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Mia leans forward, her expression shifting from teasing to curious. "Is it really about them, or is it about Ryan? You’re so loyal to that brother of yours, I think you’ve adopted his enemies as your own."

The comment hits a little too close to the center. I think about Ryan, my big brother, my protector, the man who spent his first NHL paycheck making sure our mom’s mortgage was paid off. He’s the star forward for the New York Titans, a man who wears his heart on his sleeve and his bruises like medals of honor. His rivalries aren't just professional; they're personal.

"His enemies are usually people who try to take his head off with a carbon-fiber stick," I say, my voice tightening. "So yeah, I’m not exactly inclined to grab a beer with them."

"Too bad." Mia takes a sip of lukewarm coffee and winces. "I’m betting some of those hot hockey players could teach you a thing or three."

I finish my coffee in two large, bitter gulps. “I’m not interested in learning anything from any hockey players.” As the words leave my mouth, I get a tingling in my spine. Like I just dared the universe or something.

I head back to the floor, my mind already pivoting back to my patients. Work is safe. Work is where the rules make sense.

By the time seven o'clock rolls around, my eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed with sandpaper. I give my report to the day shift, ensuring every detail is documented with clinical precision. I’m a careful person. I document things. I don't leave room for error, in my charts or my life.

I’m walking toward the exit when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Ryan. It’s a link to a sports article with a caption that reads: Can you believe this prick?

I click the link. It's a piece about Jaxson Thorne's recent shutout and his comments to the press. Or rather, his silence. The article describes how he stood motionless, refusing to answer questions until reporters finally gave up. The photo shows him leaning against the goalpost, his mask up, sweat dripping down a face that looks entirely too handsome for someone so miserable. He looks bored. He looks like he thinks the world owes him a debt it can never pay.

I type a quick message back to my brother.

Me

Looks like he needs a nap and a personality transplant.

Ryan

You can say that again. How was your shift?

Me

The usual. It sucked monkey balls.

Ryan

What can I do to help you?

Me

Nothing. I’m headed home for at least six hours of uninterrupted sleep. Then I’ll be all new again.

He sends a GIF of a snoring English Bulldog, and I laugh. Ryan always knows what I need. He’s always been the wall between me and the world, ever since our dad left and it was just Mom and us. He took on the job of taking care of both of us.

The drive home is a blur of gray Seattle morning. I live in a studio apartment near the park, a space filled with succulents I struggle to keep alive and mystery books I barely have the time to read. It’s small, but it’s mine. It’s a place where the chaos of the hospital can’t reach me.

I shower, scrubbing the hospital off my skin until it’s pink and stinging. I avoid the mirror, knowing the dark circles under my eyes will only make me feel more tired. I fall into bed and sleep a heavy, dreamless sleep that lasts until the afternoon sun starts peeking through the blinds.

When I wake up, the gala feels more like a looming threat than a social event. I pull the emerald dress out of the closet. It’s silk, the color of a deep forest after a rainstorm, with a neckline that’s professional enough to wear to a work function but daring enough for a woman who hasn't been on a date in eighteen months. I trace the fabric, thinking of Mia’s teasing words.

I’m not looking for a movie moment. I’m looking to survive the evening without spilling red wine on myself or getting trapped in a conversation about hockey.

CHAPTER THREE

JAXSON

The chandelier light in the Fairmont ballroom is aggressive, shattering against thousands of crystal droplets and raining down on a sea of people I mostly want to avoid. I adjust my tie for the tenth time, the silk feeling like a noose. Usually, I can play the part of the 'Ice Wall' without cracking, but tonight, the air is too thin, crowded with the scent of expensive perfume and the desperate hum of social climbing.

Mick McLinden, my captain and the only person who can tolerate me for more than five minutes, nudges my elbow with a champagne flute. "Stop looking like you're calculating the fastest exit route to the parking garage, Jax. It's a charity gala. Smile for the sick kids."

"I am smiling," I say, my face remaining a mask of granite. "Internally. It’s a very deep, meaningful expression of joy."