Chapter 91
Chapter 91
KAIA
The air in the arena was suffocating as we entered the final five minutes of the third period. My hands gripped the railing so tightly my knuckles had gone white, and around me, every single spectator had risen to their feet. The scoreboard glared back at us: 3-3.
Sierra Crest had shown terrifying resilience, clawing their way back through two expertly executed wing cuts that had left our defense scrambling. The crowd's roar was deafening, but underneath it all, I could hear the thundering of my own heartbeat.
Everything changed in the last three minutes.
Leo Rossi, their star forward, cut through our blue line like lightning. His skates carved precision lines in the ice as he deked past two defenders, and then—without any warning—he wound up for what looked like the shot of his life. The crack of his stick against the puck echoed through the arena like gunfire.
"Look out!" The scream tore from my throat, but it was instantly swallowed by the sound of rubber meeting flesh.
Adrien was directly in the puck's path. Without hesitation, without even trying to get his stick in position, he twisted his body and threw his left forearm directly into the trajectory of that black rubber bullet.
The impact was sickening.
Thwack.
It was the kind of sound that made your teeth ache—bone against hard rubber at sixty miles per hour. Adrien spun from the force, his body rolling twice across the ice before coming to a stop. He didn't get up immediately. Instead, he curled into himself, his left hand clawing at the ice, fingernails scraping white streaks into the surface.
"No, no, no," I whispered, pressing forward against the railing.
The team medics rushed onto the ice, but Adrien was already pushing them away with his right hand. Through his helmet's face guard, I could see him grit his teeth and let out a low, primal growl. When he finally struggled to his feet, his left arm hung unnaturally at his side, but his eyes—those steel-blue eyes—were locked on the game clock.
01:00.
One minute left.
ADRIEN
That was the sound of bone cracking.
The moment the puck struck my forearm, I heard it clearly—the sharp, crystalline snap of my left ulna giving way. Pain exploded through my arm like molten metal being poured directly into my bone marrow, white-hot and absolutely merciless.
But I couldn't leave. Not now.
The outcome of this game was crucial for our league standings. If I went down now, if I showed weakness, the Lions' momentum would shatter like glass. I could see it in my teammates' faces—the fear, the uncertainty. They needed to see me standing.
Coach pulled the goalie and sent out our full offensive lineup. Callum and I lined up at center ice one more time. For the first time all season, I didn't see mockery in his eyes. Instead, there was something cold and calculating, like he was reassessing everything he thought he knew about me.
His gaze dropped to my trembling left hand, and he let out a sharp laugh. "Levant, if you're too hurt to hold your stick properly, crawl back to the bench. Don't drag me down in the final minute."
I tightened my grip with my right hand, my voice coming out like sandpaper. "Worry about your own coverage, Callum. As long as I'm still breathing, the shooting's none of your concern."
He tapped his stick against the ice, his expression turning predatory. "Then don't die out here. I'm not cleaning up your mess. I'll clear the path—you better make it count."
00:42. The whistle blew.
I managed to gain control of the puck with my right hand, but Leo Rossi was bearing down on me, clearly trying to exploit my injured left side. Every movement sent shards of agony shooting up my arm, but I forced myself to focus. I thought about our conversation by the ocean, about Kaia holding the team pin and telling me she believed in me. That warmth, that trust—it was the only thing keeping me conscious through the pain.
00:15. Callum roared as he charged the last defender. It was almost suicidal—he threw his entire body into the hit, using his shoulder to brutally clear the way. A shooting lane opened up in front of me.
"Shoot!" he bellowed.
Five seconds left on the clock. I carried the puck into the left circle.
For this shot—the shot that would decide everything—I needed to use a slap shot. That meant forcing my fractured arm to absorb the explosive stress of the follow-through. I closed my eyes and, in the split second before I brought the stick down, I converted every ounce of fear and pain into pure, focused rage.
BOOM!
The agony that shot through my left arm nearly knocked me unconscious, but I felt it—the perfect flex of the stick against the ice, the sweet spot connecting with the puck.
The black disc screamed toward the net in a perfect diagonal line, grazing the goalie's helmet and slamming into the upper left corner with a metallic clang that rang through the arena like a bell.
00:01. The red goal light blazed to life, and the horn sounded our victory.
I lost my balance completely, crashing into the end boards. The secondary impact on my left arm sent darkness creeping in around the edges of my vision, but I could hear it—the eruption of cheers, the stomping of feet, the pure joy of victory.
My teammates swarmed around me, but Callum reached me first. He didn't offer his hand to help me up. Instead, he looked down at my pale, sweat-streaked face, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes.
"Lucky bastard, Levant," he said roughly, then turned and skated toward the celebrating crowd. It was the last time he would look at me with that familiar disdain.
---
The post-game handshake line felt endless. When Leo Rossi reached me, his eyes went immediately to my completely limp, slightly misshapen left arm. The respect in his expression was unmistakable.
"Hell of a shot, Levant." He gripped my right hand firmly. "But that arm... get to a hospital. Now."
I managed a weak smile but didn't trust myself to speak.
The last player in line was Callum.
"Looks like... you'll have the starting position for the rest of the season." I nodded toward my useless left arm, sweat still beading on my forehead.
Callum stopped. He was quiet for a moment, then reached out and took my stick—the one I could barely hold anymore. His voice was still cold, but there was something different underneath it.
"Don't get the wrong idea. I just don't want to see a good stick get dropped by a cripple." He paused, studying my face. "Heal up properly, Levant. When that arm works again, I'll be waiting to take this back from you on the ice."
I pulled off my helmet, and through the sea of blue and gold celebrating around us, I saw her—Kaia, fighting her way through the crowd toward the players' tunnel, her eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made everything else fade away.
My arm was fractured. Six weeks minimum recovery time. But watching her push through that crowd, seeing the way she looked at me like I was something worth running toward—I'd take that trade any day of the week.