Injury Timeout

The hit came out of nowhere.

One second I had the puck.

Next, the world flipped.

A shoulder slammed into my ribs. My helmet cracked against the ice. The air rushed out of my lungs so fast I couldn’t even scream.

The arena went silent.

Or maybe that was just my ears ringing.

I tried to move.

Nothing happened.

Pain bloomed sharp and deep along my side.

Above me, bright lights blurred together.

“Get up.”

I didn’t know if the voice was mine or someone else’s.

Skates scraped close.

A whistle blew.

Then I heard it.

“Don’t touch her!”

Blake.

His voice cut through everything.

Angry. Raw. Not controlled.

I forced my eyes open.

He was already shoving the guy who hit me.

Gloves were off. Sticks scattered.

“Back up!” a ref shouted.

Blake didn’t listen.

He grabbed the front of the other player’s jersey and slammed him into the boards.

“You think that was clean?” he yelled.

It wasn’t.

I knew it wasn’t.

But fights didn’t fix broken ribs.

“Blake,” I tried to say.

It came out weak.

He didn’t hear me.

Two teammates pulled him back before it got worse.

His chest was rising hard, eyes wild.

Then he looked down at me.

And everything changed.

Panic.

Pure and open.

He dropped to his knees on the ice beside me.

“Hey,” he said, voice shaking. “Hey, look at me.”

I tried to breathe.

It hurt.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

He let out a harsh breath. “Don’t do that.”

The trainer skated over, sliding to a stop.

“Don’t move her,” Blake snapped.

The trainer shot him a look. “I need space.”

Blake didn’t move.

Not until the ref tugged his arm.

“Let them work.”

He shifted back an inch.

Barely.

I hated that he looked that scared.

Goal at this moment?

Stay conscious. Don’t let him see how bad it feels.

“Can you feel your legs?” the trainer asked.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Any dizziness?”

“Just… hurts.”

Blake’s hand hovered over mine like he wanted to grab it but didn’t dare.

“We’ve got you,” the trainer said. “On three, we’re going to sit you up.”

“Wait,” Blake cut in.

Everyone looked at him.

His mask was gone.

No captain is calm. No cool control.

Just fear.

“She hit her head,” he said. “Check her head again.”

The trainer’s tone softened. “We are.”

I swallowed.

“Blake,” I said, louder this time.

His eyes snapped to mine.

“I’m okay.”

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t lie to me.”

The words were too loaded.

Too personal.

The trainer and medic helped me sit up slowly.

Pain shot through my ribs so sharp I gasped.

Blake flinched like he felt it too.

“That’s it,” he muttered. “She’s done. She’s not going back out there.”

“I can finish the period,” I argued weakly.

He stared at me like I’d lost my mind.

“You’re not finishing anything.”

Conflict flared even now.

“I’m not fragile,” I said.

“You’re not invincible either.”

The stretcher came out.

The crowd started clapping softly.

I hated that sound.

It felt like goodbye.

“I can skate,” I insisted.

The trainer shook his head. “Protocol.”

Blake stood as they helped me onto it.

His hands finally closed around mine.

Warm. Tight.

He didn’t care who saw.

Emotional trigger: vulnerability.

“You scared me,” he said under his breath.

Something in my chest hurt more than my ribs.

“Good,” I tried to joke. “Keeps you on your toes.”

His eyes flashed.

“This isn’t funny.”

I saw it then.

How close he was to losing control.

They lifted me carefully.

As they carried me off the ice, I didn’t look at the crowd.

I looked at him.

He walked beside the stretcher all the way down the tunnel.

Ref yelled behind him. The coach called his name.

He ignored them.

In the hallway, away from cameras, he grabbed the medic’s arm.

“Is she going to be okay?”

“We don’t know yet,” the medic said calmly. “Could be bruised ribs. Could be more.”

Blake’s face went pale.

“I’m right here,” I said.

He stepped closer again, brushing hair away from my face.

“You remember what day it is?” he asked softly.

I frowned. “Game six.”

“And?”

I knew what he meant.

Our anniversary.

The one we pretended didn’t exist anymore.

I held his gaze.

“Don’t,” I warned.

He swallowed.

Almost slips about their past.

“You promised me you’d stop taking hits like that,” he said.

“That was years ago.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” I insisted. “We’re not”

I cut myself off.

Not what?

Not together?

Not in love?

The medic cleared his throat. “We need to take her for scans.”

Blake hesitated.

Then nodded stiffly.

“I’ll be there.”

“You can’t come into imaging,” the medic replied.

Blake’s jaw flexed.

“I’ll wait,” he said.

They rolled me away.

I watched him stand there in the hallway, fists clenched at his sides.

The door swung shut between us.

The medical room felt too bright.

They slid me onto another table.

“Deep breath,” someone instructed.

I tried.

Pain flared again.

Tears slipped out without permission.

Not just from pain.

From the look on his face.

From the way he said you scared me like it was more than tonight.

Minutes blurred.

Finally, the doctor came in.

“Good news,” he said. “No fracture. Severe bruising. Possible mild concussion. You’re out for the rest of the game. Maybe a few more.”

Relief flooded me.

Then dread.

Blake would blame himself.

I pushed myself upright slowly.

“I want to go back to the bench.”

The doctor frowned. “Observation first.”

“Five minutes.”

He studied me, then nodded once. “Five.”

When they wheeled me back toward the rink, I could hear the game still going.

Louder now.

Tied.

The door opened.

Blake turned immediately.

His eyes scanned me from head to toe.

“You’re upright,” he breathed.

“I told you I’m okay.”

He stepped close, lowering his voice.

“You don’t get to scare me like that.”

“I didn’t plan it.”

His hands hovered near my waist again, unsure where it was safe to touch.

“You think I care about the score right now?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said honestly.

He shook his head.

“I care about you.”

The words settled between us.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

A teammate skated over. “We need you back on the ice, Blake.”

He didn’t look away from me.

“I’m fine,” I said quietly. “Go.”

He hesitated.

“If they hit you like that again”

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Blake.”

His name came out softer than I meant.

He leaned closer.

“If I lost you”

He stopped himself.

The slip hung there.

If I lost you.

Not if the team lost you.

Not if the league lost you.

I reached for his hand.

“Then don’t lose me,” I said.

A simple answer to a complicated fear.

The coach shouted from the bench.

Blake straightened.

Mask sliding back into place.

Captain again.

But not fully.

Not with the way his thumb brushed over my knuckles before he let go.

“I’m not done with this conversation,” he said.

“Neither am I.”

He skated back onto the ice.

I sat on the bench, wrapped in a blanket, watching him move.

Every hit he took made me tense.

Every time he glanced toward me, I felt it.

Masks drop under fear.

We had built walls for years.

Tonight, one hit cracked them wide open.

The buzzer for

the next period sounded.

The score is still tied.

Everything on the line.

He lined up for the face-off.

Just before the puck dropped, he looked at me again.

Not at Coach.

Not in the crowd.

At me.

And I realized something terrifying.

The real injury tonight wasn’t my ribs.

It was whatever was left of the distance between us.

Because if one more hit could make him almost confess

What would happen if the next one was worse?