Chapter 4 CRACKS IN THE ARMOUR

RYAN

The silence one the way back to the dorm is calculated, uncomfortable , and unforgiving. A typical Rae Collins move.

She walks two steps ahead of me, her grip white-knuckled around the strap of my gym bag like she's resisting the urge to swing it at my head. I trail behind on crutches, pretending the ache in my hip isn't making my vision pulse.

After years struggling with multiple injuries, there is one thing you need to know about me is: I became very, very good at pretending.

My best friend doesn't utter one single syllable, which tells me I'm in the doghouse.

The silence extends until we are inside the dorm back in our shoe-boxed little world with its peeling posters and tangled chargers, and half-dead orchid on the windowsill—completely Emma's fault, and her lack of care for anything that doesn't have a human heartbeat.

When she turns, she drops the bag, exhales, and says flatly "You're getting in the shower. Now."

"I can shower by myself."

"Can you? Because you were basically vibrating from pain back there."

"I was fine—"

She steps closer. "You're never fine. That's the whole problem."

Damnit. I don't answer because I can't lie to her anymore. Because there is nothing I can say that wouldn't come out defensive or petty—and she doesn't deserve that version of me.

Instead, I let her help me down the hall, into the shared bathroom we both despise. Fortunately, it smells like coconut shampoo today—oh, these little mercies.

The pink flip-flops she bought me sit by the wall. She sets up the camp chair inside the stall—the sad little one we rigged with plastic bags and duct tape.

Rae checks the water temperature like I'm made of glass. I'm already gritting my teeth by the time I ease onto the chair.

The moment I manage to take off my shorts, she goes still.

"McKenna." It's not a question. It's a warning. A red flag in the shape of my surname.

Her eyes are fixed the spot where my femur and my hips meet. The skin around the brace is bruised in shades of violet, charcoal, and fading sickly green—my own personal galaxy of pain mapped across bone.

"Jesus," she whispers, hands hovering but never touching. "Why didn't you tell me it looked like this? Or Ems even..."

"Because it doesn't matter," I snap, too fast, too defensive. "It's just bruising."

Rae straightens, her voice low and dangerous. "Ems said heavy bruising like that means you're tearing tissue every time you walk. Every time you crutch around like you've got something to prove."

"Yeah, well, if you must know...I kinda do, Rae." A sigh escapes me. "To myself."

She throws the loofah down. "Oh my God, Ry. Do you even hear yourself? You're not some underdog in a Nike commercial. You're hurt. Like—actually, medically, catastrophically hurt."

"You don't say." I bite back. "I didn't ask for help—"

"No, you didn't. You never do. Because you'd rather bleed out in silence than admit you're scared."

My throat tightens. "I'm not scared."

"Bullshit."

She crouches, face level with mine. For the first time all day, her voice breaks. "You're scared this is it. That the thing that made you—you—is over. And you'd rather destroy what's left than be stuck still."

I stare at the tiled floor. I hate everything about this fucking injury. I can't run. I can't jump. I can't train or walk properly and I can't even go to the freaking bathroom by myself. And the worst of all? I can't cry. Not here. Not anywhere. So instead, I say, "You should've just let me rot in there."

Rae stands slowly, voice cold now. Controlled. "Well, I won't. But maybe someone else should."

My head snaps up. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I'm calling Zach."

I blink. "Why?"

"Because you clearly don't trust Ems and me enough to let us help you. And because the guest room at the Hockey House has its own bathroom, a ground floor setup, and no three-person schedule for the toilet."

"You're kidding."

"No. You need space. We need space. You need real recovery. And I need to not be waking up at 3am because you're trying to crawl to the kitchen without me hearing."

"I didn't—"

"You didn't ask. That's the fucking point, Ryan!" There's a beat of silence. Rae rubs her eyes, and when she speaks again, her voice is quiet. Worn out. "I love you. I do. But I can't keep watching you hurt yourself and pretending it's not happening. So, unless you want me and Emma to fall apart too, we need a reset."

I let my head drop into my hands. The water's still running behind me, steam curling around my knees. The brace digs into the wrong part of my skin. And for the first time since I fell, I feel exposed.

Not just physically.

All of it.

The fear. The helplessness. The crushing shame of not being enough without the sport that defined me.

"Fine," I whisper. "Call him."

Rae pauses. "You sure?"

"No. But do it anyway."

〰️〰️〰️

If anyone had told me my life would've turned upside down after what was supposed to be one ridiculously simple morning jog—Hell, if anyone ever told me I'd end up living in an off-campus house with four collegiate hockey players, I would've said they were delulu. Fully out-of-touch. Someone who drank too much Celsius and forgot women like me don't do roommates with pucks-for-brains men.

And yet, here I am.

Dragging my dignity, a small suitcase, and a couple bottles of prescription painkillers and anti-inflammatories up the porch steps of a two-story colonial that smells like laundry detergent and testosterone.

This house belongs to the Terriers' first liners.

Mason Cross. Loyal, stoic, and built like a Norse god. He's BU's defenseman, usually slotted on that physical, depth pairing.

Ty(ler) Alvarez. Soft-eyed goalie with anxiety and enough cleaning supplies to qualify as a live-in house mom.

Zach Hughes. Left winger and hockey's answer to the "former gifted kid turned chaos gremlin", also known for sleeping with any female slightly inclined to hop on his bed.

And Sean Callahan. NHL-drafted. Extroverted man-whore. Clean-cut doberman energy with a god complex and biceps carved by divine intervention.

I know Rae thinks this is a 'fresh start', but I think it's a comedy pilot waiting to happen. And not the New Girl type of plot. I wish.

Zach throws open the front door before I can even knock. "McKenna. Our Crippled Queen has arrived."

"Very original and not at all inclusive," I deadpan. "Did you rehearse that in the mirror?"

He grins, snatching my duffel bag like it weighs less than a puck. "Welcome to the hockey house. No actual frats, just poor life decisions and post practice smells."

I glance past him into the living room. The sectional couch is oversized and sinfully deep—like the kind of furniture my dad put in his cinema room back in Minneapolis. I'd say it fits six normal humans and perhaps four hockey players? Yea, that sounds about right.

Wonderful how I've been here before, several times. They are known for throwing huge parties before, after and if they could, during games. And somehow, I never noticed how soft and sleepable this couch is.

Mason is sitting on it, legs spread like he pays rent in surface area, a smoothie in one hand and a remote in the other. "Hey," he says, nodding once. "Athletes get hurt; you know? It's not like...the end of the world."

"Gee, thanks. Do you moonlight as a motivational speaker?"

He smirks. "No, but I do spot for sad girls with crutches."

I snort despite myself.

Ty appears next, offering me a color-coded bathroom schedule and a lemon-scented air freshener. He's wearing socks with cartoon frogs on them and looks like he might burst into tears if I even hint at discomfort. "Ok, I cleaned the guest suite," he says nervously. "Twice. We put a riser on the toilet. And I sanitized the shower chair Rae sent."

"So, you met the shower chair," I repeat. "Sexy."

Ty blushes furiously. "We also got you new towels. Black ones. For a dramatic effect."

I look at him for a beat, then lean close. "Thanks Ty. That was sweet of you."

He blinks. "No problem."

They help me get settled code for 'make me sit down and not lift a finger.' I hate to admit it, but Rae was right, the guest suite isn't half as bad as I expected. With that said, I am just concentrating on not picturing the many ways this place was probably used by all of them, hopefully not together, but you never know—I don't even want to think about it. It's clean. Cozy. Ground-floor. Has its own bath with a big enough sink to lean on when the pain hits hard. Which it will.

There is one thing I haven't told Rae. Or Emma. Or Fynn. Or even Dr Patel for christ sake.

The pain is not just bad. It's nearly unbearable. Hot, searing, crackling through my hip like something's grinding bone-on-bone. And the swelling? Rae saw the bruises, but not the angry red blooming beneath the bandage every night. Not the way I still can't sleep for more than an hour without jolting awake in pain. But I don't say any of that. I say, "This couch is heaven." Which it is. Too comfy. Too low. I sink into it like a marshmallow and instantly realize I'm going to need a forklift to get out.

Sean walks in as I'm trying to figure out how not to look so helpless. He pauses, sees me wedged between throw pillows and two strategically placed blankets, and lifts a brow. "You okay?"

I nod. "Just figuring out the escape plan in case of fire."

Sean doesn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth quirks just enough. Then he walks over, reaches down, and—without asking—grabs my elbow and braces me just right so I can shift without triggering the pain spike.

I hiss anyway.

His jaw tightens. "You shouldn't be doing this alone."

I shrug. "I'm not. I have the four of you, plus Rae and Ems, remember?"

He holds my eyes. "Yea, but that's not what I meant and you know it."

I look away first. Because that's what I do.

Later, I hear them arguing over what to cook for dinner—Ty wants grilled chicken and kale, Zach's ordering tacos, Mason's already reheating pasta. Sean offers to make something himself.

I limp out of the hallway and into the chaos of the kitchen like I'm entering a war zone.

"No one's eating kale," Zach announces as he slams the fridge door shut. "This is a victory week, not a punishment week."

"It's literally a superfood," Ty argues, holding a sad little bag of greens like it holds the cure for cancer.

Mason has half a Tupperware of leftover pasta in one hand and a fork in the other. "Y'all can fight over your chicken and whatever. I'm already winning."

Sean leans against the counter, sleeves rolled, smirking at all of them. "I'll make stir-fry if we can all agree to shut up."

"Hard maybe," I chime in, raising a brow as they all spin toward me like I just descended from the heavens. "But only if I get a say in dinner."

Zach points his fork. "Ryan, if you don't vote tacos, I swear—"

"I'm voting not pasta. That stuff smells like Mason's socks."

"Rude," Mason mutters. "Also, fair."

Sean walks over and stops beside me. "Wanna be my sous-chef?"

I smirk. "I can barely hold myself up, Callahan."

"Yeah, but you're bossy. You can yell directions while I chop stuff."

"You're not wrong." I roll over to the counter. "Alright, gentlemen, let's make something edible."

It takes about thirty seconds for the boys to rearrange the kitchen so I can actually reach things. Ty finds a clean cutting board while Zach takes my cue and starts organizing ingredients like a contestant on a cooking show. Mason's still trying to convince everyone his microwave pasta deserves a Michelin star.

And for a second—just one—I forget that I'm walking funny and running is out of question. I forget about the torture called PT sessions with Marcy and future doctor visits and internship application deadlines and the dull ache in my leg. I'm just here. With them. And it oddly feels a lot like home.

Not the one with marble counters and a ghost of a father floating behind a closed office door. But the one I used to make with Theo and Fynn in the kitchen while we waited for someone to remember we existed.

This is loud and messy and smells like garlic and soy sauce. Someone puts on music—something upbeat and stupid—and Zach spills rice on the floor, prompting Ty to declare him a domestic hazard.

Sean brushes against my arm when he hands me a spoon to taste-test the sauce. "Tell me it's perfect," he whispers, half-teasing.

I try it. It's actually delicious. "It's acceptable."

"High praise," he mutters, but the smile he gives me makes my chest go warm.

Yeah. This? This I can live with.