Chapter FOUR Lexi

The final buzzer blares, slicing through the electric current of anticipation that's been buzzing in my veins. I leap to my feet, joining the thunderous applause and cheers that ricochet off the arena walls. My heart races like I've been the one on the ice, dodging checks and firing pucks, not just an observer—an anxious one. The players swarm the goalie, a tangle of jerseys, sticks hoisted in victorious salute. And there, among them, are the guys I've taped up, iced down, and who have pushed themselves to their limits. Pride swells in my chest, warm and effervescent, as if their win is partly mine.

"Way to go!" I holler, though my voice is just a drop in the ocean of celebration. The energy is palpable, the joy uncontainable, and it's impossible not to feel connected to every player out there.

Or concerned—especially about Wes, who’s been benched since Drew convinced him that his shoulder needs help. That continuing risked permanent damage.

He hadn’t been happy.

We funnel out of the stands, a human river surging toward the after-party. It's not long until we're all at the local watering hole, The Draft. The scent of victory is sweet, mingled with the sharp tang of sweat and the beer that's already flowing freely. Strobe lights pulse, syncopated with the bass thumping from the speakers, turning the room into a living organism, throbbing with life. The team, fans, and other locals all flood the space.

"Lexi! You made it!" Dean "The Machine" Hartley barrels toward me, his grin as wide as the goalpost.

"Wouldn't miss this for the world," I shout back, high-fiving him. It’s nice to be included. The reluctance of these guys to accept me—the wariness, really—seems to be melting away. Dean hollers over at the rest of the team. Soon, we're engulfed in a sea of backslaps and bear hugs.

Laughter bubbles up from deep within, mingling with the shouts and music. I'm jostled gently from side to side, the rhythm instinctive, shoulder to shoulder with friends, teammates, and fellow supporters who've ridden the rollercoaster of the season together.

"Drink?" someone offers, and I accept a pint of foamy beer, the froth tickling my nose as I take a cautious sip. It's lukewarm and slightly bitter, but tonight, it might as well be champagne.

Around me, the party undulates. People clink cups, exchange stories louder than necessary over the music, and replay the game's highlights with grandiose gestures. There's an infectious camaraderie in the air, the kind that can only be forged on the ice and fueled by shared triumphs.

"Dean, that check in the second period was epic," I yell over the music, my lips close to his ear so he can hear me. He throws his head back and laughs, the sound rich and carefree. "Had to make sure they knew we weren't playing around," he boasts, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

I weave through the throng of revelers, my pulse still racing from the game's final buzzer. The team's victory is fresh, a zesty tang on my tongue like the citrus punch I snag from the bartender to replace the beer. It tastes much better—but the beer has already lightened my spirits. My laughter dances with the pop tracks blaring from speakers that are working overtime tonight.

"Lexi! Over here!" someone calls, and I swivel, scanning the crowd for the familiar voice.

"Great game, Aces!" another fan shouts as I squeeze past, nodding appreciatively.

"Couldn't have done it without Wes's goal," I shout back, but even as I say it, the taste in my mouth turns bittersweet.

Wes. Wes Jacobs—the very name seems to skate along the edge of my patience. It's not just his cavalier attitude or how he takes every rule as a mere suggestion. No, it's deeper than that. It's the way he pushes boundaries, both on the ice and off, especially with me.

"Speak of the devil," I mutter under my breath as I spot him across the room, surrounded by a group of fans clamoring for his attention. He's all charm and easy smiles, his laugh low and hypnotic. But I know better. I've seen the strain around his eyes when he thinks no one's looking—when the adrenaline fades and pain seeps through the cracks of his facade. He said real athletes grin and bear it, but I know that’s asking for trouble.

"Hey, Wes," Dean calls out, slinging an arm around my shoulders, "Did you see that final shot I made? The one that won us the game?"

Wes's gaze flits in my direction, and our eyes lock—a silent clash of wills. His smile doesn't reach his eyes this time. "Not now, Dean," he says, deflecting with a shrug that looks more calculated than casual. He turns his attention to the gaggle in front of him, who I notice are all giggling coeds.

"Don’t want to congratulate your teammates?" I chide, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I'm teasing, but there's an edge to my voice that I can't quite cloak.

He rolls his shoulder, a subtle motion, but I catch it. "No need to lecture, Turner," Wes retorts, his tone light but sharp as skates on ice.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I shoot back, my own smile feeling forced.

Dean's grip on my shoulder tightens momentarily, and I realize he's trying to keep the peace. We're supposed to be celebrating, not picking at scabs. I make my escape under the pretense of refilling my drink, leaving Wes and his entourage behind.

But fate, it seems, isn't on my side. As I round a corner, navigating away from the boisterous heart of the party, I bump right into the man himself—Wes, sans his admirers, his eyes dark and intense.

"Trying to provoke me, Turner?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"I wouldn’t waste the time," I retort, meeting his gaze squarely.

For a moment, we simply stand there, the sounds of the party dimmed by distance, the air between us charged with unsaid words and unresolved tension. Finally, I crack.

"Your shoulder," I begin, unable to hold back, "you need to rest it."

"Lexi, Coach cleared me," he counters, his jaw setting in that stubborn line I've come to recognize and dread.

"Coach? Not Drew? That doesn't mean you're a hundred percent. You can't just—" I cut myself off, aware that raising my concerns might only drive him further into denial. And as an intern, I can only push so much. If I overstep, I could lose my internship. And that looks bad, both to any hope of a future career, let alone finding a new place to get my hands-on hours if the Aces boot me.

"Can't just what? Play? Do my job?" Wes's voice rises, and I bristle at his defensive tone.

"Look, I'm not your enemy here," I say, exasperated. "Just because you can play through the pain doesn't mean you should."

"Thanks for the advice, Doc ," he replies, sarcasm lacing his words, "but I'll take my chances."

We're locked in a standoff, neither willing to yield, our mutual stubbornness keeping us rooted to the spot. It's a dance we've perfected over time—one step forward, two steps back. And yet, despite the irritation simmering between us, I can't fully tamp down the inexplicable pull I feel toward him.

"Listen to me, Wes," I say, my voice low and taut with frustration. "You're not invincible. That shoulder needs rest, not another round on the ice."

"Rest?" He scoffs, a flash of anger in those piercing blue eyes. "There's no time for rest, Lexi. We're on the brink of playoffs. I can't just sit out."

"Can't or won't?" I challenge, stepping closer, invading his space as much as he's invaded mine. "Because it seems to me you're confusing stubbornness with strength."

"Maybe I am," he snaps back, his proximity setting off a different kind of spark within me, one that has no place here. "But I know my limits better than anyone—better than you."

"Your limits?" The incredulity is clear as day in my tone. "Wes, your macho act might fool the fans, but I know what playing through this could mean for your career—"

His laugh is bitter, slicing through the tension. "What do you know about my career, huh? You think because you've read some textbooks, you get it? This is my life. Hockey is all I've got."

"Exactly!" My hands are animated now, slicing through the air between us like the sharp edge of a skate. "It's your life, Wes. And if you blow out your shoulder for good, what then?"

"Then at least I went down swinging." His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek, betraying the pain he's too proud to admit. "Not everyone has the luxury of backup plans, Lexi. Not all of us have led cushy little legacy lives."

"Fine," I snap, turning on my heel, "do what you want, Wes. It's not like you ever listen anyway."

As I walk away, the music and laughter swell behind me, but the festive atmosphere feels miles away. Our argument hangs suspended in the air, unresolved and raw, a crackling undercurrent beneath the surface of celebration. The afterparty's buzz thrums through me, a cocktail of victory and adrenaline. My heart races, not just from the high of our win but from the brewing storm I've walked away from. Wes Jacobs, with his infuriating smugness and penchant for self-destruction, is a hurricane I'm perpetually drawn to—but not sure I have the strength to weather.

A storm that follows me out into the night air, where I had hoped for some solace, some cooling-off. He catches up to me a minute after I enter the side alley by the bar, the clang of the metal door slamming open against the building announcing his arrival.

"Why are you being such a damned…complication?" he grinds out, running a hand through his jet-black hair.

"Complication?" I echo, my pulse hammering at the admission. But I can't afford to focus on the heat that word ignites within me, not when there's so much more at stake. "If that's what it takes for you to listen, then I'll be the biggest damn complication you've ever had to deal with."

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a fleeting moment, I see the vulnerability he's so adept at hiding. Even as I stand my ground, my chest tightens, knowing that this fight is bigger than just a stubborn athlete and a concerned medic. It's about two people caught in a dangerous dance, one where every step could lead either to salvation or ruin.

"Fight all you want, Turner," he says with a wry twist of his lips that doesn't reach his eyes. "But I'm not the type to back down."

"Neither am I," I fire back, my resolve as unyielding as the ice beneath our feet. I jab a finger toward his chest, my breath coming out in quick puffs of frustration. "You think you're invincible, don't you? That nothing can touch Wes Jacobs, the star forward?"

His jaw clenches, and he grabs my wrist gently but firmly, lowering my hand away from him. "Invincible? No. Determined? Hell, yes."

"Stubborn, you mean," I retort.

"God, you're infuriating!" Wes explodes, running a hand through his jet-black hair. "Do you think I do this because I like pain? Because I don't care if I end up broken? I have to play—it's all I've got."

"And what about after hockey, Wes?" I demand, stepping closer. "What happens when the one thing you've got leaves you with nothing but regret and a lifetime of 'what ifs'?"

He scoffs, shaking his head as if trying to dispel my words like an annoying buzz around his ears. "You think you have all the answers, don't you, Turner? Just because you've seen a few injuries, you think you know my future?"

"Better than you apparently!" My hands ball into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. The energy between us is almost palpable, every word we hurl carving deeper into the core of what's really at stake here: not just a shoulder, but dreams, fears, and the undeniable tension that's been building.

"Fine! Ignore the advice!" I throw my hands up in exasperation. "Ignore the fact that I actually care what happens to you.”

"Is that what you want?" Wes steps forward, closing the gap until we're only inches apart. "For me to ignore you?"

"Maybe I do," I say, though my heart races at his proximity.

"Lexi..." His voice softens, and for a moment, I see the vulnerability he usually keeps hidden beneath layers of defiance and bravado.

"Then maybe you should ignore me," he says quietly. But there's a new tension in the air, an unsaid challenge that hangs heavy between us.

My breath catches as he reaches up, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. His hand trails down, settling at the nape of my neck as he gently pulls me closer. For a moment, our gazes lock, his ice-blue eyes searching mine, reflecting a tumultuous mixture of anger, frustration, and something else. Something raw and unnamed that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Wes..." My voice comes out in a barely audible whisper.

And then he's kissing me. It's angry and desperate, a testament to the storm that has been brewing between us from the very start. His hands tighten in my hair as his mouth moves over mine, each press a challenge, a promise, a plea. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I should push him away. But the feel of him, the taste of him—it's a balm to the turmoil inside me. I surrender to the kiss, allowing myself this one moment of weakness.

Eventually, he pulls back, his breath hitching as he rests his forehead against mine. "Do you still want me to ignore you?" he murmurs against my lips.

I swallow hard, looking into his eyes, now soft and uncertain. "I... I don't know," I admit, my voice barely a whisper.

"Lexi," he breathes out, his thumb stroking my cheek softly. "No matter how infuriating you are, or how much we argue...there's something between us, and you can't deny it."

His words hang heavy in the air. My heart thuds painfully in my chest, my mind warring with what I know is right and what I feel. With a sigh, I pull away from him slightly, my eyes averted. I need space, space to breathe, to think, to process all of these overwhelming emotions.

Before he can say anything else, a cheer erupts from inside the bar, drawing our attention momentarily.

"Sounds like your teammates could use some supervision," I point out, grateful for the distraction.

"Looks like you could use another drink," Wes counters, and there's an edge to his words that tells me we're not done—not by a long shot.

"Maybe it’s a bad idea to mix business with pleasure," I say, my voice steady even though my heart isn't.

"Who's talking about business?" he murmurs, leaning in again, so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. "This could be all pleasure, Turner."

And just like that, the tension is back, coiling tight in my stomach. I want to push him away, to erase the smudge his presence leaves on my composure, but instead, I stand my ground. Because Lexi Turner doesn’t back down—not from hockey players with egos as bruised as their shoulders, and certainly not from her own confusing desires.

"Maybe for you," I manage to say. "But for me, this" —I gesture between us— "is just another game. And I'm not playing."

"Yet," he adds, his gaze locked on mine.

"Yet," I echo, and then I turn and bolt for the back door, feeling like I've just made a promise I have no intention of keeping.