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John Logan was an enforcer for the Briar Hawks, meaning he protected his guys, and many times, took the hits on the ice for them. He was no stranger to pain, and thanks to his mom’s addiction and numerous trips to rehab, he had a pretty strict policy of muscling his way through it without touching anything stronger than ibuprofen.
His younger sibling hated when he got hurt, and since Jules made a point to be at every single one of his games, as well as many of his practices, he’d developed a true talent for hiding his pain, doing everything in his power not to make them worry.
Luckily, he was a damn good hockey player, so he didn’t have to deal with anything more than some deep bruising most of the time, and it was all easily hidden under baggy hockey jerseys. Jules would run up to hug him after a game and he would hold his breath, biting hard on his tongue, exhaling just in time for them to pull back, shoot him a bird or make a joke at his expense, and he’d stand there watching them walk away hoping they didn’t notice him tense whatever was hurting.
He also lived in a house of hockey players, so hearing someone groan when they moved or walk around with an ice pack strapped to them wasn’t uncommon. They’d helped each other through a few more serious injuries in their time at Briar — he’d dislocated his shoulder, Tucker had an old knee injury that gave him issues, Dean had dealt with a concussion and torn his quad freshman year, and Garrett had gotten a concussion in addition to breaking a couple of ribs last season. He was lucky to have his Briar U family, and he was grateful for their support on and off the ice. He was loyal to a fault, and would do anything for them, but sharing his own pain was different, and he didn’t expect anyone to truly understand his reasons for avoiding pain relief.
***
It was still fairly early in the season, nowhere near far enough to predict Frozen Four contenders. The game against St. A’s was always dirty though, and the guys were fighting hard.
“Let’s go!” Garrett yelled as their line jumped the boards to switch out. “This is our win!”
Two minutes later, John Logan was flying down the ice, breathing heavy from the effort, eyes darting around the ice, putting himself between the fastest defender and Garrett, giving him time to find his shot.
As soon as the puck sank into the net, Logan raised his arms, turning to Garrett in celebration. He didn’t see the opposing player coming from his blind side. He wasn’t in position, wasn’t braced for it, completely vulnerable, and the illegal hit sent him flying, completely unaware of what hit him, landing hard on the ice, the complete weight of him sinking into his shoulder.
***
He doesn’t have a single second to process what happened. The pain from his left side feels like an explosion, taking his breath away. He immediately rolls from his sprawled position onto his knees, grabbing his left arm with his right and holding it tightly against his midsection. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut and curls in on himself, resting his helmeted head on the ice. He draws in a ragged breath and groans at the pain that shoots through his chest.
“Logan! You okay?!” he hears Garrett from above him, feeling the presence beside him.
He hesitates momentarily, trying to decide whether he can swallow whatever happened and shake it off just enough to pretend he’s fine, before finally shaking his head, the sound of his helmet grating into the ice almost amplifying the shame settling in his gut.
He feels Garrett kneel bedside him and lean close, more panic in his voice than before.
“Talk to me, man…”
Logan opens his mouth to answer, but only ends up panting to catch a breath, trying to keep his composure. He simply shakes his head again.
“Hang on, hang on…” Garrett says, his hand coming up to grip the back of Logan’s neck.
Logan assumes he must have waved the trainers onto the ice, because he feels more bodies kneeling around him, and listens as the normal roar of the crowd around him gets eerily quiet. Garrett’s hand doesn’t move, and he’s grateful that Garrett’s large frame is shielding him from prying eyes.
“John, what’s going on?” one of the trainers asks.
Logan grips his arm harder and tries to pinpoint exactly where the pain is coming from, or what it could be.
“I…” he chokes out. “Shoulder.”
Garrett kneads the back of his neck, sliding his hand to the right side to avoid whatever might be hurting.
“Think you can skate off?”
Logan hesitates.
“Or we can bring the stretcher out.”
“No,” he bites out, finally opening his eyes for the first time, staring down at the ice in front of his face. “No.”
He feels the medics move slightly, giving him space to test his own mobility.
“Tuck!” he hears Garrett call out, and almost immediately there’s another presence kneeling beside him. “Help me get him off the ice.”
He turns his head slightly as Tucker hooks a hand under his right arm, and he keeps it clamped tightly over his left.
Garrett leans close again. “You ready?”
Thankfully, he doesn’t wait for an answer. He snakes his arm under Logan’s curled body, across his chest to his right shoulder to grip.
“One, two…” he must signal Tucker, because together they help Logan sit up while someone else tugs him all the way to his feet by the back of his pants.
His vision swims in front of him and he clenches his jaw, taking short breaths through his nose. He hangs his head, refusing to meet the eyes of anyone else.
Garrett hooks a strong arm around his waist, keeping him balanced on his feet, and Tucker steers them toward the exit.
“Just back to the training room…” the trainers direct from behind them as they step around the boards.
“Coach?” Garrett asks, his voice laced with concern.
“Go,” Jensen says immediately.
Logan feels Tucker’s hand drop away, but Garrett’s grip tightens, taking more of his weight as they trudge on their skates back into the tunnel.
“C’mon, man. Just to the table,” he coaxes when they reach the doorway.
He guides Logan to sit on the edge of the training table, and immediately pulls his helmet off for him before bending to unlace his skates.
“What’s going on, John?” one of the trainers asks. “We’re getting the medics back here.”
Garrett gently pries his right hand from the grip he has holding his left arm against him, and Logan inhales sharply when gravity pulls on his shoulder.
“Sorry…” Garrett apologizes, quickly tugging the glove and elbow pad off Logan’s right arm before letting him cradle his injured side again.
“My shoulder,” John chokes out. “And my ribs, maybe. I don’t know.”
Two paramedics walk into the training room, almost on cue. One immediately pulls a penlight from her bag, shining it into Logan’s eyes and tilting his head back, asking if he hit his head or lost consciousness, and then pressing her fingers to his neck.
“Having any trouble breathing, Mr. Logan?” the other asks, snaking a stethoscope under his gear and pressing it to his chest.
“Little bit,” Logan answers, trying his best to slow his breathing against the pain in his chest.
The medic snakes the stethoscope under his gear on his back next, and Logan hisses at the contact.
“We need to get this gear off…” the first medic says.
Logan quickly glances between the medics, the trainers, and Garrett, weighing his options.
“We can cut it,” one of the trainers offers.
“No!” Logan quickly answers.
He catches Garrett’s eye, and clocks the change in expression. His best friend’s eyes shift almost instantly from looking at him like he’s being stupid to a look of understanding.
This gear costs hundreds, and while Garrett Graham wouldn’t even flinch at helping Logan buy a new set, he knows that charity is a deep wound for him.
“I can help him,” Garrett volunteers, and Logan feels a quick moment of relief. “But could you guys give us…”
The trainers nod almost immediately, turning to step out to give them privacy. The medics look more hesitant, obviously not keen on leaving their patient. They exchange a wary look, and the male drags over the oxygen tank, turning the flow up and connecting the mask.
“Just give him the mask if he starts struggling…” he concedes. “We’ll be right around this corner.”
Logan watches them leave. He turns his head back to find Garrett standing directly in front of him, and the look in his friend’s eyes has shifted again, this time to a deeply concerned gaze with an underlying determination.
“How are you really doing, man?”
Logan swallows and closes his eyes for a moment, focusing, before looking at Garrett again, feeling more vulnerable with his friend than he has in a long time.
“Shoulder’s out. But my whole side…” he pauses to breathe. “I don’t know. It’s higher,” he pauses again, his breathing shallow and measured. “Hurts, G. Hard to breathe.”
Garrett nods and goes to strap the oxygen mask around Logan’s face. Logan immediately moves to wave Garrett’s hand away and winces, gripping his left side again with the right hand he’d tried to use.
“Just breathe. So we can do this without them cutting up your gear,” Garrett says.
Logan concedes and nods slowly, letting his friend put the oxygen in place and letting his short breaths fog the mask, his gaze falling to the floor.
“Hey!” he feels Garrett’s strong hand grip his right shoulder. “Don’t fucking do that.”
He raises his face to meet his friend’s eyes again.
“John Logan, you are the strongest man I know, bar none,” he says seriously. “I’ve seen you take more hits than I can count, and you just keep pushing. You’re allowed to be hurt, and show it, and it doesn’t change anything.”
Logan swallows hard, blinking fast against the tears stinging his eyes and feeling oddly grateful for the oxygen mask covering half his face.
Garrett squeezes his shoulder one last time and then grips his upper arm, pulling him to a standing position, gripping his waist with the other hand to steady him. Logan grits his teeth and seizes the opportunity to close his eyes for a moment, letting Garrett keep him balanced while he waits for the pain spike caused by the shift in gravity to settle.
“You good?” Garrett asks.
Logan nods, opening his eyes again.
Garrett turns, quickly grabbing a pair of sweatpants off the floor, most likely dropped there by one of the trainers. Logan momentarily lets go of his left side, intending to untie his pants, and hisses, his right hand flying back to hug his left arm against his body.
“Relax, man,” Garrett says. “Don’t help more than you have to. This is the easy part.”
Logan huffs, as much of a chuckle as he can produce at the quip, grateful at the acknowledgement that they’re both dreading getting his shoulder pads off.
He lets Garrett pull down his shin pads and untie his pants, then leans back against the table for support after Garrett tugs them down from his hips. He uses the edge of the table to keep his upper body as still as possible, lifting one foot at a time for Garrett to strip his gear and put his feet into the sweatpants. He leans forward so Garrett can tug them up, and they both pause.
“Sitting or standing?” Garrett asks.
Logan swallows hard, hesitating.
“Standing?” he guesses, leaning his tailbone back against the table again, but staying on his feet.
“Let’s just get the elbow pad off that left arm first…” Garrett starts, and Logan clenches his jaw. “Here, try holding up here.”
Logan lets Garrett loosen the grip on his left side and bring it to his upper arm instead.
“Hold it tight here for now,” Garrett says, wasting no time in slowly straightening Logan’s left arm, keeping it as close to its current position as possible.
Logan groans involuntarily, locking his knees and dropping his head.
Garrett carefully peels off the pad and then bends his arm again, holding it against Logan’s body himself.
“I really think you should sit, man…” Garrett says, his voice more concerned than before. “You’re looking really pale.”
Logan curses under his breath, his knees starting to shake. He scoots back onto the table, desperate to make this easier for Garrett, for him not to be so worried. The shifts and the effort have already caused Logan to break out in a cold sweat, and he fights against his body’s instinct to breathe harder, keeping his breaths fast and shallow to avoid increasing the deep pain in his chest.
“You gotta actually take in some air, dude,” Garrett chides, forgetting momentarily that the medics were listening from around the corner. One of them leans around the wall, quickly scanning the situation.
“Still good? Almost done?” she asks, clearly anxious about Logan’s status and hearing Garrett coach him to breathe.
“We’re good,” Garrett answers tightly. “Just give us another couple minutes.”
Logan slows his breathing, but keeps it shallow, staring at the floor. He feels Garrett strip the mask from his face and raises his head. The irony of the moment isn’t lost on him – the situation making him feel as though he’s sitting completely naked in front of his best friend, when the entire problem is that he has too many clothes on.
“You sure about this? We can just–” Garrett starts before stopping mid-sentence, obviously seeing the desperation in his friend’s eyes. “Nevermind.”
Garrett takes Logan’s right hand gently from where it’s gripped onto his left and raises it before tugging on his shoulder pads to give him as much room as possible. Logan squeezes his eyes shut and exhales a groan through clenched teeth, pulling his good arm through the tight opening and immediately snaking his hand underneath and over the front, clawing at the padding to try to adjust it into a bearable position, sweat pouring down his face.
“Logan!” Garrett says firmly, stepping in front of him and taking his head in both hands, forcing him to focus. “I got you.”
The gravity of the words distracts Logan only for a moment before Garrett quickly drops his hands to Logan’s shoulder pads, and tugs hard.
“G–” Logan chokes out, tensing hard.
“I know,” Garrett promises. “Let go.”
Logan lets both arms relax and squeezes his eyes shut again, a loud, primal yell escaping his chest as Garrett raises his bad arm with one hand and quickly pulls the shoulder pads over his head. He lowers Logan’s arm and slips the pads off Logan’s injured shoulder while simultaneously bringing the arm back across his chest, holding it there tightly for him and dropping the shoulder pads to the ground.
Logan tries desperately to catch his breath, letting Garrett hold his injured arm against his body as his right hand instinctively claws at the side of his neck, his fingers trying to dig into the pain radiating from behind his shoulder.
“Breathe, Logan!” Garrett commands, using his free hand to slip the oxygen mask back over his friend’s face.
He squeezes his eyes shut against the dark spots fading the edges of his vision and feels the thudding vibrations of footsteps.
“Shit…” he exhales into the mask, his lungs fighting for more oxygen against his chest muscles’ instincts to tense against the pain. He moves his grip to his own arm, holding it against his body, and curls in on himself again, his forehead hitting Garrett’s midsection. He feels Garrett grip the back of his neck again and squeeze hard, grounding him, and he tries to focus on the words the medics and trainers are saying as they assess him.
Hands move up both sides of his chest, checking his ribs. The further up his left side they move, the more he feels his muscles tense. When they reach a certain spot under his armpit, he flinches away, his breath catching, which sends a new flash of pain through his chest. The hand moves to his shoulder and he opens his mouth to protest, immediately closing it to grit his teeth tightly as the throbbing triggers an intense wave of nausea. He swallows hard, trying to concentrate on Garrett’s hand squeezing the back of his neck.
“Can you sit up for us, Mr. Logan?” he hears, and he opens his eyes, blinking fast and plastering on the best stoic face he can.
Garrett’s hand moves to his right shoulder and pushes him back before moving to stand on his right side, letting one of the medics on his left step into the spot in front of him.
“Do you want to remove the shirt?” she asks.
“Cut it,” Logan bites out, trying to keep breathing.
His compression shirt is cut off quickly, only leaving part of the sleeve around his left arm where he’s holding it. The medic prods his collarbone and he inhales sharply, the nauseating feeling of bone scraping bone causing bile to rise into his throat.
“Can you just pop it back in?” Logan asks tightly. “Please?”
She places her hand behind John’s injured shoulder and moves her fingers carefully. Logan flinches again, and she pulls her hand away.
“Broken collarbone, bruised ribs, and possibly a scapula injury. It’s not just a simple reduction this time,” she explains. “We need to get you to the hospital, Mr. Logan. We can give you something for the pain.”
“No,” Logan says firmly, looking up to find the male paramedic already pulling medication from a vial.
The paramedics meet eyes, and then look back at him, confused.
“I’m good,” Logan croaks, clearing his throat. “Just…help me get out there, G?”
Garrett puts his hand under Logan’s right arm and lifts, helping him stand from the table. Logan pauses, forcing the groan in his throat back down while Garrett removes the oxygen mask and gently propels them forward.
“Keep breathing, man,” Garrett says quietly as they exit the room. Turning the corner into the tunnel where the ambulance sits waiting, Logan turns his head quickly, startled by the small blonde leaning against the wall. The quick movement amplifies his dizziness and he stumbles, Garrett’s grip tightening while another hand shoots out to hook his waist.
“Jules!” Garrett greets.
“John, are you okay?” Jules asks, her eyes scanning him up and down.
Logan manages to grunt in response, not trusting himself to open his mouth without a pained whine or vomit escaping with his answer.
“He’ll be fine,” Garrett answers, which feels more like reassurance for Logan than Jules.
Logan manages to stifle a groan as Garrett lowers him into a seated position on the stretcher, and he closes his eyes as the medics secure the sides. They load the stretcher into the back of the truck and he feels Jules climb in beside him.
“Refusing pain control,” he hears Garrett add.
“I’ll be there as soon as it’s over,” Garrett promises, already heading hesitantly in the opposite direction. “And I’ll get Wellsy to meet you with your car!”
***
It’s the middle of the night, hours later, before Logan finally hears the familiar crunch of gravel under the tires, Garrett pulling his Jeep carefully into their driveway. The lights are all still on, but the house looks quiet.
He clears his throat to cover the pained noise that escapes him when he leans his weight into the passenger door to open it, and Garrett jogs around the car, putting a hand behind him.
“Hang on, man…” Garrett says, and Logan shakes his head.
“I’m okay, G.”
“You’re not, Logan,” Garrett argues as they make their way to the porch. “You want to rawdog this? That’s fine. I’m on your side, but let us help you.”
Before Logan can protest, Garrett swings the door open, and they’re met with Dean and Tucker standing in the hallway waiting.
“Logan!” Tucker calls, crossing the space between them before he can take another step. “We were worried about you, man.”
Logan nods, giving as much of a half-smile as he can muster. “I’m good, guys.”
“What’s the damage?” Dean asks.
Logan swallows hard and glances at Garrett.
“Dislocated his shoulder, broken collarbone, some cracked ribs, and tore the muscle behind his shoulder blade,” Garrett answers for him.
“Damn, dude…” Dean mutters.
“I’m good,” he croaks again.
“They sedated him a little to get the imaging they needed, and get him to relax enough to get his shoulder back in,” Garrett explains. “Hopeful he won’t need surgery on that collarbone.”
Logan hangs his head, letting his long hair hide his face.
“What can we do?” Tucker asks.
“Get the couch set up?” Garrett suggests. “He can shower and then he can sleep there for tonight.”
“Sure, man,” Tucker says. “You hungry, Logan? I can heat something up.”
Logan swallows hard and tries to sound casual, “Nah, that’s okay.”
***
When they reach the bathroom, Garrett closes the door behind them and Logan sags, letting the weight of pretending fall.
He grasps his left arm, now secured in an intense wrap, and lets out a shaky breath. He lowers himself onto the closed toilet seat and leans his head against the wall, wincing when the movement pulls at his back.
“Still doing okay?” Garrett checks in, turning on the hot water and pulling a towel from under the sink.
“No…” Logan answers, his eyes closed again.
“I’m sorry, man. But the hot water might help,” Garrett says. “We’re going to have to get that wrap off, though.”
Logan grimaces and stands again, pulling loose the Velcro strap holding his left wrist.
“Just hold it,” Garrett coaches.
Logan lets his head fall and squeezes his eyes shut as Garrett quickly lifts the first strap over him and removes the other straps before sliding the padding out and pressing his arm to his body.
Logan feels himself break out in a cold sweat again, taking short, shallow breaths and gritting his teeth.
“You want anymore help?” Garrett asks tentatively.
Logan shakes his head and leans forward, gripping the side of the sink, his side screaming.
“Okay, man. I’ll be outside the door. Yell if you need anything…”
Logan listens for the sound of the door shutting before opening his eyes. He bites back a whine as he tugs down his sweatpants and shorts, stepping into the shower and letting the sound of the running water drown out his pained exhale when he grips his injured arm against him again.
He leans his forehead against the back wall of the shower, curling in on himself and sliding down to his knees, willing the hot water to relax the muscles in his shoulder and back. He curses under his breath and bites his tongue, the muscles between his shoulder and his back starting to spasm. He inhales sharply, sending a lightning bolt to his ribs, and his stomach rolls, forcing him to drop his arm and brace himself on the floor, retching and vomiting the small amount of fluid he’d consumed before they left the hospital.
He hears the door swing open, and gags again, trying to get control of his stomach. The water is turned off and a towel is quickly thrown over him.
“Tuck! Dean!” Garrett shouts, and Logan finally swallows.
“Grab his clothes and help me get him up,” he hears Garrett instruct, and for the first time, he doesn’t have the strength to pretend he’s okay.
He feels one of the guys step into the shower behind him and hook an arm around his waist.
“C’mon, man. You’re okay,” Garrett says, helping him quickly into his shorts. “Let’s get you to the couch.”
Logan holds his arm across his chest and lets the guys guide him to the den, wincing as he drops his weight to the couch, his knees practically giving out.
Garrett sits on the coffee table opposite him and pulls it forward, closing the distance between them. Logan curls forward, leaning his head against Garrett’s shoulder.
“Fuck, G…” he chokes out.
“You’re shaking, bro,” Dean says as he and Tucker adjust the straps to put his wrap back on. “Almost done.”
Dean slides the padding between Logan’s arm and his chest at the same time that Tucker lays a bag of ice over his shoulder blade, and Logan hisses, flinching. He clenches the fist of his right hand, his knuckles white and his hand shaking.
“Logan, you gotta take something, man…” Garrett tries. “You’re never going to be able to get any rest with your body spasming like this. It’s only gotten worse.”
“And if you don’t stop vomiting, we’re going to have to take you back to the hospital, dude,” Dean adds, resting a steady hand on his lower back.
“Please, Logan,” Tucker finishes.
Logan feels the tears drip from his eyes to the floor, his head still hung, his forehead still on Garrett’s shoulder, his face hidden under his crouched position.
“I fucking hate her…” he finally croaks.
He feels Garrett sigh and put a hand behind his neck, rubbing his thumb into his wet hair.
“You can love her, or hate her, or both,” he responds. “But you don’t have to suffer because you’re scared to be like her.”
“I can’t take that chance,” Logan exhales, opening and closing his shaky fist.
“Yes, you can, man. You’ve got us,” Tucker says, and Logan swallows hard.
“We’ll give you exactly what you’re prescribed,” Dean promises. “Let us carry this.”
Logan sits up slowly, shifting his weight back and lifting his head, swiping quickly at his eyes. He glances between his friends, each of them staring at him with concern, loyalty, and determination. He sinks his upper body hesitantly into the back of the couch and groans, pausing for a moment before finally nodding.
“Okay…” he agrees quietly, and Garrett immediately stands, the other two snapping into action beside him.
“You need to get something in your stomach,” Tucker says, placing a couple of crackers in Logan’s sweaty hand and holding out a Gatorade.
Logan grimaces, his stomach rolling again. He takes a couple of bites before thrusting them back at Tucker and shaking his head.
“Can’t…” he mutters, swallowing hard.
“It’s okay, man. They wrote you something for the nausea, too. The stuff they gave you at the hospital is probably long gone, and you’ll probably feel less sick if you’re not hurting so bad,” Dean says, studying the paperwork from the doctor.
“Put this under your tongue,” Garrett says, handing him a small pill and the Gatorade from Tucker. “It’s just for the nausea.”
Logan follows the instructions, and then shifts, trying to sink lower into the couch, his ribs protesting..
“Here,” Tucker offers, sliding a couple of pillows against the arm of the couch and helping him lay down before pushing back the long hair stuck to his forehead in a new layer of sweat.
Garrett takes a seat on the table opposite him again, and Logan tenses.
“Okay, don’t hate me, but I talked to the doctors, and they were really worried that you were trying to get through this on a hope, a prayer, and some Tylenol,” he explains. “They gave me a single shot of a muscle relaxer and a single shot of pain medication that would act really quickly if we needed them, and then the rest of your medication is pills on a schedule. If we give these and get on top of your pain, everything gets easier.”
By the time Garrett had finished confessing, Dean and Tucker had flanked either side of him, and all three were staring at him, trying to gauge how he felt.
“Just do it,” Logan bites out, the throbbing pain from all angles of his shoulder now fully steering his decisions.
Dean immediately helps him turn fully onto his right side on the couch, a strong hand on his upper arm keeping his injured shoulder still.
Garrett kneels beside him, his eyes intense.
“Garrett…” Logan starts, his voice unsteady.
“Hey, trust me,” he says, confident and calm.
Logan nods.
Dean positions himself between them, presumably to distract him, and he feels Garrett pull his shorts lower on his hip. He feels his friend clean the spot, and tenses just before the first needle pierces his skin.
“Relax, man,” Tucker says. “We’ve got it.”
The second needle follows quickly, and whatever pain might be caused by the injections is completely overshadowed by the intense throbbing in his side.
“It’ll kick in soon,” Garrett promises, stepping back.
Tucker brings a fresh ice pack from the kitchen, adjusting it over Logan’s shoulder. Dean throws a blanket over him and turns off the lamp by his head.
“I’ll take first shift,” Garrett announces, settling into the recliner beside the couch, but Tucker and Dean don’t turn to leave.
Tucker chuckles and moves Logan’s feet slightly, curling into the opposite corner of the couch, and Dean stretches across the small sofa beside them, tucking a pillow behind his head and settling in.
“Guys, I’m good,” Logan argues, keeping his voice as steady as he can, his ribs protesting. “Go to bed.”
“Nuh-uh,” Tucker says.
“No chance,” Dean adds. “I’ve got the alarm set for his next dose.”
Logan feels his body start to relax, the pain starting to fade the tiniest bit. He takes a real breath for what seems like the first time since the hit, and glances across the room at Garrett, who is staring at him intently.
“Relax, Logan,” he says, relief in his eyes and flashing a small grin. “I told you — we got you.”