Chapter 221: My Identity

I stared at the screen, my vision blurring as the realization struck me like a physical blow.

​All night, through the brutal hits, the sweat, and the bloody war on the ice, I had been focused on his dark grey eyes and his fierce determination. But now, as the broadcast camera zoomed in tight on his broad chest, the bold white numerals stitched onto the front of his blue jersey stood out as clear as day.

​Fourteen.

​He hadn’t been wearing his own number seven. Sometime before stepping onto the team bus for the away rink, Reid had quietly pulled my jersey over his shoulder pads, wearing my identity, as if trying to tell me that even though I wasn’t on the ice, my presence was right there in the final battle.

​He hadn’t just played for me—he had carried my name to the peak of the hockey world, lifting the Stanley Cup as Captain Kain Evans in everything but name.

​I sank back against my stack of pillows, a ragged, sobbing laugh tearing out of my throat as tears rained down my face.

My fingers tangled tightly into the blanket over my stomach, my chest heaving with an emotion so deep, so overwhelming, that it completely shattered the last pieces of grief lingering in my soul.

​"Look at him, Kain..." my mother whispered softly, leaning over to gently wipe the tears from my temples, her own voice thick with emotion. "That’s your number, isn’t it?"

​"That crazy idiot..." I choked out, a wet, breathless laugh spilling from my lips as I covered my eyes with the back of my hand. "He’s such an idiot..."

​On the screen, Reid lowered his hand from his chest, his grey eyes staring straight through the camera lens, holding a silent, private conversation with me across thousands of miles. He didn’t care about the fine he’d probably get from the League for wearing an unauthorized jersey number. He didn’t care about the sports anchors frantically talking about the switch.

​He had promised to give me the Stanley Cup, and he had done it while wrapped in the very fabric of who I was.

​My father stood up silently from his chair, walking over to the foot of my bed. He didn’t say a word, but he reached out and rested his heavy, warm hand over my ankle, giving it a single, firm squeeze of quiet solidarity before looking back at the TV screen.

By the time the broadcast faded into post-game interviews and sports analysts furiously debating the number fourteen on Reid’s chest, my family slowly began to pack up their things. The emotional high of the night had given way to a heavy, comfortable exhaustion.

​"We’ll be back early tomorrow, Kain," my mother said softly, kissing my forehead before pulling my blanket up around my shoulders.

​One by one, my siblings filed out, offering soft smiles and quiet goodnights. My father was the last to leave, pausing at the door to give me one final, steady look that spoke volumes before gently pulling it shut.

Marina turned down the room lights, leaving only the dim, warm glow of the corner lamp before stepping out into the hallway.

​Alone in the quiet room, I let my eyes drift shut. My body was completely drained, but my heart was lighter than it had been in weeks. The steady, rhythmic hum of the heart monitor lulled me toward sleep, the image of fourteen stitched over a blue sweater burning warmly behind my eyelids.

​I fell into a deep, peaceful fog—until the quiet shift of the mattress pulled me halfway back to consciousness.

​A sudden, overwhelming wave of frozen pine washed over the bed, thick, warm, and instantly recognizable. I felt a broad, solid arm slide carefully beneath my back, while another wrapped tenderly over my waist, pulling me back against a warm chest.

​"I did it, honey," a deep, gravelly voice whispered right against the shell of my ear, rough with exhaustion and raw emotion. "I won the Stanley Cup."

​My mind was too heavy with sleep to process the impossibility of him being here, so far from the away arena, so soon after the horn. I just assumed my mind was playing a sweet, vivid trick on me.

​"You did it..." I murmured into the dark, burying my face instinctively into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent that meant safety. "I love you, Reid..."

​A soft, tender breath pressed against my pulse point, and his arm tightened around my waist, holding me close against his chest as the dark, peaceful void of sleep pulled me under completely.

​When I opened my eyes the next morning, the sunlight was streaming through the high blinds of the hospital suite.

​I blinked against the light, my brain slowly waking up from the deepest sleep I’d had since my leg snapped on the ice. I reached up to rub the lingering tiredness from my eyes, resting my weight on my elbows as I looked around the quiet room.

​Sitting right on top of the wooden desk near the window, catching the morning sun in a blinding, glorious reflection, was the massive, gleaming silver frame of the Stanley Cup.

​It hadn’t been a dream. But... ​How the hell did he get here so fast?

​The away rink was a three-hour flight across two time zones. The game had ended late, followed by the trophy presentation, media rounds, and locker room chaos. It should have been impossible for him to be lying beside my bed at sunrise.

​My eyes drifted from the Stanley Cup down to the sofa, settling on his upper body—and my breath hitched.

​Propped up on the couch cushions, bound tight in a rigid medical sling, was his left arm. The very shoulder that had taken that sickening, bone-crushing slam against the glass during overtime.

​I let out a soft, stunned breath, my fingers tightening in his hand. As if sensing my movement, Reid’s eyelashes fluttered open. He blinked heavily against the morning sunlight, his dark grey eyes cloudy with sheer exhaustion before focusing entirely on me.

​"Kain..." he rasped, his voice thick and scratchy from sleep.

​"Reid," I whispered, my voice cracking as I looked between his slung arm and my own heavy leg cast resting beneath the blankets. "How... how are you even here so fast? And how is your arm?"

​Reid let out a low, tired chuckle that vibrated softly in his chest. He didn’t answer right away. He just pulled his upper body up, using his uninjured right arm to carefully shift himself off the couch until he was sitting on the edge of my mattress.

​"I skipped the team charter," Reid murmured, reaching up to gently cup my jaw, his thumb smoothing over my cheekbone. "Devin wanted me on the team plane for the media tour, but... I told him I had a flight to catch. Borrowed a private jet from my father’s company. I wasn’t going to wait until tonight to bring you the Cup."

​He glanced down at the black sling binding his shoulder, then looked over at my shattered left leg, a faint, lopsided smirk touching his lips despite the dark circles under his eyes.

​"Looks like we’re matching now, Cap," Reid whispered, his gaze shifting back up to meet mine, warm, tender, and completely devoted. "One leg and one arm. Between the two of us, we make a whole body."