Chapter 192: I’m skating today

​The drive back to the penthouse was quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the engine and the steady, comforting press of Reid’s hand holding mine across the center console.

The dark storm of the league, the high-risk reality waiting inside my body, and the impending war against the Vipers were all still waiting for us on the horizon—but inside the truck, surrounded by his cool pine scent, the world felt entirely manageable.

​When we stepped into the penthouse, Reid immediately carried the groceries into the kitchen, unpacking the heavy items while I washed my hands at the sink and tied an apron around my waist.

​"Alright, McCoy," I said, turning around and leaning against the counter with my arms crossed over my chest, channeling every drop of my authority. "Your job is prep duty. Wash the basil, chop the garlic, and don’t touch the knives unless I tell you how."

​Reid raised his hands in mock surrender, a rare, brilliant grin breaking across his sharp features. "Whatever you say, Captain."

​For the next hour, the kitchen filled with the warm, rich scents of searing steak, fresh garlic, and simmering marinara.

Reid stayed right beside me the entire time—chopping vegetables under my strict directions, reaching for the high cabinets so I wouldn’t have to stretch my lower back, and occasionally pressing his chest against my back to rest his chin on my shoulder just to breathe in my scent.

​When the food was finally ready, we sat together at the kitchen island, eating in a quiet, deeply grounding intimacy that felt miles away from the cold, sterile walls of the clinic or the loud, roaring arena.

​After we finished and cleaned the counter together, Reid took my hand and led me straight toward the master bedroom.

​"Bedtime, Cap," Reid ordered gently, pulling back the heavy comforter. "You’re on your feet again, your body’s loose, and Devin expects a full-contact monster on the ice tomorrow morning."

​"I’m not a monster," I murmured, though I didn’t resist as I slid beneath the cool sheets, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of relief as the plush mattress supported my hips.

​"You are on the ice," Reid rasped, climbing in beside me and immediately pulling my body tight against his chest.

His thick arm wrapped securely around my waist, his palm resting flat, warm, and possessive over my lower stomach beneath the covers. He buried his face into the notch of my neck, his rich pine scent wrapping around me like a heavy, impenetrable shield. "And tomorrow, we show Devin that Captain Evans is ready to take his line back."

​I closed my eyes, lacing my fingers through his over my stomach, feeling the slow, powerful beat of his heart against my back.

Thursday morning came with the sharp, merciless bite of pre-dawn chill.

​When my alarm buzzed at 5:30 AM, I didn’t wake up to a sudden spike of agony or a violent wave of nausea.

For the first time in nearly a week, my body woke up ready. The dull ache in my lumbar spine had settled into a faint, manageable stiffness, and my hip flexors yielded without protest as I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

​Beside me, Reid stirred instantly, his grey eyes snapping open before the alarm could even finish its first chime.

​"How is it?" he rasped out, his voice rough with sleep as his hand immediately reached out, his warm palm pressing flat against my lower stomach through my shirt—his new, instinctual habit before he even fully opened his eyes.

​"I’m good, Reid," I said, my voice smooth, firm, and entirely devoid of the raspy exhaustion that had plagued me since the clinic. I placed my hand over his, giving his knuckles a firm squeeze. "The inflammation is down. I’m skating today."

​A quiet, profound relief washed over his sharp features, followed immediately by the return of that hyper-focused Alpha intensity.

​Twenty minutes later, we were in the bathroom finishing our morning prep. I stood in front of the mirror, carefully smoothing two fresh, medical-grade adhesive patches over the right side of my neck and collarbone.

Reid stood right behind me, his broad hands coming up to assist, ensuring the thick compression collar of my under-armor shirt covered every millimeter of the adhesive. His thumbs lingered against the side of my throat, checking my pulse and scent with quiet, possessive vigilance.

​"Blockers are holding," Reid murmured against my hair, his chest pressed firmly against my back. "No leak. You sweet orchid."

​"Let me go, McCoy," I muttered, though a faint smirk tugged at my lips as I met his eyes in the mirror. "We have a morning skate to catch."

​The air inside the Serpent’s training facility was frigid and heavy with anticipation. The moment Reid and I pushed through the heavy double doors of the locker room, the ambient noise died down significantly.

​Every head turned toward my stall.

​The entire team—rookies, veterans, line mates—knew today was the decision point. If Captain Evans couldn’t take full contact during Thursday morning’s skate, the entire line setup for Game 2 against the Vipers would crumble, and Coach Devin would be forced to reconfigure the offensive line without his anchor.

​I didn’t say a word. I sat down at my stall, unzipped my gear bag, and began pulling on my padding with steady, practiced efficiency. Beside me, Reid laced up his skates in quiet, imposing silence, his massive frame acting as an impenetrable wall between me and any prying eyes.

​Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Russo and Miller watching us from across the room. Russo gave his stick tape one final, tight wrap, met my gaze, and offered that same quiet, unreadable nod of solidarity. They weren’t asking questions. They were holding the line.

​Clack!

​Coach Devin’s office door slammed open, and the veteran coach stormed out, clipboard in hand, his sharp eyes locking onto me like a hawk scouting prey.

​"Evans!" Devin barked, stepping right up to my stall. He looked me up and down, taking in my upright posture and the calm, unwavering coldness in my eyes. "Nate gave you the green light for light contact, but I need to know from you. Are you putting on those skates, or am I calling up a reserve center for tomorrow night?"

​I pulled my gloves onto my hands, snapped the wrist straps tight, and stood up to my full height. The floorboards creaked under my weight as I grabbed my stick, looking Devin dead in the eyes with every single drop of Captain Evans locked into my spine.

​"I’m taking the first line, Coach," I said, my voice echoing clearly through the silent locker room. "Tell the boys to gear up. We’ve got a game to win."

​A collective, audible exhale swept through the locker room, followed by the immediate, loud clatter of sticks tapping against the floorboards and shouts of encouragement from the veterans.

​Devin smirked, a sharp, savage glint flashing in his eyes. "About damn time. Out on the ice. Five minutes!"

​Stepping onto the ice was like breathing for the first time after drowning.

​The cold arena air hit my face, sharp and electric, chasing away the faint lingering ghosts of the clinic, the doctor’s terrifying warnings, and Fidora’s cruel sneer. The moment my steel blades bit into the freshly Zamboni’d ice, my body remembered ten years of muscle memory. The stiffness in my hips melted under the rush of adrenaline as I glided across the red line, taking a few warmup laps.

​Reid skated right beside my left shoulder—a silent, towering shadow.

​"Listen up!" Devin’s whistle blew, bringing the team into a tight huddle around the center board. "We’re running the 1-3-1 aggressive zone play we drilled yesterday! Evans, you’re centering the first line. McCoy on your right wing, Russo on the left. We execute the breakout pass through the left lane, and I want full-speed execution! No holding back!"

​"Got it, Coach!" the team echoed.

​We took our positions on the ice. The referee dropped the puck, and the rink erupted into chaos.

​The familiar, thunderous roar of blades cutting ice filled my ears. Russo retrieved the puck along the left boards, taking a heavy shoulder-check from a defensive line player. Without missing a beat, Russo flipped the puck cross-ice toward the open lane.

​I dug my blades in, accelerating hard. For a fraction of a second, my brain screamed a warning about my lower back—but my body moved faster. I caught the pass smoothly on the backhand, cutting sharp toward the net.

​A defensive player came charging in from my right, angling for a heavy, mid-ice body check.

​Before the defenseman could even close the distance, a massive shape exploded into my peripheral vision.

​CRASH!

​Reid stepped into the lane like a runaway freight train, slamming his broad shoulder directly into the oncoming defender, driving him violently back against the plexiglass boards with a thunderous BOOM that rattled the entire glass enclosure.

​The glass flexed, the defenseman hit the ice, and the path to the net cleared completely.

​I didn’t waste a millisecond. I snapped my wrists back, driving a lethal wrist-shot straight into the top-right corner of the net.

​PING!

​The puck struck the top bar and slammed into the back of the mesh. Goal.

​"YES! That’s it!" Devin yelled from the bench, blowing his whistle frantically as the rest of the first line cheered. "That’s the execution! Perfect timing, McCoy!"

​I skated back toward the blue line, my chest heaving, the adrenaline surging through my veins like pure liquid fire. Reid turned around, gliding toward me with a dark, triumphant smirk cut across his sharp jawline. His grey eyes burned with a unhinged, fiercely protective light.

​He skated past me, his gloved hand coming up to give my shoulder a heavy, grounding slap—a silent, intense communication that only the two of us understood.

​I told you I’d protect your line.

​I looked back at him, my lips curving into a sharp, lethal smirk of my own as I tapped my stick against the ice.

Sure, babe. I thought back.

We were going to win this.

The next day, it was Game 2 night.