Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~15 min read
Chapter 25: The Injury
POV: Priya Kapoor
The hit comes in the second period—Carter chasing a loose puck along the boards when Tampa’s defenseman catches him with a check that’s technically legal but brutal in execution, the kind of collision that makes the entire arena gasp because everyone can see it’s bad, everyone can tell from the way Carter goes down that something’s wrong—and Priya’s on her feet before her brain consciously processes the need to move, medical instincts overriding everything else including the careful emotional distance she’s been maintaining for months.
She’s moving toward the ice before Kevin can stop her—grabbing her medical kit and clearing the bench barrier with the kind of urgency that comes from years of training combined with visceral terror that Carter’s seriously hurt, that the shoulder he’s been carefully rehabbing all season just took damage that could end his career, that the man she loves might be broken in ways she can’t fix—and the realization hits her mid-stride that she just thought “the man she loves” in present tense, not past, not theoretical, not something she’s trying to move past.
Present tense.
Still loves.
Never actually stopped.
But there’s no time to process that revelation because Priya’s already on the ice—skidding slightly in her sneakers on the slick surface, steadying herself and dropping to her knees beside where Carter’s curled on his side cradling his right shoulder, his face contorted with pain that makes Priya’s chest constrict with fear and professional assessment warring for dominance.
“I’m okay, just tweaked it—” Carter starts, clearly trying to minimize because that’s what hockey players do, that’s what captains do, push through pain and insist they’re fine even when they’re absolutely not fine.
“Shut up, let me check!” Priya cuts him off with the kind of sharp authority that brooks no argument, her hands already moving to his shoulder with careful precision, assessing range of motion and pain response and whether there’s structural damage or just severe bruising, her professional training taking over even as her heart pounds with terror that he’s seriously injured.
Carter goes quiet—lets her examine him without protest, his jaw clenched against pain but his body cooperative as Priya tests mobility and palpates for obvious breaks or dislocations—and she’s aware of the entire arena watching, of the refs giving them space, of Kevin hovering nearby ready to assist if needed, but all of that fades to background noise while Priya focuses entirely on Carter’s shoulder and determining how badly he’s hurt.
“Can you move it?” Priya asks, her professional voice steady even though inside she’s screaming with fear, even though the thought of Carter with a career-ending injury makes her want to cry, even though she’s supposed to be emotionally detached and clearly is nothing close to detached.
Carter rotates his shoulder carefully—winces with obvious pain but completes the motion, demonstrating that while it hurts like hell there’s probably not complete structural failure—and Priya feels relief crash over her so intensely that she has to take a breath to steady herself before continuing the assessment.
“Flexion?” Priya guides him through the movement, watching carefully for signs of instability or tearing, her hands gentle but thorough as she evaluates whether this is something they can manage with treatment or something that requires immediate imaging and possible surgery.
“Hurts but I can do it,” Carter says through gritted teeth, demonstrating forward and backward motion that’s restricted by pain but not mechanically impossible, suggesting severe strain rather than complete rupture.
Priya allows herself another moment of relief—this isn’t career-ending, probably isn’t even season-ending, likely just significant aggravation of his previous injury that will require rest and careful rehab but won’t permanently damage him—before refocusing on getting Carter off the ice and into the medical room where she can do proper evaluation.
“We’re getting you up,” Priya says, signaling Kevin to help support Carter’s other side. “Slow, careful, don’t try to use the arm.”
Carter nods—lets them help him to his feet with the kind of careful cooperation that proves he’s in serious pain because normally he’d be insisting he’s fine and trying to skate off under his own power—and Priya stays tucked against his left side supporting his weight while they navigate off the ice to thunderous applause from fans who are clearly relieved their captain isn’t being stretchered off.
The walk to the medical room feels endless—Carter’s breathing harsh with pain, his body heavy against Priya’s side, every step reminding her how close she is to him physically for the first time in months, how her body remembers his weight and warmth and presence in ways that have nothing to do with professional medical support—and by the time they get him settled on the exam table Priya’s hands are shaking slightly with the combined impact of professional stress and emotional overwhelm.
“Everyone out,” Priya says to the hovering staff—coaches and trainers who followed them back, clearly concerned about their captain but also clearly in the way—and her voice carries enough authority that they comply without argument, leaving just Priya and Carter alone in the medical room with the door closed and the noise of the ongoing game muffled to distant background.
Carter’s watching her—has been watching her since she ran onto the ice with terror written across her face, since she touched him with hands that shook despite her professional composure, since she snapped at him to shut up and let her check with the kind of fierce protectiveness that goes beyond medical responsibility—and when their eyes meet Priya sees recognition there, sees Carter understanding what her reaction revealed, sees him seeing that she still cares, still loves him, never actually stopped despite all her attempts to move on.
“I’m okay,” Carter says quietly, and then more gently, “I’m okay, Pri.”
The nickname hits like a physical blow—he hasn’t called her Pri in months, hasn’t used that casual affection since before everything fell apart, and hearing it now in his voice while she’s still terrified about his shoulder and emotionally raw from realizing she never stopped loving him makes tears spring to Priya’s eyes despite her best efforts to maintain professional composure.
“You can’t know that yet,” Priya says, her voice less steady than she’d like. “Need to do full evaluation. Check for tears or significant damage. You might need imaging.”
“Pri—” Carter starts, reaching for her with his good hand, clearly wanting to address the emotional elephant in the room rather than focus on medical assessment.
“Stop,” Priya cuts him off, stepping back before his touch can completely shatter her composure. “Let me do my job. We can—later. After I know you’re okay. Just let me do my job.”
Carter nods—settles back against the exam table and lets Priya continue her assessment, doesn’t push for personal conversation when she’s clearly using professional focus as shield against emotional vulnerability—and Priya’s grateful for his understanding even as she’s aware that this crisis has broken something open between them, has shattered her careful walls in ways that can’t be easily rebuilt.
She works methodically—checking range of motion more thoroughly than she could on the ice, palpating for specific areas of tenderness that might indicate tears versus strains, comparing to his baseline from previous assessments to determine how much function he’s lost—and tries to ignore the fact that touching Carter professionally is affecting her far more than it should, that being this close to him is making her hyperaware of his body in ways that have nothing to do with injury evaluation.
“Significant strain to the rotator cuff,” Priya says eventually, her diagnosis coming with relief that it’s not worse mixed with concern about recovery timeline. “Probably aggravated the previous injury. You’re going to need rest, aggressive PT, possibly imaging to rule out partial tears.”
“How long?” Carter asks, and Priya knows he means how long until he can play again, how much time he’ll miss, whether this affects their playoff chances.
“Minimum two weeks if it’s just strain. Longer if imaging shows anything worse.” Priya steps back, creating professional distance even though everything in her wants to stay close, wants to touch him for comfort rather than assessment, wants to admit that seeing him hurt terrified her in ways that have nothing to do with his hockey career. “You’re done for tonight. Probably done for the rest of December.”
Carter nods acceptance—doesn’t argue or try to minimize the way the old Carter might have, just accepts her professional judgment with the kind of trust that makes Priya’s chest ache—and they sit in heavy silence for a moment, the tension of everything unspoken filling the small medical room until it feels hard to breathe.
“You were scared,” Carter says finally, his voice gentle, his good hand still extended slightly like he wants to reach for her but is waiting for permission. “When I went down. You were terrified.”
Priya wants to deny it—wants to insist she was just professionally concerned, that her reaction was appropriate medical response rather than personal fear—but the lie won’t come, not when Carter saw her face on the ice, not when she ran to him without thinking, not when she’s still shaking slightly from the adrenaline crash and the emotional impact of confronting how much she still cares.
“Yes,” Priya admits quietly, the confession feeling monumental. “I was terrified. Thought you might be seriously hurt. Career-ending hurt.”
“But I’m okay,” Carter says, and there’s weight to the words that suggests he’s talking about more than just his shoulder, suggesting he’s referencing his therapy and growth and transformation. “I’m okay, Pri. In a lot of ways.”
Priya knows what he’s saying—knows he’s pointing out that his injury isn’t serious, that his life is better than it was, that he’s healed emotionally in ways that make physical injuries seem manageable—and wants to acknowledge that she’s seen his growth, that his letter mattered, that the last month of baby steps has been slowly convincing her that maybe his transformation is real.
“I know,” Priya says instead, the acknowledgment smaller than what Carter’s offering but all she can manage right now. “I can see that. That you’re—better.”
“Because of therapy,” Carter says, not letting her minimize his work. “Because I did what you needed me to do. What I needed to do for myself.”
“I know,” Priya repeats, tears threatening again because this conversation is happening now, in the medical room after a scary injury with the game still going on outside, when she’s emotionally vulnerable and her walls are down and she can’t hide behind professional distance anymore.
“Pri.” Carter says her name like a question, like a request, like he’s asking permission for something he’s been patient about for months. “Can we—can we talk? Really talk? Not about my shoulder but about us?”
“Not here,” Priya says, even though part of her wants to have this conversation now while her defenses are shattered, while the crisis has stripped away all her careful protection. “Not—I need time. Need to process. Need to not be at work having this conversation.”
“Okay,” Carter agrees immediately, no pressure, no pushing, just acceptance of her boundaries with the same patience he’s been demonstrating for months. “When you’re ready. No rush. I’ve waited this long, I can wait longer.”
The patience itself is evidence of his growth—the old Carter would have pushed, would have used this vulnerable moment to demand answers, would have tried to force conversation when Priya’s walls were down—and this Carter just respects her timeline, trusts that when she’s ready to talk she’ll tell him, demonstrates through continued action that his transformation is genuine.
“Thank you,” Priya says, grateful for his understanding even as she’s aware that “later” might come very soon, that her walls are too broken to fully rebuild, that seeing him hurt made her confront truths she’s been avoiding about still loving him.
The game outside ends—Blades won despite losing their captain mid-second period, the team rallying around adversity the way good teams do—and soon teammates start filtering back to check on Carter, their concern genuine and their presence providing buffer against the emotional intensity that’s been building in the medical room.
Priya slips into professional mode—explains Carter’s injury to the coaches, outlines the recovery plan, fields questions about timeline with the kind of clinical competence that hides how emotionally wrecked she feels—and manages to maintain composure until she can escape to her office alone and let the tears finally fall.
She scared herself today—not just with how terrified she was when Carter went down, but with how completely her professional detachment shattered, how thoroughly her carefully maintained walls crumbled under the crisis, how obvious it became that she never actually moved on from loving him despite all her attempts to protect her heart.
“Still loves him,” Priya whispers to her empty office, the admission feeling both devastating and inevitable. “Never stopped. Fuck.”
Her phone buzzes: Iris.
Saw the game. Is Carter okay? Are YOU okay?
Priya types back: He’ll be fine. Strained shoulder, needs rest. I’m—not fine. I’m really not fine.
The response comes immediately: Coming home. We’re talking.
Priya drives home in a daze—the adrenaline crash hitting hard now that the immediate crisis is over, her hands still shaking slightly on the steering wheel, her brain replaying Carter saying “I’m okay, Pri” with such gentle understanding, such patience, such evidence that he really has changed—and knows that Iris is right, they need to talk, Priya needs to process what today revealed.
Iris is already there when Priya arrives—having apparently left work early because best friends recognize emergencies even when they’re emotional rather than physical—and pulls Priya into a hug the moment she walks through the door.
“Tell me,” Iris says simply, guiding Priya to the couch.
“I still love him,” Priya says, the words coming out broken and scared. “I thought I was moving on, thought I was protecting myself, thought the walls were working. But the second I saw him go down I just—I ran. Didn’t think, didn’t hesitate, just ran to him because the thought of him being seriously hurt was unbearable.”
“Oh, Pri,” Iris says gently. “You’ve been in love with him this whole time. The walls weren’t protecting you from loving him, just from admitting it.”
“And he saw,” Priya continues, wiping at tears. “Saw how scared I was. Called me Pri for the first time in months. Asked if we could talk about us.”
“What did you say?”
“That I need time,” Priya admits. “That I can’t have that conversation at work. But Iris, I don’t think I need much time. I think—I think the walls were the only thing keeping me from giving him another chance. And now they’re gone.”
“So what are you going to do?” Iris asks.
Priya sits with the question—thinking about Carter’s transformation, about his letter explaining seven months of therapy, about his sustained patience and consistent demonstration of change, about how he looked at her today with such gentleness when she was terrified and vulnerable, about how he used her nickname like it was sacred, about how he respected her need for time even though he clearly wanted to have the conversation immediately—and knows that her decision is already made, has been making itself slowly over months of watching him become someone different, just needed today’s crisis to shatter the last protective barriers.
“I’m going to give him another chance,” Priya says, the decision feeling terrifying and right in equal measure. “I’m going to talk to him. Really talk. And if he’s genuine about everything—if his transformation is as real as it seems—I’m going to risk my heart one more time.”
“And if he breaks it again?” Iris asks gently.
“Then I’ll survive,” Priya says, echoing what Iris told her months ago. “I’ll hurt, but I’ll survive. But Iris, what if he doesn’t? What if this time is different? What if therapy actually worked and he’s become someone capable of loving me the way I need?”
“Then you’ll get your happy ending,” Iris says with a smile. “And Pri? I think he has changed. I think this time really is different.”
Priya hopes she’s right—hopes that Carter’s transformation is genuine, hopes that seven months of therapy produced real growth, hopes that giving him another chance won’t result in heartbreak—but even if hope is dangerous, even if trust is terrifying, even if love requires risk, Priya knows she’s ready to try.
Because seeing Carter hurt today broke something open in her chest that can’t be closed again, made her confront that she never stopped loving him, made her realize that protecting herself from potential pain also prevented the possibility of happiness.
And Priya’s tired of letting fear make her decisions.
Tired of maintaining walls that don’t actually protect her heart.
Tired of denying what she feels because it’s safer than risking it.
So she’s going to talk to Carter.
Going to give him the chance to prove his change is real.
Going to risk loving him one more time.
And hope—desperately, terrifyingly, genuinely—that this time, he’s ready to love her back.
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