Page 11 of Breakaway Daddies

Jinx

Game dayalways crackles with tension, but tonight the atmosphere is electric, like a storm about to break.

The Minnesota Marauders face off against the Detroit Bayhawks, and from the opening whistle, it’s been a brutal clash, the Detroit Bayhawks’ gray and black jerseys a blur on the white ice.

By the end of the second intermission, the scoreboard reflects a grim reality: three of our players are sidelined, each nursing injuries that clearly reveal the match’s ferocity.

Braden Gallagher grimaces as I kneel beside him on the bench, my fingers working diligently to untangle the stubborn knots in his calf muscles. Sweat beads on his forehead, his jersey clinging to him like a second skin, while Erik Novak sits nearby with a bag of ice strapped to his throbbing shoulder, his face a mask of frustration.

Tyler Porter, still dazed from being slammed into the boards, shakes his head in disbelief, a bruise already blooming across his cheek.

My eyes dart between Braden and the assistant coach, Jordan Gray, whose expression is a thundercloud of anger. His short blond hair is tousled from running his hands through it in exasperation, and his jaw is set like granite.

“Are the refs fucking blind?” I demand, adjusting the pressure on Braden’s leg as he winces, pain etched in the lines of his face. “Or are they just letting the Bayhawks get away with actual murder tonight?”

Jordan’s eyes flash with irritation. “I’ve been screaming at them all night. They’re letting too much slide. I don’t know what’s gotten into them, but they can’t keep letting the Bayhawks get away with this shit.”

“No kidding,” I mutter, unsure if he can hear me over the roar of the crowd.

Erik shifts uncomfortably, trying to find relief from the icy burn on his shoulder, while Tyler’s disbelief remains etched in his features.

Braden lets out a sharp breath as I work out another cramp, the tension in his muscles slowly easing under my touch.

“They’re playing dirty,” he grumbles, his voice low and filled with conviction. “I swear, one more hit like that and someone’s gonna end up on a stretcher.”

His words harden and catch in his throat as his entire body goes rigid under my working hands.

“Oh, shit—Jinx!” he stammers, eyes wide with panic, his finger flung out in front of him towards the rink.

I jerk my head up, tracing his line of sight to the massive jumbotron. My heart lurches to a terrifying halt as I take in the sight. The crowd gasps and boos, people jumping to their feet, arms outstretched toward the ice.

Rowan lies sprawled on the surface, motionless like a marionette with its strings cut.

The once rowdy arena now holds its breath, a chilling silence sweeping over the hushed stands. My stomach churns violently, a surge of panic flooding through me in this quiet moment.

The camera zooms in, capturing every agonizing detail: Rowan’s limbs splayed at unnatural angles, his dark uniform stark against the blinding white ice.

The image sears into my mind, and my pulse drums violently in my ears, drowning out all other sound. I don’t even register Coach’s reaction.

No. No, no, no!

A voice pierces the silence, calling my name, but I’m rooted to the spot. My breath is trapped in my chest, and my fingers are clamped onto Braden’s leg, unable to let go.

Bruno swings in to cover the net, but the game’s already been paused by the referees as everyone watches.

Dr. Ally materializes at my side. “We need more hands, now,” she commands with calm urgency.

I blink rapidly, pulling myself together, and nod. Adrenaline propels me upright so quickly that the arena spins momentarily before my eyes.

My body operates on instinct as I trail behind her, my boots echoing with each step across the bench area, then crunching onto the ice. The chill is sharper here, biting through my layers and tightening around my chest as I near the scene, trying not to land on my ass next to him.

Rowan lies motionless, his chest rising and falling with barely perceptible movement. The other players have retreated a few steps, their faces etched with worry that mirrors the turmoil churning in my guts.

Ally drops to her knees beside him, her fingers already seeking his pulse with practiced precision. “Rowan, can you hear me?” she calls out, insistent.

Silence.

“Damn. C’mon, Rowan,” I whisper under my breath.

---