11. Sage

CHAPTER 11

SAGE

The dressing room is rocking with Maxim's music choice of a French pop band. Grinning at him singing away, I tug on my jersey. It's been a long road trip. Chicago, Colorado, Las Vegas, and now tonight in San Jose, and then facing LA in two days. Then back home for the final game of the season.

My body is sore from the last game, but my mood is high. It's been a week since Rhys and I had dinner with his parents. They liked me, and I liked them. My point streak is still alive. And I get to call him my boyfriend now, to friends, and once the season is over, we'll figure out how to tell everyone else.

Beside me, Morgan sips coffee as he dresses. "I'm telling you, that goalie cannot block a shot off the left side of the post. I think he's injured and trying to play through it. If you concentrate your shots there tonight, they're definitely going in."

"I noticed the same thing watching the videos." I sit to tie my skates.

Expression strained, Maxim drops onto the bench next to me and motions for Morgan to join us. "San Jose called up Chad."

Shock stills my hands. "What? For real?"

"Yeah. Today. Quinn just told me. Two of their players were injured in a collision during the morning skate, one has a concussion, the other messed up his knee."

"Yikes." I crane my neck, looking for Rhys's auburn hair. "Does Rhys know?"

"Quinn's telling him now. I know Rhys says he feels nothing, and that's great. But I saw the way Chad looked at him that day. That dude has issues." Maxim pats my shoulder and stands. "We'll look out for him."

I crack my neck, and my knuckles. "Of course we will."

Coach comes in. Maxim cuts the music. We get the starting lineup. Maxim, Quinn, and me. Rhys and Remy. And Pierre.

I slip behind Rhys on the way into the tunnel, walking to warm ups. "Hey."

"Hi." He bumps his arm into mine, and I take the chance, grabbing hold of his hand with a squeeze of support, then release him before anyone notices. "I guess Maxim told you."

"Yep. We have your back."

We reach the ice. He hops on and waits for me, then guides me into a lap around our zone, his glove clutching my jersey. "Listen to me. I know you've played against him twice. But I was his teammate for a few years. He's an ass who tries to take people out. You're one of our best players. You need to watch your back tonight. Don't drop your head if you have the puck. Stay alert."

"Okay." I press closer to him, using our momentum as we turn. "You be careful too. Maxim thinks Chad still has an issue with you."

"The only way Chad can hurt me now is by hurting you." He glances at the sea of blue jerseys. Chad is in the mix, taking shots at the goalie.

My guard goes up. Games where two rival teams meet are always more energized. But this feels different. Personal. For the first time in my life, I wish a hockey game was over before it's begun.

I get in position as Maxim lines up for a faceoff. Chad's line is out for San Jose. Putting the fourth line out against our top line is a deliberate choice by his coach. The anxiety that's prickled my blood all evening grows sharper.

San Jose scored early, slipping a goal past Pierre on a wrap-around five minutes into the game. They got another goal halfway through the second period. We clawed our way back at the top of the third with my two goals, back to back, within the first ninety seconds. Morgan was right, the left side is the goalie's weakness.

I'd love to get a hat trick. But with Chad on the ice, and in light of what Rhys said, I feel like there's a target on my back. Chad's mission tonight seems to be functioning as a wrecking ball. I tense up every time he and Rhys are on the ice together.

Maxim wins the face off and sends the puck to Quinn. He barrels down the center of the rink and I race up the side, making sure he crosses the blue line before I do.

In a play we perfected in practice, he passes me the puck between his legs, mid-skate.

I get it on my stick and skate closer. As I fire a wrist shot, something smacks into my back, spinning me. I fall, watching the puck rocket toward the net at a wider angle thanks to whoever checked me and changed the puck's trajectory.

Both Maxim and a San Jose defenseman fly in, but the puck squeaks by between the left post and the goalie's left skate and crosses over the line. The red goal light goes off.

"Yes!" Still sitting on the ice, I pump my hands in the air.

Quinn grabs my glove and hauls me to my feet. He sweeps me into a hug. "Nice job, man."

"You too, feeding me that pass."

Maxim joins us with a hug and a glare at someone over my shoulder. "Chad's the one who hit you."

"Well, it didn't work. We got the goal anyway." I skate with them to the bench as the PA announcer credits me with the goal and Quinn with the assist. My first hat trick. What a night.

Rhys gave an answer at a press conference before Jonas got hurt, stating what a difference I'm making to the team and how much I'm contributing. I take that responsibility seriously.

I climb beside him on the bench. "Not long now. We have to get through ten more minutes. That's all."

He lays his hand on my thigh. "Did he hurt you when he hit you?"

"Not once that puck crossed the goal line."

Smiling at that, he bumps his shoulder into mine. "My tough guy."

"Your guy," I whisper. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to pretend there's nothing but friendship between us. Remy told me that whenever I look at Rhys, it's like I have my heart in my eyes.

Coach calls for a line change. Rhys and Remy head out. Morgan's line is on the ice.

Rhys skates backward toward Pierre as San Jose's center carries the puck into our zone. He knocks the puck away, and skates with it, readying a pass to Morgan. The puck leaves his stick and lands on Morgan's, and he plays the puck up the boards to Darius. There's a battle for the puck and San Jose sends it back to our zone.

Chad speeds in, ignoring the puck, gunning for Rhys. He raises his stick, two-handed, and slams it into Rhys's back with a crack .

My heart stops. Our bench erupts in outraged yells.

Rhys drops forward, crashing onto the ice. I can't tell if he got his hands under him in time to brace his fall or if he hit his head. He gets onto his hands and knees, but doesn't rise beyond that. The bottom half of Chad's broken stick is beside him. The whistle blows, and play stops.

Writhing and rocking, Rhys attempts to get up, and can't. Our trainer jogs out there to check on him. Air catches in my lungs, and my chest tightens. I can't move. All I can do is watch Morgan and Darius help him up, guiding him to the bench. I want to reach out, touch him, talk to him, but they're taking him to the opposite side, where he has access to the tunnel.

Every muscle in my body vibrates, and I grit my teeth to keep from hurling Chad fucking Cullen through the fucking glass. "Rhys didn't have the puck. That was a total cheap shot! Chad hits him from behind? Across his back? With his stick like it's a fucking weapon? What the hell?"

Quinn is beside me. "No. I know. He should be tossed for that."

The ref skates with Chad to the penalty box.

The PA announcer's voice booms out. "San Jose penalty, number eight, Chad Cullen. Five minutes for slashing."

"That's it? That's bullshit." Beyond incensed, I throw my hands up, looking at Quinn. "He injured Rhys. Should be a match penalty."

"Total bullshit." Glaring at Chad's image on the massive screens above center ice, Quinn pats my back. "We'll handle it."

I take that for the direction I think it is. Or hell, the direction I want it to be. Not that I was waiting on anyone giving me permission. As soon as Chad comes out of that box, he's mine. I decided that the second he put his hands on Rhys.

Play resumes. We're on the power play. I head onto the ice with Maxim and Quinn for my shift. We dominate, and I keep an eye on the clock, and that box. I go back to the bench, biding my time.

Two minutes tick by. I'm back on the ice again, setting up Maxim for a shot. He scores a goal and I get another assist. I don't care about points right now. I want revenge.

Back on the bench, I watch that box, and wait.

The door to the penalty box finally opens, and Chad skates out. My muscles tensing, anger coursing through me, I stand. Beside me, Morgan does too, ready to jump over for his line change.

Grabbing the hem of his jersey, I pull him back. "Nope. I'm going."

I hop over the boards. Skating right at Chad. "Yo, asshole. You think you're getting off that easy?"

I drop my stick. Then my gloves. He smirks at me, losing his too. "Shouldn't you be going after some ring, Frodo?"

"Yeah, that's original, fuckhead." We circle each other, our fists raised. I move in, slamming my right fist into his malevolent mug. The first punch feels good. The second one feels better. I grab hold of his jersey with my other hand, and land another on his chin.

He mocked my height, but it works in my favor. He can't land a punch. I duck, weaving out of his way, and slam my fist into his back. If I could reach my stick, I'd slam him with that too, give him a taste of what he did to my boyfriend.

My chin strap comes loose. He pushes at my helmet. I throw another punch while rucking up his jersey, trapping his right arm. My hand smashes onto his helmet. Pain explodes, radiating from my knuckles into my arm, but the adrenaline and my anger keep me going. Another punch, then another. I keep my head clear of his fists, but he gets in shots on my back and shoulder.

I get his jersey up higher, then yank hard and take him to the ice. As soon as we're down, the ref and linesmen swarm in, pulling us apart.

"You're done for the night." The ref guides me to the bench. All of my teammates knock their sticks against the boards in support.

"Worth it," I mutter, but no one can hear me under the thunderous roar from the crowd.

My hand throbs too much, like my heartbeat is right there, sending out waves of pain. Sweat stings my eyes. I storm past the bench and into the corridor.

Before I can head to the dressing room, Dr. Chaudry, one of the team's doctors, points me to the medical staff's office. "I want to take a look at your hand."

He gestures for me to sit on the exam table, then gently examines my hand. Even the smallest of touches hurts.

My index finger and several knuckles are red, swollen, and painful. Deep purple bruising spreads from my finger, expanding across the back of my hand.

Sweat pours off me, my heart races, my breaths puff out with too much force. I want my gear off. I'm unsteady, and afraid I might pass out. "Hurts to move it."

"Don't attempt to bend anything. I think you've fractured your finger. We'll take x-rays to confirm." He helps me remove my helmet. "Did he get in any hits to your head?"

"No. Just my back and shoulder. But I'm fine. Where's Rhys?"

"Concussion protocol." His words are clipped. "Let's get you sorted."

Since I'm useless one-handed, he helps me out of my jersey and elbow and shoulder pads. Sweat soaks the thin, long-sleeved tee I wear under my gear and I'm both too hot and too cold.

We do the x-rays. Waiting for the results, holding an ice pack on my hand, I watch the game on the screen mounted to the wall. The penalties scroll across the bottom. Five for fighting for Chad and me. Game misconducts. And the commentators speculate the league will look at Chad's hit on Rhys and it may result in a suspension. Good.

My attention pulls to the doorway every time someone walks by or voices raise from the corridor. I tense up, worrying about Rhys, and about what will happen if my finger is broken or sprained.

The game ends. We hang onto the win. But all I care about is Rhys.

Dr. Chaudry returns to the room. "You've fractured the intermediate phalange of your index finger." He shows me the x-ray images.

My stomach drops at the dark line across the middle section of my finger.

Injured. In a game that doesn't even matter because we've already made the playoffs. That makes this doubly worse.

"You have a stable fracture. We'll splint it." He strides to one of the cabinets and removes a metal splint with a blue foam cushion. "This will keep your finger straight and protected while it heals. The pain and swelling can last for weeks, but should steadily improve. I want you to ice your finger tonight and all day tomorrow, ten minutes on, followed by twenty minutes off. Take an anti-inflammatory as needed."

I wince as he slides the splint into place. "How soon can I play?"

He finishes applying tape around it. "Fractures can take between four and six weeks to heal."

"Doc, that doesn't answer my question. How many weeks till I'm back on the ice?"

"You want this to heal properly, and not risk further damage."

My chest feels tight. I groan and drop my head into my good hand. "We're so close to the playoffs. I just need to make it through those and then I can have the whole offseason to heal properly."

His lips flatten into a line like he's used to battling stubborn athletes. "It's obviously up to your coach, but some patients I've treated for the same type of fracture have resumed playing once they're able to grip their hockey stick."

"Okay. I'm sure I can do that. It's only one broken finger."

"Remember, every pass you make or receive sends vibrations up the stick and straight into your hand. Even if they let you play before the injury heals, it might be too uncomfortable and severely affect your play."

"Nothing will be as uncomfortable as not playing." Setting the ice back in place hurts so much, I suck in a breath. Trying to turn my wince into a smile doesn't work, from the unimpressed brow raise he gives me. "Can I go?"

Patting my shoulder, he sighs. "Keep the splint dry. I'll communicate with the coaches and trainers as soon as they're available. Your hand may continue to swell tonight, so don't forget to ice it, and sleep with it elevated."

"Okay. Thanks, doc." I stand, cradling my hand to my chest, and make my way to the dressing room.

The noise level is high with teammates fired up about the crap officiating and incensed over what happened to Rhys. A quick scan of the room shows that he isn't back yet.

Walking through the room, I try to smile and act like I'm not in pain. Half the guys I pass say they would've stepped in and taken out Chad if I hadn't. That makes me feel good, and even better when they clap me on the back and tell me I did a good job defending our teammate.

I get to my stall, allowing myself to drop the smile.

Tossing his jersey into the laundry bin, Morgan eyes my splint. "What's the word?"

"Broken finger. I'm fine. No big deal." I sit, then untie my laces one-handed, but loosening them so I can get my skates off is a slow-going, frustrating process.

He crouches in front of me. "I got it."

Sighing, I lean my head against the side of the stall. "Thanks."

Skates off, he helps me out of my socks and shin guards, then sits beside me and leans in, lowering his voice. "Is it actually no big deal?"

"I don't know, but I hope so."

The hotel's hallways are quiet. It's late, and we're all exhausted. Most of us are on this floor. Doors open and close as guys head into their rooms. I walk with Rhys, wheeling my suitcase.

He didn't say much when we boarded the bus after the game to go to the airport. And he didn't talk much during the flight to LA. He's in pain and spent most of the flight with headphones on and his eyes closed. The doctor said he doesn't have a concussion, but he messed up his shoulder, and has deep bruising in his back. I want my fist to meet Chad's face all over again.

I get his room unlocked and open, and let him enter first. Going to my room feels unnecessary. I want to hold him and reassure myself he's okay. And at this point, after what happened tonight, I don't care if anyone saw me enter his room with my stuff. "Can I get you anything? Water? A snack?"

"No thanks."

I set my suitcase beside his. "Do you need help taking your clothes off?"

He sinks onto the side of the bed, and sits, elbows on his knees, cradling his head in his hands.

Worry flairs, and I move closer, unsure if I should sit with him or run and get someone to help. "Rhys?"

"You got hurt tonight. I don't like seeing you hurt." The level of exhaustion in his voice matches the way I feel. But there's another layer too, something harder that sounds a lot like anger.

"I'm fine."

His fingers rub circles at his temples. "You're not fine. You have a broken bone. And bruises from his fists hitting you. You shouldn't have fought him."

The words are like a slap, sharp and stinging. "He hurt you."

He raises his head. Blue eyes burn with pain and anger. "He hurt you too. I watched the replay of the fight."

"Then you know I hurt him more."

"I don't care." His volume doubles, and he winces, grabbing his head. "That's not your job. We have people for that."

My stomach aches like someone kicked it. "Maybe I overreacted because it was you, but come on. Teammates stand up for each other." I don't know what I expected. Maybe a thank you and a kiss? Certainly not this. "You were appreciative when I stood with you in Anaheim."

"I was also right there to keep you safe." He lowers his hands, one to his lap and one to massage his shoulder. "Look, I appreciate you standing up for me tonight. But you're too important to the team to go seeking out fights. We need you to be a scoring presence on the ice, not sitting in a penalty box, or tossed from a game, or worst of all, kept out of the lineup due to an injury."

I'm annoyed and hurt and embarrassed. With each word, my stomach sinks and something inside me shrivels. How dare he chastise me like I'm some rookie. "I wasn't seeking out a fight for the hell of it. I went after someone who deliberately hurt my boyfriend." My voice wobbles, and I hate that. "Tell me right now that you wouldn't have done the same if he'd gone after me."

His eyes flash and he lifts his hand toward me. "Sage…"

"See? Then what's with the bullshit double standard?"

He doesn't say anything. The longer we stay here like this, the more my eyes prick and my face burns.

I back away, banging into the closet, and that vibration sends fresh pain into my hand. Muttering a curse, I cradle it to my chest. "You don't have to worry about me being kept out of the game. The doctor said I had to be able to grip a hockey stick. With enough tape wrapped around the top of my stick, I can do it."

Wincing like breathing is painful, he attempts to stand, but the struggle is too much or not worth the pain because he gives up trying. "You shouldn't play. If the fracture doesn't heal correctly, you'll make things worse. You could need surgery and lose months of playing time."

"It's a broken finger." But I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince more, me or him.

He levels me with a look. "It's your index. Not your pinky. Not having it will throw you off."

I cross my arms over my chest, puffing up, though everything in me wants to crumble. "I'm gonna do whatever I can to play. Just like anyone else would. Almost all the guys are injured somehow. You want them to not play, too?"

The air is thick, a wall of tension between us. We've reached an impasse. Of course, the point is moot if I can't grip a damn hockey stick. That worry is getting louder and louder, overtaking my brain, and I can't talk about it, not to him. Not now. I need to get out of here before I explode.

Shifting on the bed, he hisses a breath and his features twist in pain. He fists the bedding, but a moan breaks free. "I can't fight with you right now. My head's fucking pounding. Feels like a truck ran me over."

Concern and worry for him compounds my anxiety. "You should rest. I'm gonna go."

I can't stay, not like this, and he doesn't ask me to. Which hurts worse than my throbbing finger, because I know he's as angry as I am.

I turn off the light by the door, leaving only the one by the bed on for him. Suitcase in hand, I slip out of his room. Maxim went into the one next door when we arrived. I knock there.

It opens, and he stands before me in gray sweats, a sleep mask pushed into his hair. "Sage?"

"Can you stay with Rhys or look in on him? He's in a lot of pain. I'm afraid to leave him alone."

His brows draw together. "You aren't staying?"

I shake my head.

He cuffs me on the shoulder. "I'll handle it. Are you okay?"

I'm too tired to pretend. "No."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He's Rhys's friend. I don't want to put him in the middle. "No. Thanks for taking care of him. See you tomorrow."

"Night, buddy."

The throbbing pain in my hand flares, stealing my breath. The cold pack the trainer gave me on the plane is warm now. I need pain meds, more ice, and my friends. I head to my room, texting Morgan and Remy.

They show up with ice from the machine and Remy brings his stash of candy. We sit on the bed together, and for the first time in hours, I can let my guard down. The urge to cry overwhelms me.

Remy sits behind me, rubbing my shoulders. "Tell us what happened."

"Rhys thinks I shouldn't have fought Chad. Apparently, there are people for that."

"Please," Morgan scoffs. He lays a fresh ice pack on my hand, then hands me pain pills and a bottle of water. "Maxim fought someone the other night. So did Quinn. So did I, last week. Sometimes, you gotta step in and handle business yourself. Rhys knows that, he's done it himself. A ton of guys were ready to go after Chad."

I eat the cookie Remy insists I take, then follow it with the meds and water. Maybe the sugar will help. "He also thinks I shouldn't play until my finger heals."

The shoulder massage pauses for a second. I catch Morgan looking over my shoulder at Remy, then Remy asks, " Can you play?"

Panic rushes over me and the urge to run riots under my skin. "I don't know. I can't move it at all. My hand's swollen worse than it was earlier. I messed up what I'm actually good for, which is scoring, and Rhys is frustrated with me for that. If I can't play, I can't help the team. I have to try."

Morgan kneels in front of me, placing his hands on my knees. "Hey, breathe. Come on, slow in and then slow out."

Deep breaths aren't helping. "I'm worried about Rhys. He's in a lot of pain. And I don't like fighting with him. It's making me feel sick." I press my hand to my stomach. "I also just realized I won't be able to play guitar until this heals. That sucks."

Remy moves the massage to my neck and the base of my skull. "We've got you."

The worries roll out of me. "I'm scared I'll lose my spot on the team. What if the fracture doesn't heal right, and my hand is messed up for months? What if Rhys and I can't be together on the same team? I can't go through fights like this every time he disagrees with a decision I've made."

"You've been playing together for a few months, and this is the first time that's happened. I think his emotions are higher because Chad was involved." The mattress dips as Morgan shifts to sit beside me. "But you know that if any of those things happen, you still have us. We'd take care of you."

I lean into him and into Remy. "Thank you. Maybe we can spend the rest of the night figuring out how much stick tape I'll need."

I need to be able to play. I have to prove to Rhys and the team that I'm able to handle anything that comes my way.