Chapter 3 CRUTCHED TRACK QUEEN

Chapter 3 CRUTCHED TRACK QUEEN
RYAN

It only took two more weeks of a semi-confinement regime, only leaving the dorm for lectures and supervised bathroom trips for me to finally snap. And here I thought the wheelchair was the worst part—funny, really.

Turns out, the real torture is being held back. I've always been the kind of kid who needed motion—running, jumping, swimming, skating, climbing things I probably shouldn't.

So yeah, being red shirted is slowly dismantling my soul. And before you ask—yes, the girls are keeping tabs. Like hawks. Just in case I decide to pull a runaway bride moment and vanish mid-rehab.

In fact, the whole track team, Marcy —the tram's PT— and coach Harrison are all monitoring me somehow. Some reaching out by messages and others stopping by to show their support.

Emma called it rest.

Rae called it self-preservation.

I called it what it was—being caged in my own fucked up body.

Missing the indoors season was a certainty the moment I left the hospital room—hell, it was a certainty the minute I entered it with the paramedics—but it messed with me more than I care to admit it; which is the main reason I crutched my sorry ass to the one place I probably wasn't ready for, wearing a sweatshirt two sizes too big, tight cycling shorts, and a sports bra that didn't even belong to me.

And I guess I also sported the kind of look that said please don't stare at the broken bird.

Boston University's athletic gym is everything I remembered: bright lights, turf floors, Olympic bars, hydration stations and a sea of muscle, sweat, and barely suppressed ego. This place smells like ambition and trophies.

And now? I'm carrying the container being filled pinch by pinch with pity. Because the heads turn the second I hobble in, like I'm some ghost story they weren't expecting to see again.

I catch eyes I recognize.

Anna Boudreaux from the women's hockey team—her eyes lingering too long on my leg, braces and crutches.

Two of the swimmers I used to overlap with in prehab.

A lacrosse guy I might have gone on a coffee date with last year before ghosting him for a 400m PR.

And then... there are the Hockey Guys. Terriers' corner. Clustered by the racks like it's their natural habitat. Loud, obnoxiously good-looking, smelling faintly of sweat, Axe, and entitlement.

Hughes, of course, is in the middle. Left winger. Smooth talker. Rae's childhood friend and on-again-off-again whatever. Their history is a mystery I've stopped trying to decode. But I know one thing: if he sees me, Rae will know I left the dorm. Worse, that I waited for her to go to class and Ems to go to the lab so I could leave, unassisted. And she will murder me. Both of them will.

Standing beside Zach is Mason Cross, their brooding silent tank of a defenseman and Ty's glued twin brother from another mother, currently balancing a full barbell on his shoulders like it's a goddamn pool noodle.

Speaking of the man himself, talking to them with animated arms and a wide grin is Tyler Alvarez—or just Ty, like we call him. The team's goalie, known for the cutest dimples, peculiar sense of humour and interesting cooking skills.

And then there's Sean Callahan. Captain. Bruins-drafted dobberman. Focused. Quiet. Terrifyingly efficient. The kind of guy who probably tracks stats like other people count steps. We've spoken a couple dozen times perhaps, I see him around campus all the time, and Rae and I have shared classes with the man over the semesters.

I know his type.

He doesn't miss reps.

Doesn't lose focus.

And never, ever breaks.

Which is why it's deeply unfair that the second his eyes flick to mine—over the top of his protein shaker, no less—they stay. Just a second too long, and I immediately regret everything.

The oversized hoodie. The limp. The fact that I have to drag myself across this arena of bodies like a wounded gazelle.

I look away first. Because of course I do.

Thank God the PT section is tucked into a quieter corner of the training center, wedged between resistance bands and rehab machines like it's been exiled from the land of the functional.

I settle onto a padded bench, awkwardly trying to reposition my leg without letting out a full-on death groan. But the burn is real. And so is the prickle of sweat already forming at my hairline.

This wasn't supposed to be a thing. Just a quick upper-body circuit. Cables. Maybe some band work. A couple of seated rows to convince myself I still have muscle somewhere in my spine. I need my body to remember I exist. I need me to remember I exist.

But of course, because the universe enjoys my suffering, I feel eyes on me.

Multiple eyes.

One pair in particular.

I don't even need to look up. I know who's watching.

Of course Sean freaking Callahan is here. Hockey's golden boy with the bruised knuckles and the stupidly symmetrical face. I can feel him watching me between sets, not in a creeper way.

Just... in that quiet, annoyingly perceptive 'I've clocked everything in this room and categorized it by threat level' way he always has. Like I'm another stat line.

I scowl and pull the resistance band harder than I should.

My arms start burning way too fast. Pathetic.

God, I'm weaker than I thought.

Get it together, Scarlett Ryan McKenna.

You didn't claw your way out of bed and into these shorts just to get vaporized by Callahan's awareness and your own deteriorating triceps.

Three more weeks. Three more weeks and I'll have a check-up appointment with Dr. Patel. He'll see what a model patient I've been, and maybe—just maybe—I'll get cleared for light track drills.

I'm clinging to that hope with everything I've got.

Gritting my teeth, I push through the next set. I will not cry in front of Hockey Jesus. I will not—

"Yo, Ry."

I blink. Definitely not Callahan's voice.

Ty appears in my peripheral vision like a gentle ghost, all calm energy and quiet concern. His curls are still damp from his workout, his cheeks flushed, and he's holding a water bottle out toward me like a peace offering.

"Need help with those cables?" he asks, nodding toward the tangled mess of bands near my bench.

I glance down, realizing the resistance bands are looped around themselves in a knot that looks vaguely like an ancient curse. "I'm fine," I say automatically. "Just... testing my patience."

"Right," Ty says, smiling faintly. "Well, from what I've heard, yours ranks somewhere between nonexistent and unstable."

Before I can retort, Sean appears beside him, towel draped around his neck, already halfway through a sip of water. "He's not wrong."

I narrow my eyes. "How long have you two been hovering?"

Ty shrugs. "We weren't. Just passing through. Thought we'd say hi. Offer help before you start assaulting gym equipment."

Sean leans against the adjacent machine, all lazy posture and low-effort perfection. "Also, Ty's been making bets about whether you'd ever come out of that dorm again."

Ty gives him a look. "I said I thought it was good she finally made it out of the cave Emma and Rae have been guarding like a pair of golden retrievers on Adderall."

"Charming," I mutter.

But the words catch in my throat because he doesn't know.

Ty has no idea that I didn't finally come out—I barely made it. That it took me three damn weeks to even think about facing the gym. Not because I didn't want to sweat. Not because I don't miss the routine. But because every time I imagined walking in here—stiff, limping, obviously broken—I saw the looks. The pity. The distance.

Not that anyone really seemed to notice. But I did.

I noticed every single day I wasn't here.

I open my mouth, but before I can say anything remotely graceful or self-protective, a familiar voice cuts through the air like a high-speed puck.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to rejoin the land of the glutes."

Hughes. Freaking brilliant.

I turn slowly, already bracing for it.

He's got that grin on—sharp, smug, and infuriatingly handsome in a 'you definitely flirt with TSA agents for fun' kind of way. His Boston-U hoodie is soaked through at the collar, and he's bouncing a puck off his palm like it's his brain-to-mouth filter.

"Does Rae know you're out here?" he asks, tilting his head. "Or did you escape through a window while she was refilling your Gatorade?"

I give him a look that could curdle milk. "Why? You reporting back to the mothership?"

Zach clicks his tongue. "Nah, just surprised. Figured they had you microchipped."

Ty smirks. "Don't joke. Emma probably has tried."

Sean chuckles under his breath, and I shoot him a glare, but it bounces right off that stupid, relaxed, annoyingly broad exterior. He's clearly not invested in the banter like Zach is—he is more a friend-of-a-friend than friend. Yet he is here. Observing. Always clocking.

"I'm here to work out," I say finally, trying to keep my voice even. "Not to be interrogated like I faked my death."

Zach raises his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, no judgment. I just thought maybe you ascended to PT heaven. Or joined a cult."

"If I did, I'd start with sacrificing you."

"Oof," Ty says with a grin. "And she's back, folks."

Sean pushes off the machine, nodding toward the cables behind me. "Want help setting that up?"

I hesitate.

It's not a big deal. A cable machine. Mid-weight. Two-arm grip. Basic stuff. Stuff I used to do without thinking. But now, even standing from this bench feels like launching a rocket with a faulty engine.

I hate that I need help. I hate it even more that I might say yes.

"I got it," I say finally, but my voice lacks conviction. "Eventually."

Sean doesn't argue. Just nods like he hears what I'm not saying.

"You want me to spot you once it's set?" Ty offers, more gently.

"Yeah," I say, voice softer than I want it to be. "Thanks."

They don't push. Don't coddle. And somehow that's worse. Because they're just nice. And nice, when you're holding yourself together with caffeine and rage, is like someone handing you a blanket right before the tears hit.

Zach lingers longer than necessary, chewing his gum like he's waiting for a punchline. "So... what's the plan? You back for good, or just here to make us all feel bad about skipping core day?"

I smile sweetly. "I'm here to out-bench you."

Sean chokes on a laugh. Ty full-on grins.

Zach looks like Christmas came early. "Can't wait."

As the guys drift back to their stations—Zach tossing a wink over his shoulder, Ty giving me a reassuring clap on the shoulder, and Sean offering one last look that feels like a challenge—I finally let out the breath I've been holding.

It wasn't perfect. I still feel shaky and exposed. But I'm here.

For now, that's enough.

Even if my ego's bruised and my limbs feel like glass.

Even if the only thing holding me upright is spite.

Even if my heart beats a little too fast every time Sean looks at me like he sees me.

It's enough.

Until it isn't.

〰️〰️〰️

I'm tucked into the far corner of the PT zone, away from the cable machines and the high-traffic dumbbell bros. Here, it's just rehab benches, stretchy bands, and one lone machine I've claimed as mine for the day: the seated row.

It's not dramatic. It won't impress anyone. But it burns like hell when done right, and right now that's all I'm looking for.

I've got my brace stabilized against the mat, my crutches propped awkwardly beside me, and I'm pulling slow, controlled reps with a grip that shakes more than I'd like to admit.

Pull. Release. Reset. Try not to let your jaw clench like you're bracing for an ambush.

I can't afford to care who's watching.

Except I do.

Which is exactly why I picked the bench facing the wall—because out of sight feels closer to control.

I count backward from ten. I get to four.

And that's when I hear her.

Not her voice.

Her footsteps. They hit the rubber flooring like warning bells. Precise. Rapid. Laced with fury.

I don't even have to look up to know it's Rae. She doesn't stop at the mat's edge. She walks straight into my space like she owns the air I'm breathing. "What the hell is this, McKenna?" she hisses.

I pause mid-row, my fingers still curled around the grip. "Upper body. Slow, controlled, supervised by literally no one. You're welcome to leave your Yelp review."

She blinks. "Are you trying to be funny right now?"

"Always." I let the handle go with a soft clank and reach for my towel. My hands are shaking. Not from the exercise. Not just.

"You're in a brace. You're sitting crooked. And you're alone."

"Wow, you are very good at PT bingo," I mutter. "What gave it away, Rae? The fact that I didn't sign a permission slip?"
She crosses her arms. "You told me you were doing resistance bands when Em was back from the lab. That was the deal."

"Things changed."

"Did your pain threshold change too? Did Dr. Patel magically sign off on weight training by yourself without telling you—or me?"

"Rae," I say, trying to sound reasonable, "I needed to move. Just... something that feels real. Something that hurts in the right way."

Her eyes soften for a fraction of a second. But only a fraction. Then: "You still should've told me or Ems."

Before I can answer, footsteps and low voices drift into earshot. Sean. Zach. Ty. Lurking like they were trying to give us a second before intervening. Of course they followed her.

I shoot a glare over Rae's shoulder. Zach raises his hands like, don't look at me. Ty offers a small, apologetic smile. And Sean stays at the edge of the mat, leaning against a nearby wall.

Watching. Quiet, and unreadable. The kind of calm that feels both infuriating and steadying.

"I'm fine," I say. Not to Rae. Not to the boys. Maybe to myself.

She hears it anyway. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone, Ry."

I say what she wants to hear. "You're right. I don't."

She exhales. "Then why does it look like you're trying to?"

I don't answer. I'm too tired. Too sore. Too raw.

She turns to the guys, jerking her chin toward the hallway. "We're leaving."

Zach's brow lifts. "What, no group debrief?"

"Not unless you want me to turn this mat into a crime scene."

Ty gently tugs Sean back by the sleeve. "Let's give them space."

They back off, fading into gym chatter and scuffed rubber flooring.

I'm left in the silence.

Rae grabs my bag, slings it over her shoulder, and hands me my crutches. "C'mon. Let's go before you decide to try deadlifts."

I huff a laugh, throat tight. "Not even I'm that dumb."

"Debatable," she mutters, helping me up.

We don't talk on the walk out.

Not until we're past the exit, the air outside sharp and cool, cutting through sweat and silence.