SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL, J.HUGHES

THIRTY FOUR

JACK'S POV

"She won't show up, Jack, so quit scanning the stands and get your head in the game," Bratt grumbles beside me, snapping me out of my desperate search. It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack, but I can't help holding onto that sliver of hope she gave me when she said she'd consider coming.

Why the hell do I care so much if she's here?

I'm searching for her in the stands just like I just to when we were teenagers. 

My plays are sloppy, my timing is off, and frustration builds with each missed opportunity. It's like I'm skating in a fog, unable to shake the weight of anticipation and disappointment.

What if she sees me like this? A complete fuck-up.

I burst onto the ice, determined to turn the tide of the game. The scoreboard may not be in our favor, but I refuse to go down without a fight. The Red Wings may have the upper hand tonight, but I'm not ready to concede defeat just yet.

Try as I might, I can't seem to break through their lines; my efforts fall short at every turn. I slap the boards in frustration, the sting shooting up my arm. It's disheartening, but I refuse to give up.

Is this how my life is going to be? Constantly pushing but never breaking through?

As I skate towards the net, determination coursing through my veins, I can almost taste the goal. But before I can make my move, I'm blindsided by two opposing players, their collision sending me crashing to the ice. The impact knocks the wind out of me, leaving me momentarily stunned as the play continues around me.

Just like life, isn't it? You think you're about to score, and then you get hit out of nowhere.

I struggle to catch my breath, the weight of my body pressing down on me as I lay sprawled on the ice, the crowd's cheers blending into a roar. Pain pulses through my body.

Nico's voice cuts through the noise, "Jack, you good?" He skates over, his face a mix of concern and urgency. I manage a feeble wave, signaling I'm still in the game, even if I can't find the words.

Finally, I make my way to the bench, every movement sending a jolt of agony through my injured body. The boys' worried gazes follow me, and I yank off my helmet, frustration written all over my face.

Great, now I'm not just a failure, I'm a goddamn burden too.

The medical team rushes to my side, their hands prodding and assessing. I bat them away, shaking my head. "I'm fine," I mutter, but the look in their eyes tells me they don't believe it. Deep down, I know I'm hurt more than I'm willing to admit. I've played through injuries before, but this time feels different. I can't risk further damage, not when my health is on the line. I've done this way too many times.

As the camera focuses on me, I push them away with a muttered curse, unwilling to be the center of attention in my moment of weakness.

Why do they always have to zoom in on your lowest points?

I take off my equipment and settle onto the massage table. The tension begins to melt away under the skilled hands of the medical team. Despite the discomfort, there's a sense of relief knowing that I'll have a chance to recover before returning to the ice.

Maybe this is a sign. A sign to slow down, to figure things out. But can I really afford to take that time?

"You're looking a lot better already, Jack," one of the physio remarks, their hands working out the knots in my muscles.