Chapter 5: I can take care of myself
The locker room air was thick with the smell of old sweat, sharp antiseptic, and nervous energy. Hunter sat on the hard wooden bench, still trying to banish the phantom sensation of Adam’s hands on his skin. The memory was a brand, fresh and aching. He’d avoided looking at Adam since they’d arrived, focusing instead on the intricate ritual of taping his socks.
Coach Vance stood in the center of the room, his clipboard a shield against the tension. “Alright, listen up,” his voice bounced off the tile walls.
Hunter nodded along with the rest of the team, the familiar pre-game fire beginning to burn away the other, more confusing heat inside him.
“Starting lineup is set,” Vance continued, his eyes scanning the room. “Hunter, Adam, Tom, Steve—you’re first line. Mike, you’re on the second, stay ready on the bench.”
A low murmur rippled through the room. Hunter’s head snapped up. Mike, a solid, quiet defenseman with three years on the team, looked down at his gloves, his jaw working.
“Bench?” Hunter’s voice cut through the murmur, sharper than he intended. He stood up, his height making him tower even in the crowded space. “Why?”
Vance didn’t flinch. “It’s a tactical decision. Need more speed against their top line.”
“That’s not fair,” Hunter said, the words boiling out. He took a step forward. “This is Mike’s last game. He’s leaving the country after this. You won’t even give him one minute?”
“Hunter, forget it,” Mike muttered, his voice thick.
“No.” Hunter didn’t look away from Vance. “I can’t let you miss your last game without getting to play. Not after everything you’ve done for this team.”
Vance’s face hardened. “The decision’s made. Go warm up.”
The silence that followed Coach Vance’s command was brittle, charged with the static of impending rebellion. Hunter felt every eye in the room on him, a physical pressure against his skin. He took a slow breath, the air tasting of metal and resolved anger.
“Mike, you’re in the first line,” Hunter said, his voice clear and absolute in the hush. “I’ll sit on the bench.”
Mike looked at him, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning hope. The rest of the team froze, tapes half-pulled, laces dangling.
“What?” Coach Vance hissed, his voice climbing. He took a step forward, clipboard clenched white-knuckled.
Hunter stood his ground, meeting the coach’s furious gaze without flinching. “It’s Mike’s last game. He’s in first line, or I don’t play.” He let the ultimatum hang, simple and non-negotiable.
The coach’s face blotched with rage. He looked ready to bite back, to bench them both, his authority visibly warring with the stark reality of losing his captain. His eyes flicked to Mike’s stricken, hopeful face, then back to Hunter’s unyielding stare. With a sound of disgust, he turned and stormed out, the locker room door slamming shut with a crack that reverberated in their chests.
Hunter breathed out, a long, shaky release. The rigid tension in his shoulders bled away, replaced by a quiet certainty. Mike reached over and tapped his shoulder pad, his touch gentle.
“You didn’t have to do that, man,” Mike said, his voice thick.
“I did,” Hunter said, offering a small, genuine smile. “You’re playing your last game.”
Mike smiled wide then, a flash of pure, thankful joy that erased the earlier hurt. The room exhaled collectively, and the usual pre-game chatter resumed, now laced with a new, buzzing respect.
They filed out of the locker room, the roar of the crowd seeping through the concrete corridors like a distant storm. Hunter took his place on the bench, He yanked his helmet on, the world narrowing to the pane of his visor.
On the ice, the starting line glided to their positions. Mike, wearing Hunter’s usual spot, looked over. He gave a single, firm nod just before the puck dropped. A silent thanks.
The game erupted into its familiar chaotic poetry. Hunter watched, his knuckles white where they gripped the bench. Adam was a streak of controlled fury, a magnet for the puck and for Hunter’s gaze. Every shift of his muscles, every sharp turn, was a vicious callback Hunter couldn’t escape.
He saw Adam take a hard check into the boards right in front of him, the impact shuddering through the plexiglass. Adam pushed back, gloved hands shoving the opposing player, and for a second his green eyes found Hunter’s through two layers of glass. They were blazing, not with game intensity, but with that same dark, knowing challenge from the bedroom.
A penalty was called, a skirmish brewing. Coach Vance’s voice, still taut with anger, barked his name. “Black! You’re up. Kill this penalty.
“MIKE, TAKE IT!” Hunter yelled, half-rising from the bench.
The coach shot to his feet, his mouth opening to scream for a pass, but the words died. He didn’t intervene. Every player on the ice seemed to freeze for a split second, watching Mike line it up. Mike looked over at the bench, found Hunter, and gave a single, solid nod.
He shot top right.
The puck soared, a blur of black, just past the goalie’s desperately outstretched glove. It rattled the crossbar and dropped into the net. The red light ignited, washing the ice in a bloody glow.
Mike pumped his fist in the air, a raw, joyous yell tearing from his throat. First score on the board. He raced over to the home team box, skating right up to the opening where Hunter stood.
“You’re up, Black,” Mike said, still gasping for breath, his eyes shining.
“You sure? I can jump in after—” Hunter started, already pushing the gate open.
Mike cut him off, gripping Hunter’s jersey. “You’ve done enough, Hunter. Thank you. I got my shot.” He smiled, wide and real. They tapped sticks, a quick clack of carbon fiber, and swapped places.
Hunter exploded onto the ice, the crowd’s energy funneling straight into his veins. On his second shift, he stole the puck at the neutral zone, a quick stick lift that sent it skittering free. He charged down the left wing, defensemen backing in, their forms blurry through his visor.
He made a quick, hard pass to the slot, right onto the tape of Adam’s stick. Adam didn’t waste a second. He didn’t settle the puck. He just leaned into a one-timer, a vicious swing that sent the puck screaming into the back of the net before the goalie could even slide across. The net bulged, a perfect submission.
They didn’t celebrate together. Hunter just glided past, offering a glove. Adam tapped it, once, their eyes meeting for a fraction of a second too long before breaking away. The score was 2-0.
Albine South answered back five minutes into the second, a lucky bounce that trickled through a maze of legs. 2-1. The game tightened into a grinding, physical war in the neutral zone. Every hit echoed. Every shift was a battle.
With under a minute left in the third, they had to stop Albine South from tying it. The face-off was in their own end. Adam leaned in, muscles taut, and won the puck cleanly back. He charged down the wing, but two defenders closed the lane to the net, taking away his angle.
He wheeled, looking for an outlet. Hunter broke free up the middle, a flash of open ice. Adam sent a hard, flat pass right to his tape.
Noah, an Albine South defenseman, read the play. He came across the ice at full speed, a freight train with no intention of playing the puck. He left his feet, driving his shoulder directly into Hunter’s chest.
The impact was a sickening crunch of plastic. Hunter’s skates left the ice. The world tilted, the bright lights of the arena swimming into a streaked mess.
The world tilted, the bright lights of the arena swimming into a streaked mess as Hunter slammed onto the ice. The pain was a white-hot delayed reaction, a sickening wave that started in his chest and ignited a second later in his left knee. A sharp, internal pop echoed through his bones, a sound more felt than heard.
He came down hard on the ice, his knee buckling outward at a hideous angle. A guttural groan ripped from his throat, raw and entirely involuntary. He curled onto his side, gloved hands clawing at the joint, as if he could push the agony back inside.
“Hunter!”
Adam’s voice sliced through the ringing in his ears. Hunter blinked, his vision clearing just enough to see Adam skating toward the Albine South defenseman, Noah, who was slowly getting to his feet.
Noah held up his hands, a mocking gesture of innocence. “It was just an accident,” he said, the smile visible even through his cage.
Adam didn’t slow down. He didn’t say a word. He just closed the final few feet of ice, his movements terrifyingly efficient. He dropped his gloves, the heavy mitts thudding on the frozen surface. He clenched his fist, the tight leather of his hockey glove making it a solid, dangerous weight.
He punched Noah square in the jaw. The crack of the impact was shockingly loud.
“You did that on purpose!” Adam yelled, his voice a raw, ragged thing. He stood over Noah, who was now sprawled and dazed, his green eyes burning with a fury that had nothing to do with hockey tactics.
The umpire’s whistle shrieked, a frantic, useless sound. Adam went to strike again, his body coiled for another violent release.
Steve and Tom rushed over from the Lions’ bench, crossing the ice in frantic strides. They grabbed Adam from behind, wrapping their arms around his chest and hauling him backward. “Adam, stop! It’s done!” Steve yelled, struggling against Adam’s thrashing strength.
On the ice, Hunter tried to sit up. The pain in his knee was a living entity, gnawing and electric. He got one skate under him, pressed up, and immediately collapsed with a choked cry, his leg refusing to hold any weight at all.
“Don’t move, hey, don’t move.” Mike was there suddenly, kneeling beside him, his face pale under his helmet. He looked from Hunter’s ruined knee to the fracas with Adam, his expression hardening. “Medic’s coming. Let’s get you up.”
With a careful, strong grip, Mike hoisted Hunter up, taking most of his weight. Hunter gritted his teeth, a hiss of air escaping as his left leg dangled uselessly. Together, they hobbled toward the players’ bench, a slow, agonizing procession.
Hunter glanced back once. Adam was being dragged toward the penalty box, still shouting, eyes locked on Hunter’s retreating form. The crowd was a deafening roar of confusion and bloodlust.
Mike pushed open the gate to the sick bay, a small, stark room smelling of bleach and anxiety. He helped lower Hunter onto the padded table. “Thanks, Mike,” Hunter managed, his voice tight.
“Don’t thank me,” Mike said. He gave Hunter’s shoulder a final squeeze, his gratitude for the first line now twisted into something guilty and grim. He turned and left, the door swinging shut, muting the chaos outside.
Alone, Hunter leaned back, staring at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling. Every heartbeat sent a fresh, sickening throb through his knee.
The team medic, a wiry guy named Carl with tired eyes, prodded the swollen joint with clinical detachment. “Can you bend this for me? Even a little?”
Hunter tried. A lightning bolt of pain shot up his thigh, forcing a sharp gasp through his clenched teeth. He shook his head, sweat dripping from his brow onto the crisp white paper covering the table.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Carl muttered, peeling off his gloves. “Ligament damage for sure. You’re done for the next three months.” The words weren’t cruel, just fact. They landed in Hunter’s gut with a final, hollow weight.
The door burst open before Hunter could process it. Jane rushed in, her eyes wide and instantly glossy, with Leo right behind her, a hand on her shoulder. The roar of the game became a distant hum before the door swung shut again, sealing them in the sterile quiet.
“My poor Hunter,” Jane breathed, her hands fluttering near his face, afraid to touch.
“It’s just a knee, Mum,” Hunter said, but his voice was thin, strained.
“We should cancel our vacation and take care of you,” she said, turning to Leo with a look of determined worry.
“No,” Hunter insisted, more forcefully. “You two go. I’ll be fine. It’s just… rest.”
Leo looked at him, then at Jane’s fraught expression. A pragmatic solution dawned on him. “Adam,” he said, turning as the door opened again. “Can you take care of Hunter while we’re gone?”
Adam stood in the doorway, still in his gear, his gloves tucked under his arm. He looked from his father’s hopeful face to Hunter’s flushed, pained one. His knuckles were raw and split from the fight.
“Yeah,” Adam said, the word simple. “Of course.”
“I can take care of myself,” Hunter growled, pushing himself up on his elbows. The movement jostled his knee, and he winced, collapsing back with a defeated grunt.
The silence that followed was thick enough to taste. Jane and Leo exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. The urgency of their impending flight pressed in. “Okay,” Jane whispered, leaning down to kiss Hunter’s damp forehead. “We’ll call as soon as we land.”
They left with hurried promises and worried backward glances. The door clicked shut, leaving the chemical-smelling silence and the two of them. The distant, muffled roar of the game’s final seconds bled through the walls, then erupted into a cacophonous cheer. They had won. It meant nothing.
Hunter tore off his helmet and his jersey, then the shoulder pads, leaving him in a white tank top. He took off his pants and pads, leaving him in shorts. He grabbed an ice pack from the cooler Carl had left, the crinkling plastic unbearably loud, and put it to his knee. The cold was a shocking, temporary relief that did nothing for the deeper ache.
Adam came in fully looking at him. He’d shed his upper gear too, standing there in his sweat-soaked compression shirt.
Hunter shook his head, staring at the wall of medical cabinets. “Save your concern.”
Adam leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. The raw scrapes on his knuckles were vivid against his skin. “I don’t want the team losing a good player.” He responded.
Hunter barked a laugh, bitter and short. “Right. The team.” He adjusted the ice pack, the movement clumsy with anger. “You looked pretty ready to lose yourself out there, going at Noah like that.”
“He took a cheap shot,” Adam said, his voice low. “He knew what he was doing.”
“And you had to be the hero?” Hunter shot back, finally looking at him. Adam’s gaze was unreadable, that familiar green mask back in place. “What was that for, Adam? What’s any of this for?”
Adam didn’t answer. He just watched the purple swelling already consuming Hunter’s knee, his jaw tensing. He breathed out hard.
The door flew open again, but this time it was Jane and Leo, having rushed back from the parking lot, their faces etched with fresh panic. “We got all the way to the car and just couldn’t leave,” Jane said, rushing to Hunter’s side again. “My poor Hunter.”
“We should cancel,” Leo agreed, his hand finding Jane’s. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“No, you two go,” Hunter said, the plea evident beneath the command. “I’m serious. I have Adam. It’s fine.”
Jane looked at Adam, her gentle eyes searching his. “Adam, can you take care of Hunter while we’re gone? Actually take care of him?”
Adam pushed off the counter. “Yeah. Of course Jane”
This time, the goodbye was slower, more lingering. Jane fussed, arranging the ice pack, smoothing his hair. She kissed Hunter’s forehead, her lips lingering with a warmth that felt like goodbye. “Be good,” she whispered, the words meant for more than just his knee.
Leo stepped forward, his kind eyes serious. “Let’s get you mobile, son.” He slid a firm arm under Hunter’s left shoulder.
Adam moved to the right without a word, his grip under Hunter’s other arm impersonal and solid. Together, they hauled him upright. Hunter’s vision swam, a nebula of pain bursting behind his eyes as his leg hung useless. He bit down on a groan, swallowing it into a tight hiss.
“Easy,” Adam murmured, the word so low only Hunter could hear it.
They moved him through the sterile corridor, a three-legged shuffle echoing off concrete walls. The celebration from the locker room was a distant, raucous hum that felt like it belonged to another lifetime. The cold night air hit his sweaty skin as they pushed through the exterior door, a shocking slap.
Leo’s older sedan idled at the curb, exhaust fogging in the halogen lights of the parking lot. Adam opened the passenger door, the dome light a sudden, intimate spotlight. Hunter turned, gripping the roof and the seat, and began the awkward collapse into the car.
His knee screamed in protest, buckling as he tried to pivot. A sharp, helpless sound escaped him.
Adam’s hands were there instantly, one bracing his back, the other guiding his hips. He didn’t ask. He just bear-hugged Hunter the final few inches, lifting and depositing him into the seat with a startling, efficient strength. The scent of his sweat, sharp and familiar, filled the space between them.
Hunter slumped, breathless, Adam didn’t back away. He leaned in, his body blocking the open door, reaching across Hunter’s lap.
His forearm brushed against Hunter’s stomach. Hunter held his breath. Adam grabbed the seatbelt, the click of the metal tongue finding its home unnaturally loud. He pulled the strap slowly, ensuring it lay flat and secure across Hunter’s chest.
Their eyes met in the dim light. Adam’s gaze was unreadable, a blank green screen. He said nothing. He just pulled back, closed the door with a solid thunk, and walked around to the driver’s side.
Hunter stared straight ahead, watching Leo help Jane into their own car. Jane waved, a frail, worried gesture from behind the glass. Leo gave a firmer nod, then put the car in drive. Their taillights disappeared around the corner, swallowing the last tether to normalcy.
The driver’s door opened and Adam slid in. The car interior seemed to shrink, saturated with the smell of old coffee, hockey gear, and the pure, tense awareness of the other. Adam fastened his own seatbelt, the engine rumbling to life.
He pulled out of the lot, the tires crunching over gravel. The silent streets of Northwood blurred past, pools of orange light washing over them in regular intervals. Hunter concentrated on the pain, using its bright, clean edge to keep his mind from wandering into the charged quiet between the seats.
After ten minutes, Adam finally spoke. His voice was flat, conversational. “The medial collateral ligament, probably. Maybe the anterior cruciate. That pop you heard wasn’t good.”
Hunter glanced over. Adam’s profile was cut from stone, eyes on the road. “You a doctor now?”
“I’ve seen it before.” Adam’s fingers tapped once on the steering wheel. “Three months, minimum. Maybe more.”
“I know what it means,” Hunter snapped, the frustration boiling over. It meant no skating, no captaining, no escape. It meant being trapped, in this house, with him.
Another stretch of silence yawned, filled only with the hum of asphalt. They turned onto their street, the modern farmhouse looming dark against the starlit sky.
“Why did you do it?” Adam asked. The question hung there, simple and devastating.
Hunter didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “For Mike. It was his last game.”
“Not that.” Adam’s voice was quiet, relentless. He slowed the car, pulling into the driveway but leaving the engine running. The headlights illuminated the empty porch swing, moving gently in the breeze. “Before the game. You benched yourself for him. You crossed your coach. For a guy who isn’t even your best friend.”
Hunter turned to look at him, his chest tight. Adam was already looking back, his eyes searching Hunter’s face in the dashboard’s weak glow.
“Because it was the right thing to do,” Hunter said.
A slow, knowing breath escaped Adam’s lips. He nodded understanding.
He pulled back, opening his door. The dome light exploded on, breaking the spell. “Now let’s get you inside. You can’t walk.”
Hunter sat there, breathless, as Adam circled the car. The door opened, and cold air rushed in.
Adam reached for him, his hands impersonal again, all business. “Ready?”
Hunter just nodded, unable to speak. He allowed himself to be pulled out, his weight settling against Adam’s shoulder. They began the slow, painful shuffle up the walkway to the dark, waiting house.