Chapter 213: I Was Drowning

My eyes brimmed with tears again, blurring the soft golden light of the afternoon.

Hearing those words from Devin—the man who had spent five years pushing us to endure every bruise, every broken bone, every brutal stride for the sake of that very trophy—struck a nerve deep inside me. He had built us into warriors. He had taught us that nothing mattered more than the ice, nothing came before the team, and that pain was just something to be carved through on the way to victory.

To hear him now call that piece of silver worthless compared to my life... it completely dismantled the last wall of defense I was holding up.

"Coach..." I rasped, a tear slipping free and cutting a hot path down my cheek. "I built my entire life on that ice. It was all I had."

Devin let out a quiet, heavy sigh. He reached forward, his large, calloused hand coming down to rest firmly over my shoulder—not as a coach barking orders on the bench, but as a man who cared about the kid underneath the sweater.

"You built a legacy, Kain," Devin said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "And you built a team that would walk through fire for you. Don’t ever think that legacy dies because your biology changed, or because a hospital bed is keeping you off the ice."

He gave my shoulder one solid, grounding squeeze before standing up and smoothing down his jacket. He looked toward the door where Reid was waiting, then back at me, a faint, weary trace of his usual tough grin returning to his face.

"Get some rest, Captain," Devin murmured, his voice softening. "The League suspended Pedro for the rest of the series. We’re likely re-playing Game 2 tomorrow night, and the boys are going to hit those Wolves so hard they won’t know what state they’re in. We’re bringing that Cup back to this room for you."

Then, the official verdict had finally come down.

The official verdict came down before the afternoon sun began to dip behind the skyline. Between Dr. Aris’s certified documents, Audrey Stevens’ aggressive legal defense, and the sheer public outcry over Pedro’s vicious hit, the League had no choice but to back off the fraud claims.

The investigation was officially closed, and the Serpents were cleared.

With the legal storm neutralized, the arena medical unit wasn’t suitable for my long-term care anymore. Arrangements were made immediately to transfer me to a high-end, private orthopedic medical center—a top-tier facility equipped to handle both severe sports trauma and high-density dynamic care under strict security.

The transfer was smooth, shielded completely from the press by private security and heavy drapes. My new suite was spacious, quiet, and drenched in soft evening sunlight, far away from the chaotic noise of the arena.

Everyone was trying to fix what they could—the story, the team, the schedule. But nobody could fix the brutal reality of my physical body.

And just as Coach Devin had predicted, they were playing Game 2 tomorrow evening. The Finals were going to go on.

Even with the League clearing me, my leg was completely shattered. The bone had snapped in two, the heavy cast extending past my knee, immobilizing me entirely. I was grounded. My season was over.

As the evening faded, the luxury suite settled into a suffocating quiet. Reid sat in the armchair right beside the bed, watching me closely. Marina was at the far table, finalizing paperwork on her laptop, while the quiet hum of the room kept the harsh outside world at bay.

I lay flat on the hospital bed, my head turned completely to the side, staring blankly out the tall glass window. My chin was set, my lips pressed into a tight, pale line.

I didn’t speak. When Reid gently reached out to adjust the pillows behind my back, I didn’t say a word—I just kept my eyes locked on the darkening sky outside, silent and unmoving.

The silence wasn’t angry; it was just hollow. The realization that the game was moving forward tomorrow without me—that the team would take the ice, the lights would turn on, and the Stanley Cup would be fought for while I lay trapped in this bed—was breaking my heart in total, quiet isolation.

"Kain," Reid whispered softly, his large hand reaching out to lightly touch my wrist where it rested on the mattress.

I didn’t pull away, but I didn’t turn my head either.

"Reid..." I whispered, my voice sounding so small, so fragile, that it cut straight through the quiet room. "I just... want to be left alone... for a second."

I could feel the sharp, aching shift in Reid’s posture beside me. His chest heaved with a quiet, suppressed breath, his heart clearly breaking for me, but he respected my wish. He didn’t offer empty platitudes. He knew that telling me everything was going to be alright—or that things would work out—would only make the crushing weight in my chest feel infinitely worse.

Slowly, Reid slid his hand back, standing up from the armchair without a sound and retreating toward the far side of the suite with Marina.

Over the next few hours, delivery carts began arriving at the floor’s security check.

Flowers, get-well cards, and handwritten letters from fans across the country started piling up on the side tables.

Once the official statement hit the press—explaining the tragic secondary presentation, the biological shock, and the brutal physical assault on the ice—the narrative had flipped completely. The anger and suspicion vanished overnight, replaced by a massive wave of sympathy.

I glanced sideways at the growing stack of cards resting near the window. The headlines on Marina’s tablet were already calling it a tragic, heartbreaking end to one of the greatest Beta-turned-Omega careers in hockey history.

They weren’t just wishing me a speedy recovery; they were already mourning my career.

I closed my eyes as a tear drop rolled down from my eye. I was sad, but more than that, I was drowning in a sea with no water.

The next morning, Marina walked into the quiet luxury suite early the next morning, her trench coat draped over her arm and a fresh set of documents in hand.

The room was bathed in pale morning light, but the atmosphere remained heavy and motionless. She stopped dead in her tracks near the foot of the bed, her sharp eyes scanning the room until they landed on the stainless-steel tray sitting on the bedside table.

The lunchbox filled with high-protein recovery meals was completely untouched, the lid still sealed tight. Beside the bed, I lay curled on my side with my heavy cast propped up, staring blankly into the empty space near the far wall, my eyes hollow and unblinking.

"What’s this?" Marina asked, her voice dropping into a sharp, low edge that cut right through the quiet. She stepped closer, eyeing the tray before snapping her head up to look at Reid. "He’s not eating?"

Reid was standing near the edge of the mattress, dressed in his full Serpents workout gear with his team duffel bag slung over one broad shoulder. He looked like he hadn’t slept a single minute. Shadows smudged beneath his dark grey eyes, and his pine scent was laced with a tight, suffocating spike of pure anxiety.

Morning skate was scheduled in less than an hour, and Devin had made it mandatory for the entire active roster. Reid was supposed to be on his way to the arena right now. But he couldn’t bring himself to step out of this room.

My twin brothers and sisters had offered to come up from the lobby to stay with me for the day whilehe was busy with practice, but the fact that I hadn’t taken a single bite of food, a single sip of water, or spoken more than five words since last night was tearing Reid apart from the inside out.

It made him unable to take his eyes from me for even a second.

"He hasn’t touched a thing, Marina," Reid rasped, his voice rough and laced with a quiet, helpless desperation.

He looked down at me, his hand hovering an inch over my shoulder as if he were terrified to press his luck after I’d asked to be left alone. "He didn’t eat dinner, he refused the morning broth the nurses brought, and he won’t even look at me. I have to be on the ice in forty minutes, but I can’t leave him like this."

Reid had called Marina in a panic twenty minutes ago. He knew that if anyone in this world had the authority, the terrifying force of will, and the unyielding Alpha backbone to drag me out of my self-destructive spiral when he couldn’t, it was my eldest sister.

Marina let out a long, slow breath, setting her tablet down on the side table with a sharp clack.

"Go to practice, Reid," Marina commanded, her sharp voice steady, unshakeable, and completely in control.

Reid hesitated, his jaw clenching as he stared at me, his pine scent flaring with protective reluctance. "Marina—"

"I said go," Marina repeated, turning to face him fully, her Alpha authority settling over the space. "You have a Finals game tonight. Your Captain spent years bleeding on the ice so this team could reach the Stanley Cup. If you sit here wringing your hands and miss morning skate, you’re wasting everything he built. I will handle Kain. Now get out of here."