Chapter NINE Lexi

I stumble into the dorm room, my muscles screaming from the weekend retreat's relentless activities and the strain of having to get up and back on schedule early this morning for regular practice. Then, after practice, a full slate of classes. I’m wiped out, but there's a buzz under my skin, an electric current of confusion.

"Lexi!" The voice snaps me out of my thoughts. There, perched on her bed like some kind of gossip hawk, is Jenna, my roommate. Her eyes are wide, too bright, like she's sitting on a jackpot at a Vegas slot machine.

"Guess what?" She practically vibrates with the need to spill whatever tea she's holding onto. "You will not believe who's officially an item."

"Give me a sec," I grunt, dropping my duffel bag with a thud that echoes off the cinderblock walls. I peel off my jersey, swapping it for a more breathable tank top, but before I can even breathe out, Jenna's words hit me like a rogue puck.

"Cassidy Harper and Noah Bishop. Public. Official. PDA and all. Did you know this? They were totally sucking face on the quad for all to see. She was like a leech on him."

The exhaustion clinging to my bones morphs into a sucker punch of shock that rattles through me. Cassidy and Noah? My brain fumbles to make sense of it, the way it struggles to calculate a complex play on the ice when you've got a fraction of a second to act.

"Are you kidding me?" It's all I manage, my voice a strange cocktail of disbelief and something else I can't quite place—a sour twist in the pit of my stomach.

"Nope," Jenna chirps, oblivious to the inner chaos she's just unleashed. "Saw them myself, east side of the quad by the library. It's the talk of the campus. No one even knew that they hung out outside of games."

I blink, trying to picture it—Cassidy Harper, with her air of untouchable snobbery, wrapped up in Noah's strong captain's arms. He's supposed to be the good guy, the leader who plays fair. And Cassidy... she's as far from fair play as you can get.

"Wow," is all I say because what else is there? The news sits heavy, a lead puck in my gut. Noah Bishop, off the market and into the hands of my rival. She says sports medicine is her passion, but I think she’s looking to land a pro hockey husband and retire her degree early. Not that it’ll leave her with any burdens—her muckety-muck alumni parents are rich enough that there are no student loans to hang over her highlighted head. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image, the unwelcome emotion it stirs within me.

"Right?" Jenna nods, her eyes gleaming. "I mean, who would have thought?"

Not me, certainly not me.

In fact, jealousy gnaws at me like a hungry rink rat. It's absurd. I shouldn't care who Noah dates—it's none of my business. But as much as I tell myself this, my insides churn with uncertainty. Why does the thought of them together make my blood simmer just below boiling?

"Seriously, they're like, perfect for each other. Hockey royalty meets cheer queen," Jenna adds, laughter bubbling in her tone.

Hockey royalty. The words echo in my head, mocking me. Is that all we are? Titles and status? I've spent so much time around the rink, I can practically breathe hockey stats, but right now, I want nothing more than to escape the suffocating culture of it all.

I grab a jacket to throw on over my tank top and then my backpack. I have to get out—the dorm room is too small and closing in.

“I’m going to study,” I say, and I don’t wait for Jenna to reply before I’m out the door.

***

I shove open the door to the library, the scent of old books and desperation for high GPAs hitting me instantly. I'm here with one mission: to drown out Cassidy's smug voice that's bound to echo in my head until I can refocus on what matters—my future as a sports medicine expert. Intern hours alone aren’t going to get me into a graduate program, nor a good job. I still need the grades.

"Lexi!" The voice I've been dreading slices through the hushed whispers of diligent students. Cassidy Harper leans against a bookshelf like she owns the place, her hazel eyes glinting with something akin to victory. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Libraries are for studying," I quip, not missing a beat. "You should try it sometime."

Her laugh tinkles through the silence, drawing annoyed glances. "Oh, Lexi, always so witty. But I'm here for a much more exciting reason. Have you heard the news?"

"Unless it's about groundbreaking treatments for ACL injuries, I'm not interested," I reply, but my heart thuds treacherously against my ribs.

"Oh, yes. Always the little class go-getter. But this is even better. Noah asked me out," she beams, flipping her hair over her shoulder. There's a deliberate pause as she gauges my reaction. "Officially."

"Congrats," I force out, the word feeling like a slapshot to the gut. "He's a great guy."

"Isn't he just?" Cassidy drawls, eyes narrowing slightly as if she's trying to read my playbook. "I heard you and he were getting real close this past weekend. I was hoping you weren’t heartbroken, since we're the talk of the campus."

"Power couple goals," I say mechanically, my sarcasm skating on thin ice. She doesn't need to know how much her words sting, that they’re like a puck ricocheting in my chest. “And Noah and I are just friends.”

"Oh.” Her lips mou. “Anyway, I'll let you get back to... whatever it is you do. We wouldn’t want your grades dropping because of little old me. That hurts your scholarship money, right?" Cassidy says sweetly, though the barb is there, hidden under layers of faux concern.

"My grades are fine," I retort, turning away before she can see the cracks in my fa?ade. I don't give her the satisfaction of looking back as I march toward the back of the library, where the study carrels promise solitude and, hopefully, distraction.

Finding an empty carrel, I drop into the chair with less grace than usual. I pull out my biomechanics textbook, the pages filled with diagrams of joints and ligaments, a world where things make sense, where there's a clear cause and effect. If only human relationships were as straightforward as a knee joint.

I dive into the material, letting terms like 'tibia' and 'femur' replace 'Cassidy' and 'Noah' in my mind. My notes become more frenzied, my handwriting sloppier as I scribble down information on muscle fiber types and injury prevention. Each word is a balm, each sentence a strategy to keep the game in play.

Hours pass, maybe minutes—it's hard to tell when you're lost in a world of anatomical structures and potential treatment plans. But one thing is clear: this is where I belong, among these textbooks and the quiet hum of knowledge-seeking souls. This is the rink where I skate circles around life’s messy checks into the boards.

And when I finally close my textbook, the initial sting of Cassidy's words has dulled. I'm sore from the hit, sure, but not down. Not out. I'm still in this game, and I plan to come out a winner.

My phone buzzes from its forgotten spot under a pile of notecards, jolting me back to reality. I swipe away the remnants of physiology diagrams from my vision, squinting at the bright screen. It's a message from Jenna, with her typical flurry of emojis that somehow always seem to capture the urgency of college gossip.

Forgot to ask you about Wes!

What about him? I text back, mind still echoing with the remnants of biomechanics and ligaments, not ready for another round of campus drama.

His mom's sick. Like, really sick. I heard it from his RA.

The textbooks on my lap suddenly feel heavier, dense with concern rather than knowledge. How sick are we talking?

Pretty bad, from what I've heard.

Thanks for letting me know , I murmur, my thoughts already on Wes, on that brooding intensity he tries so hard to guard, the shadow behind those ice-blue eyes, a hint of something deeper than his usual rebellious charm.

I stand up, packing up my fortress of study materials. My fingers hover over my phone, a battle between wanting to give him space and the pull of compassion that tugs at my chest. Wes is strong, sure, but everyone has their breaking point.

Hope he'll be okay , Jenna says.

Me too. And without overthinking it, I tap out a quick message to Wes.

Hey Wes, just heard about your mom. I'm really sorry. If you need someone to talk to or anything, I'm here.

It's simple, nothing fancy—just an offer of support, a lifeline thrown across the chasm of pride and pretense. I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Wes might not take it, might not even want it, but it's out there now, hanging in the digital ether between us.

Settling back into my chair, I pick up a pen, but my focus has shifted. Now, my heart is racing, wondering if it's him, if he'll let down that guard just a fraction and let me in. The phone buzzes against my desk, and I lunge for it like a goalie diving for a rogue puck. It's Wes.

Can we talk? His text is uncharacteristically vulnerable, stripped of the bravado he so often wears like armor.

Of course , I reply. Coffee shop on the east side of the quad?

Give me 10.

I'm already tying my sneakers before the message fully registers. My heart hammers with a cocktail of nerves and adrenaline—not unlike the pre-game jitters before hitting the ice. This isn't about hockey, though; this is real life, with stakes that feel immeasurably higher.

The crisp evening air bites at my cheeks as I walk briskly to the agreed spot. The coffee shop is quiet, the usual chatter from inside subdued. Wes stands by an outside bench, his posture tense, like he's bracing himself against more than just the winter chill.

"Hey," I breathe out, approaching him with cautious steps.

"Lexi." He acknowledges me with a nod and a strained half-smile. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course." I sit beside him, giving him the space to start when he's ready.

He takes a deep breath, and it's like watching the dam break, words flowing freely. "My mom... she's been diagnosed with cancer. It's bad, Lexi. Really bad."

The raw pain in his usually guarded gaze slices through me. "Wes, I—I'm so sorry."

He shrugs a feeble attempt to deflect the sympathy. "We've always just had each other, you know? I don't have a clue how to deal with this."

"Nobody knows how to handle something like that," I say softly, reaching out to tentatively place a hand over his. "But you're not alone, okay? You've got your team, friends... me."

"Me," he echoes, turning his hand to clasp mine, and there's a shift in the air between us. For a moment, it's as though the rest of the world fades away, leaving only the two of us locked in an understanding too profound for words.

After a beat, he continues, his voice steadier but still tinged with fear. "She wants to fight it, go through all the treatments, but... what if it's not enough?"

"Then you'll know you did everything you could. And she will, too. That's all anyone can do, Wes."

He nods, the tension easing from his shoulders ever so slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right." He stands, his hand still in mine. “I gotta go. My next class is in ten. I’ll see you at the game tonight.”

And then, he’s gone, our encounter brief but meaning…what? It's only when he releases my hand that I realize how much I wanted to hold onto it. How much I wanted to be that source of strength for him.