First rink problem
1193 Words
SLOANE
It turns out hockey players are significantly harder to keep alive than normal people.
That's the first thing I learn after Elara finally dismisses everyone to their departments.
The four of us from the Emergency Medical Response Team follow a narrow hallway that branches away from the main rink before eventually arriving at a room overlooking the ice through a giant glass wall.
The moment I step inside, my eyebrows shoot upward.
Well… this definitely isn't a normal first aid room.
Medical cabinets line one wall and several treatment beds occupy the center.
A large monitor hangs near the ceiling, shelves are stocked with enough supplies to survive a minor apocalypse.
There are emergency kits, oxygen tanks, ice packs, braces, bandages, stretchers, and a suspicious amount of equipment that looks expensive enough to make insurance companies cry.
"What the hell?" I mumble.
The dark-skinned girl beside me lets out a small laugh.
"That was my reaction too."
I glance at her to see she's smiling now.
She's so pretty and her smile is warm and friendly.
Unconsciously, I smile back and her smile only got wider.
The older woman who's at the front now places a clipboard onto the desk at the front of the room before turning toward us.
She clears her throat. "Well," she says. "Since we'll be spending the next six weeks together, we might as well introduce ourselves."
I turn to her as she points toward herself first.
"Margaret Jones." Her voice is calm and confident. "I've worked sports medicine for twenty-eight years and regional tournaments for fourteen."
Twenty-eight years?
Good Lord.
She continues without missing a beat.
"I oversee emergency response and player recovery during competitions."
Something tells me Margaret Jones has seen things. She has even more years of experience in medicine than my mom.
Margaret points toward the girl beside me.
"Go ahead."
The girl immediately straightens.
"Adanna Okafor." She starts, her smile widening. "I'm from Crescent Ridge Pack."
Oh, one of the subsidiary packs under the Moondawn pack.
"Seventeen. Future sports physician."
The way she says it sounds less like a dream and more like a declaration and I respect that.
"I volunteered for regionals because I wanted practical experience."
That makes sense.
Margaret nods approvingly, then her attention shifts toward the final member of our little group.
The pretty one.
He smiles immediately.
The man was probably born smiling.
"Ezra Beaumont." His voice is smooth like he practices introductions in mirrors.
"I'm from Silver Creek Pack."
Another subsidiary pack.
He casually brushes a hand through his dark curls. "I'll be attending physiotherapy school next year."
I almost chuckle.
Everything about him screams physiotherapy.
Or skincare influencer.
Potentially both.
"I've worked junior tournaments before."
Then he flashes a smile —the kind toothpaste commercials dream about.
I immediately somehow don't trust him a bit.
And finally, Margaret's attention lands on me. Unfortunately.
I sigh. "Sloane Vance."
And I watch as everybody immediately recognizes the surname.
Adanna's eyes widen slightly, Ezra's brows lift, Margaret simply nods.
"My mom's a doctor, umm, the pack's doctor."
Margaret nods again.
My mom's family comes from a long line of doctors.
Might as well get that out of the way.
"And I'm here because…” —apparently making bad decisions is my passion— “regionals can do with a bit of help.”
Adanna snorts, Ezra laughs, even Margaret smiles.
Tiny victory.
The introductions finished and Margaret folds her arms.
"Good. Nice to meet you kids. Let's get along."
Then she turns and points through the glass toward the rink below.
"Everybody thinks hockey is about scoring goals."
She pauses.
"It's actually about preventing… players from accidentally killing themselves."
Silence.
Then Adanna immediately nods. Ezra nods too. While me? I stare.
"What?"
Margaret points toward the ice.
"Concussions."
One finger.
"Broken ribs."
Another finger.
"Dislocated shoulders."
Another.
"Torn ligaments."
Another.
"Skate lacerations."
I blink, my gaze shifting to the rink below.
People voluntarily do this?
"For fun?" I ask.
"For fun," Ezra confirms with a nod.
"That somehow makes it worse."
Adanna laughs while Margaret looks completely serious which somehow makes the entire conversation more concerning.
Then she gestures toward the equipment surrounding us.
"Everything in this room exists because hockey players consistently make poor life choices."
Now she's speaking my language.
Finally.
Outside the glass, whistles suddenly echo across the rink and our attention shifts automatically.
Practice has started.
I step forward, watching as players pour onto the ice.
Coach Pete's voice booms through the arena and despite myself, my eyes immediately find the triplets.
Zion glides across the ice like he owns it, which he probably thinks he does.
Zayden immediately crashes into somebody during a drill. That feels very in brand.
The player he nearly takes out shoves him and he shoves back.
Coach Pete blows his whistle so aggressively that even I flinch a bit.
My gaze shifts away from the chaos and moves further across the rink until it lands on Zeke.
Or more specifically— the giant wall of padding standing in front of a net.
Keeper.
Unlike his brothers who are already moving around the rink causing problems, Zeke remains near the goalpost, calm and watching.
His helmet sits securely on his head while thick pads cover almost every inch of him.
Leg pads, chest protector, gloves, more gloves.
Honestly, the amount of equipment required for his position feels slightly ridiculous.
Then again, his entire job revolves around willingly standing in front of flying pucks.
Perhaps ridicule isn't appropriate.
Sympathy might be.
A player fires a shot, the puck rocketing across the ice, and before I can properly follow it—
Thwack.
Zeke catches it effortlessly and tosses it aside like stopping high-speed projectiles is a normal way to spend a morning.
My brows rise slightly.
Another player takes a shot.
Blocked.
Another.
Blocked again.
What the hell?
The man barely moves.
It's honestly creepy like watching a very large, very athletic statue.
Beside me, Adanna suddenly whistles.
"He's good."
"That's an understatement," Ezra says, eyes fixed on the rink.
My eyes remain on the ice too, watching as Zeke shifts slightly at another puck flying toward him.
I swear that boy approaches life the same way he approaches hockey.
Quietly.
Then as if sensing my stare, his head lifts and my stomach immediately drops.
Oh no.
I clear my throat and take a step back. I suddenly become very interested in a box of bandages sitting nearby.
A few minutes pass before I clear my throat.
"Anyway," I say.
Adanna turns to look at me.
Ezra does too.
"How many injuries are we expecting exactly?"
Margaret lets out a small laugh.
"During practice?" She asks.
I nod.
She pauses. "Hopefully none."
The fact that she said hopefully instead of definitely is deeply alarming.
Then before I can question any of my life choices further, the door to the medical room swings open and one of the assistant coaches pokes his head inside.
"Maggie."
Immediately, her attention shifts.
"We've got a problem."
And judging by the way everyone in the room straightens, those are apparently the words nobody wants to hear.
- Writer
