst as I push off the ice, refusing to let the opposition see any flicker of weakness. My shoulder screams a protest, but I've played through worse. Gritting my teeth, I lock eyes with that defender as I circle away, my stride still strong, my resolve even stronger. I've taken hits from life harder than anything this player can dish out, and I'm not about to start backing down now.

"Nice try, princess," I spit out, the words sharp as skate blades. "Gonna take more than that to bench me."

The puck's back in play, and so am I. It's a dance, a battle, a test of wills, and I'm not conceding this game—not to the other team, not to my shoulder, not to anyone. Hockey's in my blood, my escape from the world and all its heavy expectations. This ice is mine, and I'll defend it with everything I've got.

"Keep your head up, Jacobs," I remind myself, stealing a glance at the clock. Time's slipping by, each second another chance to prove I'm unstoppable. Because when it comes down to it, this isn't just about the game. It's about proving to that kid from Minneapolis that he's made of tougher stuff—that he can rise above every hit, every fall, every setback.

For mom, for me, for the sheer thrill of it—I'm not just playing hockey. I'm living it. And nothing, not even a shoulder that feels like it's been through a meat grinder, can change that.

The sharp sting is sudden, a rebellion in my muscles that lights up my nerves like a Christmas tree on fire. Gritting my teeth, I pivot on the ice, feeling the familiar burn that's become an unwanted companion over the years. It's a searing sensation, clawing its way from the deep recesses of my shoulder joint, spreading with every movement I dare to make.

"Shake it off," I mutter under my breath, flexing my fingers and rolling my shoulder in a futile attempt to dismiss the pain. The crowd roars above me, a blur of sound, but it fades into the background, just white noise against the primal scream of agony from within. I push through the next play, forcing my body to obey, to skate, to fight for the puck as if nothing's wrong, as if every cell in my shoulder isn't shrieking for me to stop.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Lexi on the sidelines. She’s too sharp, too keen, seeing through the fa?ade I'm desperately maintaining. There's worry there, mixed with that no-nonsense edge she wields like her own personal hockey stick—ready to knock some sense into anyone who crosses her path.

She knows. Damn it. But acknowledging her silent alarm would make this real, and I can't have that—not now, not when we're neck and neck with the clock ticking down. I’m not Noah, ready to go moon-eyed and yes-ma’am the second I stub a toe. So I do what I do best: ignore the pain, ignore her concern, and pour every last bit of defiance I possess into the game.

The whistle blows, signaling a timeout. I coast to our bench, gripping the top of the boards for support, every labored breath punctuated by a jolt of pain from my shoulder. I'm fine. Gotta be fine.

"Hey, Wes."

I glance up to find Lexi leaning over the barrier, ponytail swaying, her eyes reflecting the arena lights and something else...concern maybe? She's ditched her clipboard for a more hands-on approach, it seems.

"Let me check out that shoulder," she says, her voice low and serious beneath the cacophony of fans seeking blood or glory—whichever comes first. “Or Drew can.”

"Lexi, I'm good," I insist, trying to infuse confidence into my words, to sound convincing enough that maybe I'll believe it myself. "Just a little tweak, nothing major."

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying the act. "Wes, you're holding your arm like it's about to fall off. At least let me tape it up or something."

"Really, I'm—" I start but stop short as a fresh wave of pain crashes through me when I move my arm. I grit my teeth and force a smile. "I appreciate it, but I can handle it."

"Stubborn much?" she snaps, crossing her arms—a mirror image of defiance to my own.

"Part of my charm," I shoot back, hoping the playful arrogance will deflect her attention.

"Fine," Lexi relents with a sigh, but her eyes don't leave mine. With a last look of reluctant acceptance, she steps back, blending into the sea of team jackets and posterboard signs.

The game won't wait for my shoulder to sort itself out. Drew doesn’t know—I’ve managed to hide it from him, and he’s luckily been busy because of Noah and a few freshmen who’ve taken hits. So I’ve slid under the radar. I wonder how long I’ll be able to, especially with Lexi watching like a hawk.

I'm back on the ice, slicing through defenders like they're cones in a drill. My shoulder screams with each shift of my body, but I shove the pain into a dark corner of my mind. Focus. That's all I need. The crowd is a distant roar, the game a blur of motion and adrenaline. I can see Lexi in the stands, lips press into a thin line, and I can see the words she wants to hurl at me, each one a missile aimed straight at my stubbornness.

I push off, harder, faster, driven by the need to prove her wrong, to prove everyone wrong. My shoulder aches like a warning, but I drown it out with the roar of the crowd. It's just me, the ice, and the puck. Everything else fades away. I focus on the puck, now a blur of black against the white ice as it dances between sticks, players jockeying for control. My breath comes out in foggy bursts.

"Jacobs! On your left!" The shout slices through the cacophony of cheers and skates carving ice.

I pivot, ignoring the sharp protest from my shoulder, and intercept a pass. I fake left, then right, a move that's second nature, except this time my shoulder doesn't quite follow through. The pain is a hot wire, coiling tighter with every maneuver. Gritting my teeth, I barrel forward, willing myself not to wince or falter under the scrutiny of fans and foes alike.

There's an opening—I see it, a clear shot to the goal. With every stride, I gather speed, the crowd's anticipation amplifying my own. This is it, the moment to silence doubts, to silence her. But as I wind up for the shot, muscles tensed and ready, something's off.

My arm feels like it's moving through molasses, heavy and uncooperative. The puck rockets off my stick, but the trajectory's all wrong. It sails wide, slamming into the boards with a hollow thud that echoes my own frustration. The groan from the crowd is audible, a collective sigh that mirrors the sinking feeling in my gut.

"Focus, Jacobs!" That's the coach's voice, gruff and edged with concern. But focus isn't so easy when every shift feels like you're dragging an anchor.

I take up position again, watching as the play shifts back to our zone. I'm there, always there, ready to battle for possession, to do what's necessary for the team. But the movements that used to be fluid are now staccato, jagged edges where smooth lines should be. I manage a decent check, more out of sheer force of will than actual physical prowess, and we regain control of the puck.

"Pass it!" someone yells, and I comply, sending the puck spinning down the ice. But even that simple action sends tremors of pain radiating through my arm. My passes lack their usual sniper precision; they're good enough, sure, but anyone who really knows hockey can tell—the edge, my edge, is dulled.

"Keep your head up, Wes!" I can hear Lexi's voice in my head, part chastisement, part worry. I push it aside, along with the twinge of guilt for brushing her off earlier. There's no room for either on the ice.

Play after play, I'm there, present in body if not entirely in capability. The grit that got me here, from those Minneapolis rinks to college glory, fuels me, but it's clear that something's amiss. I refuse to look at Lexi, stationed by the bench with her kit of tapes and ice packs, her eyes likely analyzing my every compromised move.

"Time!" I call out, tapping my stick against the ice as the period winds down. I skate toward the bench. The whistle shrieks, signaling the intermission, and I finally allow myself a grimace as I slump onto the bench.

"Good hustle, Wes," one of my teammates claps me on the back, oblivious to how much that 'good hustle' is costing me. I nod, chest heaving, sweat mingling with the cold air. I'm running on fumes and stubborn pride, and even I have to wonder—how long before one or both run out?

We’re back in before I feel ready. The puck glides across the ice, a tantalizing promise of victory that my body screams to chase. I will it to come closer, to meet the blade of my stick with the grace and force I'm known for. But as I surge forward, shoulder throbbing, there's a hitch in my stride, a betrayal by my own flesh and bone.

"Jacobs! Eyes on the puck!" Coach bellows from the sidelines, his voice a piercing drill through the cacophony of the arena. He doesn't know the half of it—that each shift feels like skating through wet cement with a boulder strapped to my back.

I grit my teeth, trying to focus on the game, but my shoulder screams louder than the roar of the crowd. The pain is a white-hot line of fire, spreading from my clavicle down to my fingertips. It's not just discomfort now; it's a warning siren I've been ignoring for too long.

A rookie mistake, some might say. And they'd be right. Because pride has me by the throat, and it's choking the sense out of me. Lexi's words echo in my mind. Maybe—just maybe—I should have listened.

"Jacobs, what are you doing?" Noah's voice cuts through, laced with annoyance. "You're off your game, man."

I want to snap at him, throw back something witty and biting. But the energy it would take... I don't have it to spare. Not anymore.

I’m playing more on instinct than skill. Each pass is a gamble, each shot a prayer. The opposing team’s winger barrels toward me, and I brace for impact, knowing this might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back—or the shoulder.

"Crap," I hiss as I dodge the hit at the last second. The sharp pivot sends a jolt up my arm. It’s a humbling thing, realizing your limits. Mine are shouting at me, loud and clear, and as the period comes to a close, I glide off the ice, my arm hanging uselessly by my side. There's no shaking it off this time. No, pretending that I'm fine when every cell in my body is rebelling against the facade.

Drew and Lexi are there the second I’m off the rink. Drew’s eyes are pinched. He looks a little pissed.

“Drew—” I start, “It’s nothing.”

He jerks his head toward a nearby bench, and I sit.

"Let me look at it." Lexi's voice is soft but insistent, a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of my stubbornness.

I lock gazes with her, and something inside me shifts. Maybe it's the pain, maybe it's the exhaustion, or maybe I'm just tired of being my own worst enemy.

"All right," I breathe out, the word tasting like defeat but feeling strangely like relief. "All right, Lexi."

Her hand reaches out, steady and sure, and I know that whatever happens next is going to change the game entirely. But as her fingers gently probe the area around my shoulder, testing its movement and making me wince, I realize that this isn’t just about hockey anymore.

It's about trust, about letting someone in—someone who might just see through the cracks in my armor.