Chapter 197 Collapse

Chapter 197 Collapse
Lena’s POV

Championship morning arrived with a strange kind of quiet. The city had spent days talking about nothing except hockey, and every television station counted down to the opening faceoff. Every newspaper predicted who would score the winning goal. Inside our apartment, the silence felt heavier than all the noise outside.

Ryan stood in the kitchen making coffee; he wore a grey training shirt and sweatpants. His sling was gone now, and his shoulder had improved enough for light movement, but his surgeon had been clear. He was not ready for contact.

I watched him lift the coffee mug with his left hand instead of his right. Old habits had changed because of the injury.

He noticed me watching. “What?”

“You are still protecting your shoulder,” I whispered.

He glanced down. “I guess I am.”

“There is nothing wrong with that,” I whispered.

“I know," he smiled. “I just do not want fear to become another habit.”

I walked over and wrapped my arms around his waist. “You are allowed to be careful.”

He rested his forehead against mine. “I am lucky you keep reminding me.”

A knock interrupted us. Ryan opened the door to find Coach Hartman standing outside.

“I hope I am not too early," Coach said.

“You never are,” Ryan replied.

Coach stepped inside. He looked more worn out than I had ever seen him. “I wanted to speak with both of you before we leave for the arena.”

Ryan nodded toward the living room. “What happened?”

Coach sat down but did not immediately answer. “The medical staff cleared you to skate during warm-ups.”

Ryan looked surprised. “They changed their decision?”

“They did," Coach leaned forward. “They still have not cleared you for full game contact.”

“I understand,” Ryan said.

“They said you may participate only if there is an emergency.” Coach said.

Ryan frowned. “What qualifies as an emergency?”

Coach hesitated. “If we lose another defenceman," Ryan said.

The room fell quiet.

Ryan looked at me before turning back to Coach. “I never wanted my teammates to get hurt.”

“I know," Coach sighed. “But we have already lost two players in this series.”

Ryan looked down at his hands. “If they need me…”

Coach interrupted gently. “I am asking you to promise me something.”

Ryan met his eyes. “What?”

“If you step onto that ice today, you listen to the doctors before you listen to your pride.” Coach said.

Ryan answered without hesitation. “I promise.”

I wanted to believe him; I truly did.

By the third period, the championship had become everything people expected. The score was tied. Every shift carried the weight of an entire season. I stood near the tunnel with the medical staff while Ryan watched from the bench area, ready in case the team needed him.

Then it happened. One of the starting defencemen crashed hard into the boards; he stayed down. The arena became silent, and the team doctor hurried onto the ice. Coach Hartman looked toward Ryan, and their eyes met across the bench. Ryan did not move, not yet.

The doctor helped the injured player toward the tunnel, and as soon as they reached the bench, the doctor shook his head.

“He cannot return.” The doctor said.

Coach looked at Ryan. “We are down another defenceman."

Ryan’s jaw tightened.

The doctor stepped in front of him. “You have not played a full-contact game since surgery.”

“I know,” Ryan responded.

“You are still healing.” The doctor said.

“I know,” Ryan replied.

“If you go out there, you accept the risk.” The doctor said.

Ryan looked toward the ice. His teammates waited for the decision, and he looked back at me. I could see the question in his eyes; he would not ignore my opinion. I walked closer until I stood beside him.

“You promised Coach,” I muttered.

“I remember.” He said.

“You also promised me that you would not throw away your future for one game,” I muttered.

He took a slow breath. “I did.”

Coach placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “We need a leader.”

Ryan nodded. “I can still be one.”

Coach looked confused. “From here?”

Ryan smiled. “I have been leading from here for weeks.”

Before anyone could answer, another player skated to the bench.

“Coach!” He pointed toward the ice. “Our captain is needed.”

Coach looked at Ryan one last time. “Your decision.”

Ryan slowly reached for his helmet. My heart began to pound, and the doctor closed his eyes for a brief moment. Then he handed Ryan his medical brace. Minutes later, the crowd erupted as Ryan stepped onto the ice. The arena shook with applause.

I tried to smile. Instead, I whispered a silent prayer. The first few shifts went well. Ryan avoided heavy contact; he moved the puck quickly and relied on positioning instead of strength. Then, with less than three minutes remaining, an opposing forward chased a loose puck into the corner.

Ryan reached it first. The two players collided shoulder to shoulder; time seemed to stop. Ryan’s skate caught the edge of the boards, and his balance disappeared. He crashed onto the ice; he did not get up. The arena fell completely silent, and I was already running toward him before anyone called my name.

I reached the boards just as the referee blew the whistle; the sound echoed through the arena, and every player stopped skating. Ryan remained on the ice; he had rolled onto his side, but he had not tried to stand, and the team doctor sprinted past me with two athletic trainers.

“Give us some room,” he called.

I forced myself to stop. Everything inside me wanted to climb over the boards and reach Ryan. Instead, I stayed where I was. I was his partner and a medical professional. If I let panic take over, I would only make things worse.

The doctor knelt beside Ryan. “Ryan, can you hear me?”

Ryan nodded once. “I can.”

“Do not move yet.” The doctor said.

“I was not planning to,” Ryan muttered.

Despite the pain in his voice, he still managed a weak smile. That was Ryan; he tried to make everyone else feel better before he thought about himself.

The trainer carefully supported his head. “Tell me where it hurts.”

“My shoulder.” He said.

“The repaired one?” The trainer.

“Yes,” Ryan replied.

The doctor gently touched Ryan’s arm. “Can you feel this?”

“Yes.” He replied.

“What about your fingers?” The doctor asked.

Ryan slowly moved them. “I can feel everything.”

I released a breath I had not realised I was holding.

The doctor looked toward me. “Lena.”

I stepped closer.

“How long was the impact?” The doctor asked.

“Hard enough to twist him into the boards,” I replied.

The doctor nodded. “That matches what I saw.”

Ryan looked at me. “I am sorry.”

I frowned. “For what?”

“I broke my promise.” He said.

I shook my head immediately. “You kept it.”

He looked confused.

“You listened to the medical staff,” I whispered. “You did not hide your pain, and you stopped when your body stopped.” Tears burnt behind my eyes. “I am not angry with you.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “I just wanted to help.”

“I know,” I whispered.

Coach Hartman reached us a moment later. He crouched beside Ryan. “You gave us everything you could.”

Ryan looked at him. “It was not enough.”

Coach shook his head firmly. “You are wrong.” His voice carried the certainty of someone who had coached for decades. “You reminded every player on this bench what courage looks like.”

Ryan swallowed. “I wanted to finish.”

Coach placed a hand gently on Ryan’s healthy shoulder. “Sometimes leadership means knowing when someone else has to.”

The medical team carefully helped Ryan into a seated position. He winced but stayed calm.

The doctor looked at him closely. “I do not think anything has dislocated.”

Ryan nodded. “It feels different from before.”

“That is encouraging.” The doctor looked at me. “We still need imaging after the game.”

“I agree,” Ryan replied.

The crowd began applauding. It started with a few fans near the glass, then another section joined them. Within seconds, the entire arena was standing. They were not cheering a goal; they were cheering Ryan. He looked around in surprise, and his eyes filled with emotion.

“They are clapping for me.” He whispered.

Coach smiled. “They are thanking you.”

Ryan looked toward his teammates. Every player on the bench stood with their sticks raised against the boards.

Ethan caught Ryan’s eye. He tapped the captain’s “C” stitched across his warm-up jacket before pointing back at Ryan. The message was simple.

You are still our captain.

Ryan laughed quietly through the emotion. “I guess they are not getting rid of me that easily.”

I smiled through my tears. “They never wanted to.”

The trainers helped Ryan to his feet, and the entire arena applauded again as he slowly skated toward the bench. Halfway there, he stopped, and he turned back toward the ice. The championship trophy sat on a table near centre ice, waiting for the final whistle. Ryan looked at it for only a second, then he looked at his teammates. He raised one fist into the air, and the team answered with the same gesture, and the game resumed.

Ryan sat beside me on the bench with an ice pack resting against his shoulder. Neither of us spoke; we watched together. Less than two minutes were remaining; the score was still tied. Then the arena lights flickered once, only for a second, and most people probably thought it was nothing, but Detective Harper did not. She stood abruptly near the tunnel and pressed a hand to her earpiece. Her expression changed instantly, and she looked toward us.

Then she shouted over the crowd. “Lock every exit.”

My heart sank; something had gone terribly wrong.