Chapter 57: Unexpected Setback

Marcus's POV

Pain has a way of sneaking up on you when you’re not looking for it.

Practice feels normal at first—fast, brutal, focused. The ice is familiar beneath my skates, the sting of cold air in my lungs grounding me as I push through drills. A week has passed since my father showed up uninvited and detonated everything in his wake, and I’ve been skating like I’m trying to outrun the echo of his words.

Europe. Toronto. Anna.

I bury it all under speed and precision.

“Again!” Coach shouts, blowing the whistle.

I take the turn too tight. It’s sharp—sudden, bright, wrong. My left knee screams. Not the dull burn of overuse or the ache of fatigue. This is different. This is a lightning strike that shoots up my leg and makes my breath catch mid-stride. I stumble for half a second, heart lurching into my throat. Then I straighten. I keep skating.

I tell myself it’s nothing. A tweak. A bad angle. My body testing me the way it always does when I push too hard. I’ve played through worse—bruises, sprains, cracked ribs. Pain is part of the deal. So I grit my teeth and force my leg to obey.

The drill ends, and I coast to the boards, chest heaving. My knee throbs now, a deep, pulsing ache that makes me shift my weight unconsciously to my right side.

Damian skates over, lifting his helmet. “You good?”

I don’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

He narrows his eyes. “You sure?”

I flash him a quick grin. “Just tired.”

He studies me for another second, then nods. “Scout week nerves.”

“Something like that,” I mutter.

He pushes off, satisfied—for now.

The rest of practice is a blur of stubborn determination. Every pivot sends a jolt through my knee. Every stop makes it flare hotter. I adjust my stride without thinking, compensating, lying to my own body the same way I lied to Damian. By the time Coach blows the final whistle, my leg feels heavy. Unreliable.

I skate off last.

The locker room is loud with laughter and clanging gear, the normal post-practice chaos washing over me. I move through it on autopilot, peeling off my equipment slowly, carefully. When Damian and Peter started arguing about music, I took the opportunity to grab my towel.

“I’m showering first,” I say casually.

Peter smirks. “Scared we’ll steal all the hot water?”

“Terrified,” I reply, forcing a smile.

The showers are empty, steam already fogging the mirrors. I stand under the spray longer than usual, letting the heat pound against my shoulders, trying to loosen the tension wound tight inside me. But my knee doesn’t relax. If anything, it feels worse.

When I turn the water off and wrap the towel around my waist, I lower myself onto the bench slowly, jaw clenched. I run my fingers along my left knee, pressing gently around the joint.

The swelling is subtle—but it’s there. My stomach drops. I bend it carefully.

There’s resistance. A tightness that wasn’t there before. And beneath it, a deep, ominous ache that makes my chest feel hollow.

Something isn’t right. I sit there for a long moment, staring at the tiled floor, my heartbeat loud in my ears. Fear creeps in quietly, insidiously. Not panic—panic is loud. This is colder. Heavier. I reach for my phone.

Anna’s name is already at the top of my messages.

Hey, I’m running late. Practice went long. Rain check on the café? I’m sorry.

My thumb hovers over the screen. I hate lying to her. Even small ones. But I can’t have her worrying yet—not until I know.

Of course. Are you okay? she replies almost immediately.

I swallow.

Yeah. Just exhausted. I’ll call you later, okay?

Three dots appear. Then disappear.

Okay. Rest. I love you.

The words hit me square in the chest.

I love you too, I type back, hands shaking slightly.

I finish dressing slowly, movements deliberate. When I step back into the locker room, most of the guys are gone. Damian is tying his shoes, Peter leaning against a locker scrolling through his phone.

“I’m heading out,” I say.

Damian looks up. “You sure you’re good to drive?”

“Yeah,” I lie again.

Peter eyes me. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat. “Just… gonna get checked out.”

That gets Damian’s attention. “Checked out?”

“Just precautionary,” I say quickly. “Don’t tell Coach yet.”

Damian hesitates, then nods. “Text me.”

“I will.”

I don’t trust my voice enough to say more.

The clinic smells like antiseptic and coffee gone cold. I sit on the edge of the exam table, gown crinkling beneath my hands, my knee elevated and wrapped lightly. The adrenaline from practice has long since worn off, leaving behind a deep, persistent ache that pulses with every heartbeat.

The doctor—a calm, middle-aged man with kind eyes—moves carefully, testing range of motion, applying pressure.

“Tell me when it hurts,” he says.

“It hurts now,” I reply flatly.

He hums, thoughtful. “Any popping? Instability?”

“Yes,” I admit.

He straightens slowly, removing his gloves. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I’m concerned.”

My chest tightens. “Concerned how?”

“We’ll need imaging to be sure,” he says. “An MRI.”

I nod, jaw tight. “Okay.”

The scan takes forever. Or maybe that’s just how it feels when you’re lying still with your thoughts spiraling. I think about the scout. About Europe. About my father’s smug certainty. When the doctor returns, his expression is serious. I sit up straighter.

“Marcus,” he says gently, “you’ve sustained a significant injury to your left knee.”

My hands curl into fists. “Define significant.”

He meets my gaze. “Torn ligament. Likely the ACL. Did you have any rough collisions in a game or practice?”

The room tilts. I remember the last game. Colliding with Peter.

“How bad?” I ask, voice hoarse.

“It’s not something you can play through,” he says carefully. “You’ll need surgery. And rehabilitation.”

“How long?” I press.

He exhales slowly. “Six to nine months, realistically.”

The words land like a body check I never saw coming. Six to nine months. Scout season. Draft talks. Everything I’ve been working toward. Gone. Or at least… delayed.

“I’m sorry,” he adds. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

I nod numbly. “Can I… walk?”

“Yes,” he says. “With support. But no skating. Not until we have a plan.”

I swing my legs off the table carefully, the weight of it all settling heavy in my chest. As I leave the clinic, crutches under my arms, night has already fallen. The parking lot is quiet, streetlights casting long shadows across the asphalt. I sit in my car for a long time without turning the key. My phone buzzes again.

Anna.

Just checking in. Everything okay?

I close my eyes.

This time, I don’t lie.

I’m injured, I type slowly. Knee. I’m on my way home. Can we talk later?

There’s a pause. Then:

I’m here. Whatever it is, I’m here.

The words break something open in me. I start the car. Bad news has a way of rewriting everything in an instant. The future I’d been fighting for feels suddenly fragile, uncertain, like ice cracking beneath my feet.