Page 8

"You’re off, Jax," Mick says, his voice low enough to stay between us. "You’ve let in four during this drill. Four. Usually, you’d be breaking your stick over the crossbar by now."

"I'm fine," I say, shifting my weight into a crouch. My knees ache, a familiar protest of age and impact, but the discomfort is a distant second to the mental static. "And focused."

"On what? Because it’s definitely not the puck." Mick nudges my pad with his stick. "Is it the hand? If you’re playing hurt, you need to tell Coach. We can’t afford you aggravating a tendon because you’re too stubborn to sit for a week."

"The hand is fine," I snap, and the edge in my voice finally sounds like me. It’s a sharp, jagged thing that warns people to back off. "The stitches are clean. I’m fine."

Mick raises an eyebrow, his grin widening in a way that makes me want to shove him into the boards. "You’re not fine. You’re a goddamn mess. Admit and get a hold of your shit."

I push off the post and skate a small circle, the blades biting deep into the scarred surface. Mick is right, and that’s the problem. I’m a man of systems. I organize my life into legible blocks. Training, nutrition, recovery, performance. There is no block for a woman who occupies every goddamn molecule of my mind.

"Drop it, Mick," I say, sliding back into the crease. "I’m fine."

"Right. And I'm the Queen of England." Mick laughs, a short, barking sound that gets cut off as Coach whistles for the next drill. "Just try to keep your head in the building, okay?"

The rest of practice is an exercise in frustration. I stop the shots I should stop, but the fluidity is gone. My movements are mechanical, calculated. I’m thinking about the way the light in the ER caught the stray strands of hair escaping her ponytail. I’m thinking about the way she shut me down cold when I tried to charm her, her expression remaining as cool and impenetrable as the ice beneath my skates. It’s a physical itch I can't scratch, a distraction that has burrowed under my skin like an infection.

By the time I hit the locker room, the hollow in my gut has expanded. It’s not loneliness, not exactly. It’s the realization that for the first time in years, the game isn't enough to fill the space. I peel off my sweat-soaked jersey, the fabric clinging to my skin like a shroud. The room is full of the usual sounds. There’s the thud of gear, the sharp smell of wintergreen, the banter of men who have lives waiting for them outside the arena. I sit on my bench, staring at the taped guard on my hand. I’m heading to the hospital to get it looked at. It’s a routine check, something Dr. Stephens, the team doc, should do, but I decided to use it as an opportunity to see Harper. I had to do a little snooping to make sure she’s there. In fact, I had to give one of the ER secretaries tickets to next Saturday’s game to find out Harper’s work schedule. Maybe I should feel guilty. But I don’t.

I drive to Seattle General in my Audi, the city blurring past in a gray haze of drizzle and traffic. My hands are steady on the wheel, but my mind is a riot. I should’ve had the team doctor do this. Then I could go straight home and review films to get ready for the next game. I should be icing my knees and eating a calculated meal of lean protein and complex carbs. Instead, I’m hunting for a woman who has already told me, in no uncertain terms, that I am exactly the kind of person she avoids.

I find her near the nursing station, huddled over a chart with another nurse. There are faint shadows under her eyes, and her scrubs are wrinkled at the shoulders. She looks exhausted, and yet, she is the most vivid thing in the room. She’s a splash of color in a world of sterile whites and grays.

I wait a few feet away, leaning against a pillar. I know the moment she notices me. Her shoulders stiffen, just a fraction of an inch, before she slowly closes the chart and hands it to the other woman. She says something I can't hear, and the nurse looks over at me, her eyes widening before she offers a predatory sort of grin and scurries away.

Harper turns to face me. She doesn't smile. She doesn't look impressed. She just looks at me with those dark hazel eyes that seem to see right through the millions of dollars and the fame to the man who was too clumsy with a chef's knife.

"Mr. Thorne," she says, her voice level and professional. "To what do I owe this pleasure?”

"Hello, Harper," I say, pushing off the pillar. I try for the smile that usually makes reporters forget their questions. It feels heavy on my face, unnatural. "I’m here for my hand follow-up. I have an appointment." I hold up my hand while crossing my other hand’s fingers behind my back as I mutter the little white lie.

She doesn't blink. "The sports clinic on the third floor will do the follow-up. Take the elevator up to the third floor and tell the front desk you’re here for a follow-up."

She turns and walks away, her pace brisk. I follow her, noting the way she navigates the chaos of the ED with a quiet, practiced grace. She moves like she owns the air around her. It’s a territorial confidence I usually only see in captains. “Wait,” I call behind her. Damn. I sound needy.

"What?" She turns and stares at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Would you just look at it really quickly so I can get out of here?” It’s a total bullshit excuse, but I’ll do anything at this point.

She stares at me for several seconds, and I’m waiting for her to refuse when she shocks me. “Follow me.” She takes me into a small, sterile room. “Sit.” She points at the exam table.

I sit. The paper crinkles under me, a cheap, disposable sound. She puts on gloves, then pulls a rolling stool over and sits directly in front of me, her knees inches from mine. The proximity is a jolt, a sudden spike in the room’s temperature. She reaches out and takes my hand, her touch cool and efficient. She begins to unwrap the protective guard Dr. Stephens fashioned, her fingers moving with a dexterity that makes my breath hitch.

"How’s the range of motion been?" she asks, not looking up. She’s focused on the wound, her thumb gently pressing against the skin near the stitches.

"Good. I practiced today," I say. I watch the way her lashes cast long shadows against her cheekbones. She’s so close I can see the tiny pulse in the hollow of her throat. "Coach wasn't thrilled with my performance, but the hand didn't complain."

"You shouldn't be pushing it yet," she murmurs, finally looking up. Her eyes search mine, looking for signs of dishonesty. "Dr. Patel told you to lay off using it for at least forty-eight hours. If you tear these stitches, you’re looking at possibly damaging the muscle beneath and a longer recovery. Do you always ignore medical advice?"

"Depends on the advice," I say, the words coming out lower than I intended. The banter is gone, replaced by something heavier. "I was careful. I just couldn’t miss practice."

She pauses, her fingers still resting against my palm. For a second, the professional mask slips. I see a flicker of something in her eyes—curiosity maybe, or a reflection of the same heat radiating off my skin. It’s a moment of shared awareness, a bridge forming across the distance between us. Then, she blinks, and the nurse is back.

"Despite your best efforts, the wound is healing well," she says, reaching for a bottle of antiseptic. "No signs of infection. I’ll re-dress it, but you need to keep it dry for another forty-eight hours. And wear a brace if you’re going to be practicing."

"Yes, ma’am." I smirk at her.

“And either have your team doctor look at it or make a real appointment at the sports clinic.” She begins to apply a new bandage, her movements swift and sure.