Page 4 of Saddle Storm

“Surgery,” I say. It comes out with a heavy breath—like I didn’t already know.

“With any luck, it’s the bicep,” he says. “That’s manageable. You’re talkin’ weeks to get you moving again. If it’s shoulder—labrum, cuff—you’re out for the season.”

My stomach twists.

It’s a living nightmare, one that’s been on repeat for over a year.

Coach doesn’t sit. Which is fine. I don’t need sympathy or someone breaking my fate to me gently. “How long you been playing through the pain?”

My jaw ticks as I swallow back denial. “Early last season I . . . think I tore something again, I don’t know.” I spare a glance up at this blank expression. “It was fine until that.”

He rubs his chin and sits back with a breath. “Had my suspicions.” His eyes drop from mine and he shrugs. “But you’ve been making hits. We haven’t suffered.”

He lets the silence hang. Because . . . I have.

Suffered through the pain. The fear.

His eyes lock with mine again. “You taking anything?”

I know what he’s asking and I’m almost offended that he thinks I’m living on painkillers. I’m no idiot—I know athletes can be notorious for it. But I was raised depending on duct tape and walking it off—not reaching for a pill. “No, sir.”

He swivels in his seat, looking at the whiteboard. Zoning in on my number. My position.

“We’re calling up Levinsky for a few weeks. Maybe longer. Or until you’re cleared.”

I frown up at him as hope tugs in my gut. “Cleared?”

“Surgery isn’t a career ender, Thorne. Your name’s still on the board till I got a reason to strike it.”

“Is this not that reason?”

His eyes drop to my temporary sling. “It’s a reason to fix it,” he says. “One no one’s going to let you hide.”

I’m relieved he hasn’t pointed out the lie for the past year. But we both know he doesn’t have to.

“Doc booked you for some scans and a consult tomorrow morning,” Coach adds as he stands. “You’re going to go in there with an open mind and you’re going to let that arm heal.” He releases a breath, eyes dropping to the sling again. “And pray you didn’t just make it ten times worse.”

I stay silent as it all sinks in.

Surgery. No hockey. No certainty if I’ll ever get on the ice again.

The one thing I was good at. The one gift I’d been given. Gone before I even turn thirty.

“Where are you going to be during recovery?” He’s facing the board now, voice less sympathetic and more business as usual.

“The city,” I say immediately. My apartment. The view of concrete and the hum of traffic to drown out thinking about what this all means. Physical therapy down the street. Gym two blocks over. I’ll be fine. City life moves fast. This will too.

He turns to face me. “Thorne. You’ll need help. You’re bound to use that arm more than necessary if you’re alone.”

“I’m not going home,” I bite out.

My family’s ranch in Blue River Springs isn’t exactly home to me anymore. It was at one point. Back when I felt rooted to the land. When my older brothers and I tore through the fields like it was our own personal playground.

Until they were too old and had responsibilities I wasn’t exactly cut out for.

Not because I refused to learn my way around the ground and cattle. But because I wasn’t taught with the same energy they were. Heck, I was barely taught at all. Not the way my brothers were. By the time I was old enough to really help, things had changed. Mom had died. Dad was stretched thin. And somewhere along the way, the plan for me just . . . shifted.

It’s all good.