Chapter 212: Focus on Recovery

"Talking tough won’t get you anywhere," my father declared, his voice cold, heavy, and laced with skepticism as he stared down the rookie who was standing his ground.

​Instead of arguing or matching his anger, Reid slowly bent at the waist, lowering his head in a deep, respectful bow before my parents.

​"Then watch me," Reid said softly, his voice echoing with an absolute, unshakeable humility that silenced the entire room. "Watch me, Mr. Evans. Mrs. Evans. And I ask, shamelessly, that you give us your blessing in the end."

​My father’s jaw tightened, his mouth opening as if to spit another sharp warning—"You..."—but the words died in his throat.

He looked from Reid’s bowed shoulders to my pale face, noticing for the first time the tear tracks on my cheeks and the way my hand was resting protectively over my stomach.

​The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until my mother softly placed her hand over my father’s arm, gently pulling him back.

​"Enough, Arthur," my mother whispered, her eyes glossy as she looked at Reid, then over at Marina, who was standing like a stone wall beside my bed. "He needs rest."

​My father let out a long, ragged exhale, giving Reid one last searching, heavy look before turning his head away, unable to argue any further.

​Reid straightened up slowly, his dark grey eyes immediately cutting back to mine. He didn’t look at the rest of the room, didn’t care about the silent shock on my brothers’ faces or the lingering tension in the air.

He just stepped back to my side, his broad hand coming down to gently wrap around mine where it rested over my lower stomach, his warmth seeping into my skin.

"I made a promise, and I intend to keep it," Reid murmured softly, his thumb continuing its steady, grounding strokes over the back of my hand, his voice meant for me alone despite the audience still lingering in the room.

My father stood frozen for a beat longer, his shoulders tight beneath his coat, but under my mother’s gentle, unyielding pressure on his arm, he finally allowed himself to be guided toward the door.

"We’ll be in the waiting room," my mother said softly, her eyes searching my face with a lingering, protective grief before she offered Reid a faint, microscopic nod. "Rest, Kain. Please."

My siblings followed them out in quiet, solemn file, my brothers casting one last stunned, re-evaluating glance back at Reid before the heavy wooden door finally clicked shut behind them.

The sudden silence in the private suite felt vast, the chaotic storm of the last hour slowly draining away to leave only the soft, rhythmic hum of my heart monitor.

Marina let out a long, slow breath, dropping into the chair on the opposite side of my bed. She pulled out her phone, checking a series of rapid text notifications.

"Audrey just submitted the certified files to the League office," Marina said, her voice dropping into her usual crisp, businesslike tone. "Between Dr. Aris’s statement and the sheer PR disaster Pedro’s hit caused, the League has no legal ground to penalize you. They’re convening an executive session at noon, but Audrey expects them to suspend Pedro for the rest of the Finals and clear our roster."

I let out a long, shuddering breath, my fingers tightening slightly around Reid’s hand where it rested over my lower stomach. "And the media?"

"Audrey is releasing a controlled statement at two o’clock," Marina replied, pocketing her phone. "Citing medical privacy, severe physical trauma on the ice, and confirming that you remain under specialized care. No press allowed near this floor."

She stood up, smoothing down her trench coat, her sharp eyes lingering on the two of us for a beat before she turned toward the door.

"I’m going to deal with the League’s legal team in person," Marina said. "Get some real sleep, Kain. The sedatives are going to wear off soon, and you’ll need your strength for what comes next."

Once the door clicked shut behind her, the room settled into a heavy, peaceful stillness.

I looked over at Reid. His eyes were dark with exhaustion, shadows smudged beneath his lower lids, but the sheer tension that had held his shoulders rigid all morning was finally beginning to bleed away.

"You told my dad you’d walk away from hockey," I rasped softly, the words hanging between us in the quiet room.

Reid shifted his weight on the mattress, his thumb tracing a slow line across my knuckles. "I meant it."

"Reid—"

"I meant every word, Kain," he interrupted, his voice steady, carrying no hesitation or regret. "If it comes down to a choice between a career and keeping you and this baby safe, it’s not even a question. But right now, we don’t have to give up anything. We handle the League, we get through this recovery, and we figure out the rest on our own terms."

I closed my eyes, letting my head sink back into the pillow as the exhaustion from the fever, the surgery, and the endless confrontation finally pulled at my mind, heavy and unavoidable.

The darkness felt different. It wasn’t the suffocating, terrifying void of hiding a secret or waiting for the other shoe to drop. The floor beneath us had shifted completely, yet somehow, the ground felt solid.

Reid reached over, carefully adjusting the thin thermal blanket up over my chest, avoiding the IV line taped to my forearm. He didn’t say another word, knowing I needed sleep more than reassurance. He just pulled the armchair right up against the edge of the mattress, sat down, and rested his forearm beside mine, keeping his palm flat against the mattress so our fingers remained loosely brushed together.

Outside the heavy hospital door, the world was undoubtedly burning. The sports networks were likely broadcasting non-stop coverage, social media was exploding with debate, and the League executives were backed into a corner trying to handle the legal press release Audrey was preparing. Pedro was facing a massive suspension, the Serpents were waiting for news on Game 2, and my family was sitting in the lobby upstairs processing a reality they never saw coming.

But inside the room, the noise of the world couldn’t reach us.

My breathing gradually slowed, syncing with the steady, rhythmic blip of the heart monitor. The lingering throb in my left leg was muted, manageable under the pain medication, and the sweet, heavy scent of orchids had finally settled into a soft, quiet warmth beneath the rich aroma of frozen pine filling the space.

As my consciousness drifted, I let my hand shift slightly, hooking my fingers around Reid’s wrist. He squeezed back once, a subtle, unshakeable pressure, before I finally let go and sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When I woke up, the window had shifted from harsh morning light to the soft, muted gold of late afternoon.

The pain medication was wearing off, leaving a dull, grinding ache deep inside my knee, but my head was clear. Reid wasn’t in the chair next to me; he was standing near the window, speaking in low, hushed tones with Marina while Dr. Aris checked the monitors at the side of the room.

Sitting in the chair right beside my bed, his hands clasped between his knees, was Coach Devin.

He didn’t look angry anymore. The bright red flush of fury from the trauma room was gone, replaced by a profound, hollow exhaustion. He had his dark team jacket draped over the back of the chair, his eyes fixed on the floor, looking like a man who had aged ten years in twenty-four hours.

As soon as my eyelids fluttered and my breathing shifted, Devin looked up.

"Kain," Devin rasped softly, his voice gravelly.

Reid and Marina stopped talking instantly, both turning toward the bed, but Devin held up a hand toward them without taking his eyes off me.

"Give us five minutes," Devin said quietly. "Just five."

Marina looked at Reid, giving him a small, unspoken nod. Reid lingered for a second, his grey eyes checking my face, before he stepped out into the hallway with Marina and the doctor, leaving the heavy wooden door resting on the latch.

The room fell into a heavy, quiet stillness, save for the hum of the IV pump. Devin leaned forward, placing his forearms on his knees, staring down at his hands before finally raising his eyes to mine.

"When were you going to tell me, Kain?" Devin asked, his voice stripped of all coach authority, leaving only a raw, painful quiet. "If this hit hadn’t happened... if your body hadn’t given out... when were you going to say something?"

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat, my chest tightening. "Devin..."

"You’re my Captain," Devin interrupted softly, shaking his head. "I’ve coached you for five years. I watched you bleed on that ice, watched you play through cracked ribs, dislocated shoulders, and brutal playoff grinds. I trusted you with that room."

He paused, a heavy breath rattling in his chest as he gestured vaguely toward my casted leg and the IV stand.

"What if something worse had happened out there?" Devin whispered, his eyes searching mine with genuine terror. "What if Pedro’s hit had killed you? What if the strain on your body... on your new presentation... ruined your life permanently? Did you really think keeping quiet and pushing through the Finals was worth risking everything?"

I closed my eyes for a beat, letting his words hit me with the full weight they carried. Hearing the fear in the voice of the man who had guided my career wasn’t easy, but I owed him the truth of how trapped I had felt.

"I didn’t think I had a choice, Coach," I rasped, my voice low and unsteady. "When the change started happening... all I could see was ten years of my life being erased. I thought if I could just get through the Cup... if I could just finish what we started..."

"You stupid kid," Devin murmured, though there was no malice in it, only a deep, paternal grief. He rubbed a heavy hand over his face. "The Stanley Cup is a piece of silver, Kain. It’s not worth your life. It never was."