Chapter 185: You Look Like Hell

​My Reid... My Alpha... My Everything...

I didn’t say the words aloud—I couldn’t risk my voice shattering completely—but I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my forehead harder into the crook of his shoulder, letting the desperate, silent prayer echo through every fiber of my being.

Reid was the one who had dragged me out of my cold, sterile isolation. He was the one who had shattered the ten-year vault I built around my heart, teaching me to feel, to lean, and to ask for the impossible things I had convinced myself I could never have.

​At this point... if you leave me, I just might die. You taught me to open up and ask for things that are impossible to reach... so take responsibility.

​As if he could hear the frantic, silent plea screaming inside my heart, Reid’s arms tightened around me until there wasn’t a single breath of air left between us.

His large hand gently stroked the back of my head, his fingers threading through my damp hair as his scent—rich, warm, and entirely possessive—washed over me, burying the lingering ghosts of Fidora’s toxicity.

​"I’m not going anywhere, Kain," Reid rasped against my ear, his voice thick and vibrating with a promise that felt as solid as the ice beneath our skates. "Never. You’re stuck with me."

​A tiny, wet exhale slipped past my lips—halfway between a sob and a breathless, exhausted laugh. I leaned my full weight into him, letting the rigid Captain Evans slip away for just a few precious minutes in the quiet dark of the penthouse foyer.

​For ten years, I had bled to prove I could stand alone. But tonight, wrapped in the arms of the Alpha who held my shattered world together, I finally let myself be carried completely.

The next morning...

​Walking into the Serpent’s training facility the following day was one of the hardest things I had ever done in my professional career.

​Physically, I was in agony. Every step sent a sharp, throbbing ache up my lower back and hips, a constant, pulse-like reminder of the life taking root inside my system.

The adhesive patches dug tightly into the skin over my neck, shoulder and collarbone, hidden beneath my high-collared compression shirt, while the high-dose anti-inflammatories barely kept the deep, underlying nausea from crawling up my throat.

​Mentally, I was walking a tightrope over a blazing fire.

​The moment I pushed through the double doors of the locker room, the usual loud, boisterous pre-practice chatter died down to a dull murmur.

​My eyes immediately scanned the room. In the far corner, lacing up their skates, were Russo and Miller.

​My heart stalled in my chest. Beside me, I felt Reid’s frame tense, his shoulders squaring up as his Alpha instincts begged him to step in front of me.

​Russo looked up. Our eyes locked across the room.

​For two agonizing seconds, the silence stretched. Then, Russo gave a sharp, subtle nod of his chin—a silent salute of respect. He nudged Miller, who looked up, offered a tight-lipped smile, and immediately went back to taping his stick.

They knew the truth, but it looked to me like they were taking my secret to their graves. Thankfully.

​I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding, my shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as I limped my way toward my locker.

​"Evans!" Coach Devin barked, storming out of his office with a clipboard tucked under his arm. "You look like hell. I thought I told you to go to the hospital for that head hit."

​"No concussion, Coach," I lied smoothly, forcing my voice to project with my usual stern authority as I leaned against my stall to take the weight off my trembling legs. "Medical cleared my head yesterday. Just severe dehydration and a minor whiplash. But the impact jammed my lower back and hip flexor. I’m stiff."

​Coach Devin frowned, his eyes dropping to my rigid posture. "How bad is it? We drop the puck against the Vipers in three days, Evans."

​"I’ll be ready," I promised, looking him dead in the eye. "But I need off-ice physical therapy for the next two days. Deep tissue work, heat therapy, and light stretching. No full-contact drills until Thursday morning’s skate. Doctors orders."

​Devin let out a frustrated grunt, but he didn’t question it. In the playoffs, players skated through torn ligaments and broken bones; a jammed hip was standard collateral damage.

​"Fine," Devin snapped. "Get to the physio room. McCoy, you’re leading the first line drills today. I want you running those offensive plays until you puke."

​"Got it, Coach," Reid said smoothly.

​As the team began to file out of the locker room toward the rink, Reid hung back for a fraction of a second. He walked past my stall, his broad shoulder brushing heavily against mine—a grounding, silent anchor amidst the rising storm.

​"See you in the physio room, Captain," Reid murmured under his breath, his grey eyes flashing with a possessive, fiercely protective vow.

​"Don’t slack on the ice, McCoy," I muttered back, a small, genuine smirk finally breaking through my mask.

"Wouldn’t dream of it." He sneered.

​As I watched him walk out into the bright lights of the rink, the familiar chill of the arena air hitting my face. I took a deep, steadying breath.

My career was burning. My body was broken. But as long as Reid was standing beside me, I was going to skate through the fire until the very last second.

After resting my hips for a while, I began to hear the cheers and loud yelling of my teammates smashing it in the morning drill.

Yeah, they were literally smashing it. I just hope they don’t smash themselves in the process.

A soft chuckle escaped my lips and I leaned my head back, staring at the ceiling. I really have come a long way. I can’t believe that after a while, after this season is over, I would never be able to stand on that ice again and play the puck.

My knees shook and my hand gripped into it through the fabric of my trousers.

I try to be fine, act like I’ll get by it since there’s no other option for me anyway, but it’s not that easy. My shoulders rack, my teeth clatter and my eyes sting with tears I don’t want to let fall.

I’m a mess, in and outside my own thoughts. But I can’t even afford to dwell on it when others are watching because I want them to believe I’m as fine as I’ll ever be.

I took in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

"Alright, it’s time to go to the physiotherapy room and work on these legs so I can play." I whispered to myself and stood up.