Saturday starts perfect, which should've been my first warning.
The bowling alley is one of those retro places that smells like nachos and regret, and the entire club hockey team has taken over six lanes. It's loud, chaotic, and everyone's already talking shit before we even start.
"Evan!" Sophie waves from lane three, already wearing the world's ugliest bowling shoes. "You're on my team."
"Is that allowed?"
"I'm making it allowed." She hands me shoes that are somehow worse than hers. "Also, I'm really bad at bowling, so don't expect much."
"Same."
Jax, Ollie, Sam, Maya, and Lena show up twenty minutes late with a case of energy drinks that's definitely not allowed in here.
"We come bearing gifts," Jax announces, distributing cans like he's handing out communion.
"You can't have outside drinks," the guy at the counter says.
"These are emotional support energy drinks," Maya replies without missing a beat. "For my anxiety."
The guy looks at her, looks at the drinks, and gives up. "Whatever."
The bowling is exactly as terrible as expected. Sophie throws three gutter balls in a row, I somehow hit the pins next to our lane, and Marcus—the team captain—bowls a strike while doing a handstand.
"THAT DOESN'T COUNT!" someone yells.
"IT ABSOLUTELY COUNTS!" Marcus yells back.
By the third frame, nobody's keeping score anymore and it's devolved into chaos. Someone's trying to bowl backwards, Ollie's hacked the screen to display memes instead of scores, and Jax is attempting to teach Sophie his "technique," which mostly involves yelling and throwing the ball as hard as possible.
"This is the worst tutorial I've ever received," Sophie says, laughing.
"You're just not embracing the chaos," Jax argues.
I'm sitting next to her, watching everyone lose their minds, and she leans over.
"This is fun," she says.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She smiles, and it's the kind of smile that makes my chest feel weird. "Your friends are insane, but in a good way."
"They grow on you."
"Like mold."
"Exactly like mold."
Maya appears behind us with her notebook. "You two are disgustingly cute."
"We're not—" I start.
"Save it. I'm documenting this." She writes something down. "Chapter five: The bowling incident where they—"
"There's chapters now?" Sophie asks.
"There have always been chapters. Keep up." Maya walks away, still writing.
"She's something else," Sophie says.
"That's one way to put it."
We end up not winning—Marcus's team destroys everyone—but nobody cares. We get nachos that are 90% cheese, someone breaks a bowling ball (don't ask), and by the time we leave, I feel like I've known these people forever instead of a week.
"First game tomorrow," Marcus reminds everyone as we're heading out. "Don't be late, don't be hungover, and don't embarrass me."
"No promises!" someone yells back.
Sophie walks out with me, hands in her pockets. "You nervous about tomorrow?"
"Terrified."
"You'll be great. You've been killing it in practice."
"Practice is different from a real game."
"Not that different." She bumps my shoulder. "Just do what you've been doing. Trust your instincts."
"What if my instincts are wrong?"
"Then you fall on your ass and get back up." She stops at the path that splits toward her dorm. "That's the whole thing about hockey, right? It's not about not falling. It's about getting back up."
"That's very wise."
"I'm very wise." She grins. "Good luck tomorrow. I'll be there."
"Yeah?"
"Obviously. Someone's gotta watch you either become a legend or completely eat shit."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Anytime, Ross."
She heads toward her dorm and I watch her go, that weird feeling in my chest getting stronger.
"You're staring," Jax says, appearing next to me.
"No I'm not."
"You're absolutely staring." He grins. "It's cool, man. She's cool."
"We're just friends."
"Sure. And I'm just a casual gym enjoyer." He starts walking. "Come on, we gotta get you ready for tomorrow. Mentally prepare you and shit."
"How do you mentally prepare for hockey?"
"I have no idea, but we'll figure it out."
Sunday morning, 11 AM. Game time.
The rink is packed—way more packed than I expected for a club hockey game. Students, parents, even some people who definitely don't go here. The energy is insane.
I'm in the locker room getting dressed, and my hands won't stop shaking.
"You good?" Marcus asks, sitting next to me.
"Define 'good.'"
"Fair." He taps my shin pads. "Look, first game's always nerve-wracking. But you've got this. You're one of the best players on this team and you've been playing for a week. That's insane. Just go out there and do your thing."
"What if I forget how to skate?"
"Then we'll laugh at you and move on." He stands up. "But you won't. Trust me."
Coach Williams comes in for the pre-game talk. "Alright, boys. This is Riverside. Same team that talked shit all last year. Same team that beat us in overtime. Same team that made our captain cry."
"I didn't cry!" Marcus protests.
"You absolutely cried. I have video evidence." Coach looks around. "Point is, we're better than them. We've been working our asses off, and today we prove it. Ross—" He points at me. "You're starting."
"Wait, what?"
"You heard me. Right wing, first line. Don't fuck it up."
My stomach drops. "Coach, I've never—"
"And that's exactly why you're starting. You don't have bad habits to unlearn. You just play." He claps his hands. "Let's go. Show time."
We file out to the tunnel and I can hear the crowd. It's deafening. My heart's pounding so hard I think it might explode.
"Breathe," Marcus says from behind me. "Just breathe."
The lights in the tunnel dim. The music cuts out. Everything goes quiet for half a second.
Then the announcer's voice booms through the speakers, and it's got that movie trailer quality to it, deep and dramatic.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN..."
The bass drops. The lights start strobing.
"MAKING HIS FIRST APPEARANCE IN A NORTHWOOD UNIFORM..."
The crowd starts buzzing. I can feel my teammates grinning behind me even though I can't see them.
"FROM PARTS UNKNOWN, STANDING AT SIX FEET OF PURE NATURAL TALENT..."
"They're really selling this," I mutter.
"Just go with it," Marcus laughs.
"THE MYSTERY. THE LEGEND. THE FRESHMAN WHO COULDN'T SKATE A WEEK AGO..."
The crowd starts chanting something. It takes me a second to realize they're chanting "CHOSEN ONE, CHOSEN ONE."
What the fuck.
"NUMBER SEVENTY-SEVEN... EVAAAAAN 'THE CHOSEN ONE' ROOOOOSS!"
The tunnel explodes with light—blue and gold spotlights sweeping across the ice. The music kicks back in, some heavy bass track that makes my chest vibrate. Smoke machines I didn't know existed start pumping out fog that rolls across the ice like something out of a concert.
"GO!" Marcus shoves me forward.
I skate out and the noise is insane. It's not just loud—it's physical. The entire rink is shaking. Students are on their feet, screaming, banging on the glass. Someone's set off an air horn. The drum line from the pep band is going absolutely feral.
The spotlight follows me as I do a lap, and I've never felt more exposed and more alive at the same time. I can see faces in the crowd—people I don't know, chanting my name, my NUMBER, like I'm somebody.
I'm nobody. I've played hockey for a week.
But right now, in this moment, with the lights and the smoke and the noise, I feel like maybe I could be somebody.
I spot my crew in the stands. Jax has completely lost his mind—he's shirtless with "ROSS 77" painted across his chest in massive letters, screaming so loud his face is red. Ollie's holding a sign that says "THE PROPHECY IS REAL" with a terrible drawing of me with a hockey stick and a halo. Sam's waving a Northwood flag like she's at the Olympics. Maya and Lena are filming everything, probably for Maya's research or whatever.
And there's Sophie, front row, wearing a Northwood hoodie and smiling so big it makes my chest tight.
She cups her hands around her mouth and yells something I can't hear over the noise, but I read her lips.
"YOU GOT THIS."
The rest of the team skates out behind me to their own announcements, but nothing like mine. Marcus gets "YOUR CAPTAIN, NUMBER 12," and everyone cheers, but it's not the same.
They made ME into something. A character. A story.
The Chosen One.
It should feel ridiculous. It should feel like too much pressure.
But as I line up for the anthem, stick on the ice, surrounded by teammates and noise and energy, I realize it doesn't feel like pressure at all.
It feels like destiny.
That weird chest feeling is back, but this time it's not anxiety. It's something else.
Something bigger.
The puck drops.
Everything goes quiet in my head. It's just me, the ice, and the game.
And holy shit, it feels right.
First shift, I touch the puck twice and set up a shot that goes just wide. Second shift, I steal the puck at the blue line and feed it to Marcus for a goal.
The crowd loses their minds.
"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!" Coach yells from the bench.
By the end of the first period, we're up 2-0 and I've got an assist. I'm not thinking anymore—just reacting, reading plays, moving like I've been doing this forever.
Second period, I score my first goal. It's a dirty one—bouncing off a defender's skate and trickling past the goalie—but it counts.
Jax is screaming so loud I can hear him over everyone else.
"YOU'RE A FUCKING SUPERSTAR!" he yells, probably getting us a noise violation.
We're up 4-1 going into the third period. The energy's electric. We're dominating. Everything's perfect.
That's when it happens.
I pick up the puck in our zone and start moving up ice. I see an opening, cut toward the center, and I'm flying. Nobody's catching me. I can feel it—this is going to be the goal of the game.
I'm at the blue line when I see him too late.
Their defenseman—number 44, built like a fucking truck—is coming in from my blind side. I try to adjust, try to protect myself, but I'm going too fast.
The hit is catastrophic.
He catches me shoulder-to-shoulder and drives me straight into the boards. My head snaps sideways, my body crumples, and I hear something crack.
Not the boards.
Me.
I hit the ice and everything goes white. Not black—white. Like someone turned the brightness up to maximum. There's ringing in my ears, muffled voices, and pain. So much pain.
"EVAN!"
Someone's shaking me. I can't see properly. Everything's blurry.
"Don't move him!"
"Get the trainer!"
"EVAN, CAN YOU HEAR ME?"
I try to respond but nothing comes out. My shoulder's on fire. My head's spinning. I can taste copper—blood, probably.
I blink and Sophie's face appears above me. She looks terrified.
"Hey, hey, stay with me," she's saying, and her voice sounds far away. "You're okay. You're gonna be okay."
I try to tell her I'm fine but my mouth won't work right.
The rink's silent now. Everyone's watching. The referee's calling for the stretcher.
No. No, not a stretcher. That's bad. That means it's bad.
"Sophie—" I manage to croak out.
"I'm here. I'm right here." She's holding my hand and I didn't even realize. "Don't talk. Just breathe."
The trainer arrives with the medical team. They're asking me questions—what's your name, what day is it, can you move your fingers—and I'm trying to answer but everything's foggy.
They stabilize my neck. That's when I know it's serious.
"We're taking you to the hospital," someone says. "Just stay calm."
I'm on the stretcher now. They're wheeling me off the ice and the crowd's applauding—that respectful, scared applause that happens when someone gets hurt bad.
I see my friends in the stands. Jax isn't smiling anymore. Ollie looks like he's going to cry. Sam's got her hands over her mouth. Maya's notebook is closed.
And Sophie's skating next to the stretcher, still holding my hand.
"I'm coming with you," she tells the EMT.
"Are you family?"
"I'm his—" She hesitates. "I'm coming with him."
The EMT doesn't argue.
The ambulance ride is a blur. Lights, sirens, Sophie's voice in my ear telling me to stay awake. My shoulder's definitely broken—I can feel it now, the wrongness of it, how it's sitting at an angle that bones shouldn't sit.
"Scale of one to ten, what's your pain?" the EMT asks.
"Fifteen."
"He's got a sense of humor. Good sign."
At the hospital, they take me straight to imaging. X-rays, CT scan, all of it. Sophie's not allowed in, but she's right outside the door every time they wheel me out.
"Still alive?" she asks when they bring me back to the room.
"Unfortunately."
She laughs, but it's shaky. "They said your coach and teammates are in the waiting room. It's like thirty people."
"Jesus."
"Yeah." She sits in the chair next to my bed. "That was scary, Evan."
"I know."
"Like, really scary. You weren't moving. You weren't answering." Her voice cracks a little. "I thought—"
"I'm okay," I say, even though I'm definitely not okay.
"You're not okay. You're in a hospital."
"Fair point."
The doctor comes in before she can say anything else. She's got the kind of face that tells you the news isn't good before she even speaks.
"Evan Ross?" she asks, checking her chart.
"That's me."
"I'm Dr. Patel. So, the good news: no head trauma, no spinal damage. You got very, very lucky."
"And the bad news?"
"You have a severe shoulder separation. Grade three AC joint separation, to be specific. You've torn the ligaments that hold your collarbone to your shoulder blade."
The room goes quiet.
"What does that mean?" Sophie asks.
"It means surgery, extensive physical therapy, and a recovery period of four to six months minimum." Dr. Patel looks at me. "You're not playing hockey anytime soon."
The words hit harder than the check that put me here.
Four to six months.
Not playing hockey.
The thing I just discovered I'm good at—the thing that's made the last week feel like I finally found something—is gone.
"Can he recover fully?" Sophie asks when I don't say anything.
"With proper treatment and therapy, yes. But it's a long road. And there's always a risk of re-injury, especially in contact sports."
Dr. Patel goes through the surgery details, the recovery timeline, the physical therapy schedule. I'm nodding but not really hearing it.
After she leaves, Sophie and I just sit there.
"Evan," she finally says.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"I know." I stare at the ceiling. "I just... I finally found something I'm good at. Something that felt right. And now it's—"
"Not gone," she interrupts. "Delayed. There's a difference."
"Six months, Sophie. That's the whole season. That's—" My voice breaks and I hate it. "That's everything."
She doesn't say anything, just reaches over and takes my hand again.
We sit like that for a while, the hospital sounds filling the silence—beeping machines, distant conversations, the hum of fluorescent lights.
"I'll be here," she says quietly. "Through the surgery, through PT, through all of it. You're not doing this alone."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to. I want to." She squeezes my hand. "That's what friends do, right?"
Friends. Right.
Even now, with everything falling apart, that word stings a little.
But I don't have the energy to think about what that means.
My phone buzzes. It's the group chat, flooded with messages.
Jax: bro we're all here
Jax: they won't let us in but we're here
Ollie: i smuggled in snacks if you're hungry
Sam: sending healing energy 🙏
Maya: I'm not good at this stuff but
Maya: we're not leaving until we see you
Lena: what maya said
I show Sophie the messages and she smiles.
"You've got good people."
"Yeah," I say. "I really do."
But as I lie there, shoulder throbbing, future uncertain, I can't shake the feeling that everything just changed.
One week ago, I didn't know what I wanted.
Now I know exactly what I want, and I can't have it.
Not for six months.
Maybe not ever, if I can't come back from this.
The thought sits in my chest like a weight, heavy and cold.
Sophie stays until visiting hours end, until the nurses kick her out. She promises to come back tomorrow, to bring the others, to not let me wallow alone.
After she leaves, the room feels too quiet.
I close my eyes and see it again—the hit, the boards, the white light, Sophie's terrified face.
Everything ends, I think. Even the good parts.
Especially the good parts.