Page 59 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

The adrenaline is already pumping through my veins, a rush of anticipation for the game ahead. But as I stand there, I can’t shake the lingering image of Willow’s lips against mine, her scent still clinging to me. That kiss... it wasn’t enough. Nothing with her ever is.

I pull my jersey over my head as I walk into the locker room, the hum of the fluorescent lights doing little to ease the tension coursing through me. The sound of laughter and banter fills the air as Nash and the others prep for the game. I try to focus, my mind still a little clouded by the thoughts of her.

Nash spots me the second I step inside, a grin spreading across his face. "The prodigal son has returned!"

I grunt, tossing my bag into my locker without a word. "Shut up, Nash."

Hayden sighs, glancing at me. "Never leave again, man. We've been on the worst losing streak of our fucking lives."

I roll my eyes as I start pulling on my gear. "Maybe you all should work harder instead of waiting for me to bail you out."

"Rude!" Nash gasps, hand clutching his chest like I just insulted his mother. "Monroe, can you believe this guy?"

Monroe chuckles from across the room. "We’ve always known Damien's a cocky bastard."

"Always will be," I mutter under my breath, tightening the straps of my pads. "Now, no one else gets hurt tonight. Everyone gets their head in the game. Puck on the ice."

The guys cheer and bang their sticks, but I barely look up, already lost in the focus I need to get the job done.

The arena lights hit differently tonight. Brighter, somehow. More intense. I squint as I step onto the ice, my skates catching the surface with that familiar cutting sound I've missed for weeks. The doctor said I was cleared to play, but warned me to "ease back in." Whatever that means in hockey.

My teammates tap their sticks on the ice as I make my way to the bench. Coach Dixon nods, a hint of concern behind his eyes. "You good, Damien?"

"Yeah. Good to go."

The familiar weight of my helmet presses against my temples. Last time I wore it, I woke up staring at fluorescent hospital lights, team doctor leaning over me asking how many fingers he was holding up. I couldn't tell him. Couldn't remember the hit either. Just fragments: the cold ice against my cheek, the tunnel of voices fading in and out.

First shift. My heart pounds as I hop over the boards. The noise of the crowd seems to ripple through my body. Everything feels sharper, more immediate. My breath fogs in front of my face mask.

"And in goal, returning after sixteen weeks, number thirty-five, DAMIEN STERLING!"

The crowd erupts, but each cheer feels like a needle in my skull. I raise my stick in acknowledgment, feeling the weight of expectations pressing down on my shoulders.

“We heard he took a nasty fall,” one announcer says.

“He did, during preseason and missed the first month of the season,” another announcer answers.

“Wow, down in September and joining us back in December.” The first announcer whistles. “That's a long break.”

“Thank God the season is nine months long, he’ll make a comeback.” The second announcer says in encouragement.

The referee drops the puck. Game on.

First shot comes two minutes in—a soft wrister from the blue line. I track it easily, absorb it into my chest protector. The routine of it feels good. Natural.

"Nice save, Dames," Monroe shouts, collecting the rebound.

Then it happens. Opposing team on a rush. Forward cuts to the net, defenseman chasing. They're coming in fast—too fast. Bodies heading straight for my crease.

My heart slams against my ribs. Sweat pours beneath my mask. The arena spins around me. I see it all again—the shot, the hospital, the weeks in dark rooms, the splitting headaches.

The forward crashes into my crease, jostling me as he's checked from behind. It's a normal hockey play, the kind that happens a dozen times a game. But not today. Not to me.

I'm on my knees, but not in the butterfly position I've perfected over years. I'm crumpled, gasping for air that won't come. My chest is impossibly tight. The sound of the crowddistorts, becomes a roaring in my ears. I can't focus. Can't breathe.

The whistle blows. Play stops.

"Timeout, timeout!" someone yells, but it sounds distant, muffled.

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