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Three minutes into the first period, Chan taps his stick twice against the boards, and Changbin is already moving to stand.
“D-Zone,” Chan says as he passes, voice low. “They’re stacking the left side.”
Changbin nods, and hits the ice. He plants himself in front of the net, ultimately the worst place to be right now. And just exists there for a moment. The first shot comes fast, and he drops down without thinking. The puck slams into his thigh. It blooms pain immediately, bright and hot, but he’s already pushing back up. He skates back to the bench like nothing happened, twenty-eight seconds.
Felix whistles. “You good?”
Changbin grins, all teeth. “Felt like a love tap.”
This is how it always goes. He gets limited minutes, and the hardest jobs. Changbin starts in the defensive zone more than anyone else. Commentators like to call him gritty but expendable. He hears it on the broadcast and he hears it during interviews. It always sat strange with him, that word, but he never digs into the feeling. He just lets it simmer at the surface.
Midway through the second, the game gets mean. The rival team presses harder, and one of their defensemen drives Changbin into the boards with enough force to rattle his bones. The crowd roars, and Changbin pushes himself back off the glass in seconds.
“Thirty more seconds.” Chan mumbles as they pass each other on the ice.
Changbin sighs. Yeah, thirty more seconds of hell. He wins a board battle during this timeslot, digs the puck out with a shoulder jammed under someone’s ribs, shovels it up the wall. His lungs burn by the time he makes his way back to the bench, sweat sticking to his forehead.
Jisung bumps his knee with a glove, looking half fond and half horrified. “You’re insane.”
Changbin snorts. “You’re welcome.”
*
Mid season games usually blur together, but this one already feels a bit more buzzed than usual. The arena is loud, every whistle getting booed and every hit earning large cheers. It’s these games that Changbin thrives.
His first shift, he finishes a clean check that rattles the glass. Second shift, he blocks a pass with his skate and clears. Limited minutes, like usual.
Chan taps him into his third shift. “Watch twenty-three. He’s been circling the last two times you were out.”
The game is currently tied, late into the second. 1-1. The crowd is absolutely buzzing. Changbin wins a draw in the defensive zone, and the puck kicks to the corner. He follows after it, shoulders down and skating along the boards. The puck skirts free to the opposing team's winger, who chips it up the wall, and Changbin isn’t near it anymore. The opposing forward, number twenty-three, cuts across late. The puck is already gone. Changbin has turned, weight shifting, eyes tracking the play up-ice.
He never sees the hit coming. It’s high, and it’s late, and it’s wrong. Twenty-three launches, shoulder and forearm driving straight into the side of Changbin’s head. Changbin’s body lifts off his skates and slams backward onto the ice. His helmet snaps against the surface harshly, and Changbin doesn’t move once he’s down.
His stick slides away from his gloves, spinning lazily before settling somewhere near the blue line. Chan is across the red line when it happens. He hears it before he understands it, the shift in crowd noise, and then the whistle. He turns, and Changbin is down. His body goes cold.
The next thing he knows he’s there, dropping to his knees hard and ripping his gloves off. “Bin. Bin.”
No response. Changbin’s eyes are closed, and there’s a thin smear of red near his temple where helmet met ice.
“Hey,” Chan tries again, tapping Changbin’s cheek lightly. “Binnie. Eyes open.”
A trainer nudges him aside, professional and calm. “Captain, give us space.”
Chan shifts back on his heels obediently, but doesn’t leave. He can’t. They take Changbin’s helmet off and check his pupils. Another trainer brings a stretcher out, and they lift him carefully.
Number twenty-three is being escorted to the box, fans raining fury down from the stands. But it doesn’t matter. Changbin isn’t waking up.
The game resumes because it has to, and Chan feels like he’s underwater as he skates. His mind keeps replaying it on loop: how slack Changbin’s body was. They finish the second period down a goal.
In the locker room, no one speaks. Jisung is pacing, and Felix is staring at the floor with absent eyes. Minho is rigid where he sits, looking vaguely murderous. Coach says something about keeping focus, but Chan barely hears it. He stands in front of his locker, helmet still on and gloves on the bench beside him. His hands are shaking, and he can’t get them to stop. He should have seen it coming. He should have—
The door opens, and one of the trainers steps in. Every eye is immediately on him.
“He’s stable,” the trainer says quickly. “He regained consciousness briefly on the way to the hospital, he’s being evaluated now. We’ll update you as soon as we know more.”
Third period is vicious. They tie it with six minutes left, and overtime stretches long and tight, neither team willing to back down. They end up winning, but no one celebrated properly. Chan taps gloves mechanically as they skate through the line, and doesn’t look at the other captain when they pass.
He goes straight for his phone once they’re all back in the locker room, finding one new message from their trainer. CT pending, he has a concussion. Monitoring overnight.
The room around him buzzes with low conversation, but it feels distant, like he’s underwater again. Fourth line, hardest shifts. Changbin had gone down like he always did, no hesitation and no complaints. But this time he didn’t get back up, and Chan can’t stop seeing it.
*
Felix is the first in Changbin’s hospital room when they’re told they’re allowed to visit, in street clothes and eyes wide. He hovers near the doorway anxiously. “Hey.”
Changbin gives him a tired smile. “Did we win?”
Felix’s face crumples for a moment before he schools it back to something stable. “Yeah. Overtime.”
“Good.” Changbin whispers.
Felix steps closer, fingers twisting in his hoody sleeves. “You scared us.”
Changbin shrugs, aiming for a joke. “Just decided I needed a nap on the ice.”
Felix humors him with a laugh, but doesn’t stay long, letting some of the others shift in.
Jisung comes in next, filling the room with his voice, recounting the goal during overtime in vivid, unnecessary detail. He squeezes Changbin’s hand once before he leaves, not saying anything mushy.
Minho doesn’t say much at first either, face set into a glare. “You’re an idiot.”
Changbin snorts. “You love me.”
Minho glowers. “Yeah.”
Changbin sighs softly, wincing. “I should’ve seen the hit coming.”
Minho doesn’t hesitate. “Uh, no. You shouldn’t have.”
“I’m supposed to.”
“You’re supposed to play hockey. Not survive assault.”
That earns him the ghost of a smile. Minho reaches out, hesitates for a half a second, then flicks Changbin’s forehead gently. Flicks is a harsh word. It’s more like a love tap.
“Getting hurt happens. Just heal, kid.”
“I hate sitting out.” Changbin admits. “Makes me feel useless.”
Minho studies him for a long moment. “You’re concussed. Your brain is literally bruised or whatever. Maybe don’t trust its opinions right now.”
Changbin laughs quietly. “Right, thanks.”
Minho steps back toward the chair but doesn’t sit. “You want to know what useless looks like? It looks like coming back too early and getting hit again and not remembering your own name. If you try to rush this and screw yourself long term, I will physically fight you.”
Minho grabs his jacket off the chair where he set it, and heads toward the door without waiting for a response. “Rest.”
Hyunjin and Seungmin come in together, and then Jeongin. Coach does as well, stiff and formal, but also visibly relieved. They all ask the same questions.
Do you remember? Yes.
How many fingers? Three, get out of my face—
Are you dizzy? A little.
Does it hurt? Duh.
By late evening, the visits fizz out, and the room goes quiet again. A doctor finally comes in with a tablet tucked under his arm. “Your CT scan came back. The good news is there’s no skull fracture, and no significant bleeding. Just a moderate concussion. Your ribs, two fractures. Painful, but they should heal well without surgery.”
Changbin stares at the ceiling despondently. “How long?”
“For the concussion, we’ll monitor symptoms closely. No contact activity for four weeks depending on recovery. The ribs are six to eight weeks.”
Six to eight weeks. The season doesn’t pause for six to eight weeks. The doctor keeps talking about rest protocol and follow-ups, and something about light sensitivity. Changbin doesn’t absorb any of it. Inside, something hollow opens up. Six to eight weeks. The door clicks shut behind the doctor, and Changbin is left in silence.
Only a few minutes go by until there’s another knock on his door, and Chan steps in. He’s in team-issued sweats, and his hair is still damp like he took a shower before getting here and didn’t let it dry properly. For a second they just look at each other.
“You look like shit.” Changbin rasps.
Chan huffs. “You look worse.” He closes the door gently behind him, and unlike the others, doesn’t hover in the room awkwardly. He pulls the chair right up beside the bed and sits. “How bad?”
“Moderate concussion.” Changbin answers. “Two ribs. No bleed, CT’s clean.”
Chan nods, and then looks down at his hands. There’s a faint bruise forming across his knuckles. Changbin doesn’t remember him throwing a punch, so it must've happened after he got wheeled off the ice.
“I should’ve seen it.” Chan murmurs.
Changbin frowns. “Seen what?”
“He kept circling you. I knew that, and I still sent you out.”
“That’s my job.” Changbin says, softer now. “The hard minutes. You trust me with them.”
Chan eyes lift, sharp. “I trust you not to get your head taken off.” He exhales through his nose, slow and shaky, and then continues quieter. “They’re suspending him. League already announced it.”
It’s silent for a moment before Changbin breaks it. “Six to eight weeks.”
“We’ll manage.” Chan reassures.
Changbin laughs. “I’m fourth line. Call-up’ll be fine.”
Chan’s expression goes firm. “You think that’s what this is? Changbin, I don’t care what that stat sheet says. I don’t care what the commentators say about you. You take the worst minutes so the rest of us can focus on winning the game. You’re not expendable, don’t even start that shit with me.”
*
Changbin watches the next game from the sideline, and he fucking despises it. Next to him, one of the assistant coaches flips through a tablet, occasionally mumbling notes to himself. The call-up is on the ice instead of him. Number forty-two. He’d shaken Changbin’s hand before warmups, eyes wide and grateful if not a little terrified.
His first shift is a defensive zone start. Changbin’s normal. The puck drops, and forty-two ties his man up cleanly. Wins the board battle in the corner, and chips the puck out under pressure.
The assistant coach nods in approval. “Good composure.”
Later, during a penalty kill, Chan sends him out again. Forty-two holds position in front of the net, and shoves a forward out of the crease with a solid push. It’s seamless.
Between periods, the camera sweeps the bench. Chan’s mouth moves, focused, eyes sharp as he diagrams something in the air. He taps forty-two’s shoulder in passing, and Changbin’s stomach twists. It’s fine, this is fine. He’s supposed to feel proud, but instead he feels like he’s watching someone try on his skin and discovering it fits just fine.
The assistant coach glances at Changbin. “Kid’s adapting fast. Helps that the system is simple.”
Simple. Right. If it’s that easy… Changbin doesn’t move as he watches the players file off the ice. He watches Chan linger at the boards, speaking briefly to forty-two. The kid nods, face bright and still breathing hard from adrenaline. He looks grateful, and it makes Changbin feel sour. Changbin remembers being like that. Back when limited minutes felt like an opportunity instead of a ceiling.
After the game is over, and he’s alone in his apartment later that night, he opens the team app on his phone. Forty-two logged twelve minutes tonight. Changbin averages eleven. His name is still listed as injured reserve, and beneath it, forty-two’s name glows bright. He stares at the screen until his eyes blur. If someone else can step into your minutes and the world keeps spinning, what are you for?
*
Changbin sits on the edge of a treatment table, shirt off and ribs taped tight. The bruising has faded from violent purple to a sickly yellow green. There’s no dizziness, his head feeling fairly clear. The concussion symptoms have faded to a faint echo.
“Non-contact only,” the trainer reminds him. “You’re ahead of schedule, but that doesn’t mean you’re fully healed.”
Coach steps into the rehab room without knocking, holding a tablet and looking tired. “How we feeling?”
“Fine.” Changbin answers immediately.
The trainer shoots him a dirty look. “Improving.”
Coach nods, glancing between the two of them. “We’ve got a tight stretch coming up. We could use your edge. Not full minutes, just… we’ll keep it limited.”
“Yes.” Changbin shoots before the trainer can intervene.
Coach studies him. “We’ll need clearance.”
“I’ll pass whatever test you want.”
The trainer crosses his arms. “He’s still healing.”
“I know my body.” Changbin snaps.
Coach doesn’t commit to anything, but nods slowly. “We’ll talk to medical again. See what’s possible.”
Later, in the locker room before the game, Changbin dresses in partial gear for the warmups.
Forty-two glances at him, surprised. “You skating?”
“Just warmups.” Changbin says, lacing up.
Warmups go fine. His ribs protest on sharp turns, but it’s manageable. He fires a few light shots at the end, careful not to twist too hard.
In the hallway outside the locker room, he catches Coach in quiet conversation with the head trainer.
“…could put him in.” Coach is saying. “Limited time, ten minutes max.”
“He’s not cleared for contact. You’re gambling with a head injury.” The trainer argues.
“These games are important.” Coach grumbles.
Changbin steps into their line of sight. “I’m good. I can play.”
Before Coach can answer, another voice cuts in.
“No.” Chan. He stands a few feet back, arms crossed and jaw set.
Coach sighs. “Captain—”
“He’s not cleared.” Chan interrupts evenly.
“He’s close,” Coach counters. “We can manage his minutes.”
Chan shakes his head. “No. Not happening.”
“I can play. You need the matchups tonight.” Changbin insists.
“I need you next month, not tonight.” Chan snips.
“It’s my decision too.” Changbin snaps back.
Chan doesn’t waver. “Not with a concussion it’s not.”
Coach runs a hand over his face. “We could use him.”
“And if he takes another hit?” Chan asks, voice steel. “If he’s out for the season instead of a few weeks?”
Coach hesitates, looking between them both, before sighing. “Fine. We stick with forty-two.”
He claps Changbin on the shoulder as he walks away, the trainer following.
Changbin turns on Chan. “You don’t get to bench me.”
“I’m not losing you for an entire season over an unimportant game.”
The game doesn’t go well, at all. Forty-two isn’t bad, but he struggles under the pressure a bit in ways that Changbin wouldn’t. They lose 4-2, and the horn sounds to a chorus of boos.
The media waits outside the locker room like sharks.
Why wasn’t Changbin put in?
Captain, was that your call?
Does the team still trust your decisions?
The noise is just as bad on social media.
Soft leadership
Cost them the game
Overprotective
Why not play him?
Changbin corners Chan in the hall again once the building has cleared. “I couldn’t played ten minutes. Eight. Hell, five. You think I can’t handle five minutes?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“The point is your brain got slammed into the ice two weeks ago.” Chan growls.
Changbin’s chest tightens. “You didn’t want to risk it because you feel bad.”
Chan glares at him. “What are you saying?”
“Because I went down on your watch. Because you think you owe me something. You knew you needed me this game, and you still said no. You don’t get to decide that I sit, you don’t get to bench me because you feel guilty.” Changbin argues, infuriated.
Chan’s eyes flash. “This isn’t about guilt.”
“Then what is it, Chan?”
Chan takes a step closer. “You’re not ready.”
“I’m fourth line.” Changbin says bitterly. “I’m not some precious player that avoids bumps and bruises, you’re being stupid. I take the hits no one else wants. It’s my job.”
“It’s not your job to get hurt.”
“It kind of is!” Changbin fires back. “That’s what I'm for.”
“That’s what you’re for.” Chan repeats in disbelief. “You think that’s it?”
Changbin exhales hard. “If someone else can take my minutes and we don’t fall apart, then yeah. That’s it. If it’s that easy to fill in, then what am I? I’m not first line, I’m not scoring goals. I take the worst shifts and I get hurt doing it. If anyone can do that, then I’m replaceable. Forty-two played fine. Good, even. You didn’t need me, so you said no.”
“I need you healthy.” Chan insists. He steps closer again, close enough now that Changbin can see the exhaustion etched under his eyes. “When you went down, I thought you weren’t getting up. I don’t care what line you’re on, I don’t care what the stat sheet says. You are not a piece I shuffle around to win one stupid game.”
Changbin’s chest is still tight. “You don’t get it. If I can’t give you those minutes, then I’m not—”
“Not what?” Chan demands.
“Not necessary.”
Chan looks vaguely hurt, and it confuses Changbin. “You’re the reason the rest of us can play the way we do. You think I rely on you because I feel sorry for you? I rely on you because I trust you. Because when the game gets ugly, you don’t even flinch. Because you’d rather get stitched up than let someone else take that hit. That’s not pity, Changbin.”
Changbin’s vision blurs at the edges, and he blinks hard to get rid of it. “You can’t bench me, Chan.”
“You’re not risking your brain for a Tuesday night game.”
The hallway is quiet again, their anger now burning out into something raw.
“I could’ve helped.” Changbin whispers. “And now everyone thinks you made the wrong call.”
“They can think that.”
Changbin searches his face. “You’re really okay with that?”
“If the alternative is you back in a hospital bed? Yeah.” The certainty in his voice is infuriating.
*
The rink is empty when Chan texts him.
Come here, it says. No other explanation.
It’s past ten, and the building is quiet, lights dimmed to half power. Changbin almost doesn’t go, feeling petty. But he does anyway.
He shows up in sweats and sneakers, Chan already inside. He’s not in any gear either, skates unlaced and hanging loose in his hands.
“I’m not cleared.” Changbin says automatically.
“I know.”
“Then why am I here?”
Chan doesn’t answer, just drops onto the bench and starts lacing his skates. “Put some on.”
Changbin stares. “What?”
“Skates, Changbin.”
Changbin hesitates, but in the end, sits and laces his skates up. They step onto the ice together after, Changbin gliding carefully. They skate in mostly silence for a while, taking slow arcs and easy turns.
“This is stupid.” He grumbles eventually.
“Probably.” Chan agrees.
They circle the neutral zone, Changbin’s ribs tugging when he takes deep breaths, but the pain is manageable. He’s just moving, no contact, so technically he’s following medical instruction.
After a few laps, Chan slows down to complete stop, and Changbin slows with him, both steadying themselves near the boards.
“You think your value starts and ends with what shows up on a stat sheet.” Chan says abruptly.
Changbin looks away, gaze shifting to the empty stands. “If someone else can take my minutes and nothing changes, does it really matter?”
Chan pushes off and skates closer to him, stopping only a foot away. “You think I build this team around stats?”
“You kind of have to.”
“I build it around trust.”
Changbin snorts softly. “That’s cute.”
“I build strategy around you.” Chan blurts.
Changbin frowns, confused. “What?”
“When we’re planning matchups, I pencil you in first for defensive zone starts. I know you’ll eat those minutes so I can deploy offense on better ice.” Chan explains, voice steady. “You think that’s easy to replace? You think I just trust anyone with that?”
Forty-two’s face flashes through Changbin’s mind. “He did fine.”
“Fine, yeah.” Chan agrees. “He did fine. But I don’t have years of experience with him. I don’t know how he reacts when the game gets nasty. I don’t know if he can take a bad bounce and not spiral. With you, I know. You’re the foundation, Bin. Fuck the stat sheet.”
Changbin’s vision blurs, and he blinks hard to get it to go away. It doesn’t help. The first tear catches him off guard, spilling over before he can stop it and cutting a warm line down his cheek.
Chan freezes. “Oh,” he says, panicked. “Hey. Hey.”
Changbin laughs, wet. “Stop, don’t.”
“I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“You didn’t, it’s fine.”
Changbin hates that his chest is stuttering and he can’t control it. This is stupid. He has taken so many hits without making a sound, and now he’s crying?
Chan looks genuinely alarmed. “I’ve never seen you cry.”
“Congratulations.” Changbin mumbles, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.”
Chan steps closer without thinking, grabbing his shoulder. “Then what?”
“I thought,” Changbin starts, then stops, shaky. “I thought if someone else could do it, I wasn’t necessary.”
Chan’s grip tightens. “I don’t need you because no one else can skate like you, I need you because you’re who I look for when things get bad. When you went down, the whole team was freaked out. Not just because we lost a player, but because it was you.”
Changbin’s face crumples before he can stop it, a small sob leaving him.
Chan’s eyes widen. “Okay. Okay. That’s fine. This is fine.”
Changbin lets out a watery laugh through the tears. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not.” Chan insists, clearly making it weird. “I just… you don’t cry.”
“Apparently I do.”
Chan hesitates, and then pulls him into a hug. He’s gentle about it, being careful of his ribs. He wraps his arms around his back, firm and grounding. Changbin stiffens for half a second, and then folds right into it. He presses his forehead into Chan’s shoulder, the fabric of the elder’s hoodie soaking up his tears. They stand like that for a while, breathing in sync. Eventually, Changbin pulls back, scrubbing at his face.
“You’re never telling anyone about this.”
Chan’s mouth twitches. “About what?”
“Good.”
*
When Changbin is finally allowed back in the game, the weight of it all feels different. Chan skates past him during a drill, shoulder bumping his slightly.
“You good?” Chan asks.
Changbin nods, and it’s not a lie. He’s on limited minutes tonight, and is supposed to be taking easy shifts instead of hard ones. Easing back in safely, keeping it manageable.
Each lineup gets announced while they’re warming up, but when the announcer reaches his name, something unexpected happens. The crowd gets loud. Louder than he’s ever heard for himself. Changbin blinks behind his visor. Huh.
On the bench, Felix grins at him. “Told you.”
“Told me what?”
“People missed you.”
Changbin snorts softly. “All I do is block shots.”
“You disappeared, and people noticed a difference.” Felix counters. “They’re excited to have you back.”
They win this game, and it’s a good one overall. The first one that feels complete since Changbin went down. And for the first time in a while, Changbin feels confident in his place, and confident in his team.