"You need to get out more," Maya declares, stealing her third fry from my plate in five minutes.

We're at The Blue Line – that sticky-floored hockey bar that's been here since before we were born, where the burgers are questionable but the gossip is always fresh. The booth we're in still has that rip in the vinyl seat that I swear has been here since freshman year, and the walls are plastered with so many Bears vs Wolves photos that it's like being trapped in a shrine to my family drama.

I try to protect my remaining fries with my fork. "I get out plenty."

"The arena doesn't count." She points her stolen fry at me, threatening my white sweater with ketchup droplets.

The same sweater I definitely didn't spend fifteen minutes picking out just in case I ran into Chase somewhere.

God, I'm pathetic.

"Neither does the library or the grocery store."

"I'm here now, aren't I?" I line up my fries in neat rows because apparently I still can't shake those old figure skating habits. Like how everything needs to be perfect and controlled, even my damn french fries.

"Only because I literally showed up at your apartment and dragged you here."

She's not wrong.

I'd been curled up with my anatomy textbook, highlighting ACL repair procedures like the world's most boring person, when Maya burst in waving coffee and demanding we "process" my first week with Chase.

As if there's anything to process besides the fact that I'm slowly losing my mind every time I have to touch him. Which is, you know, constantly. Because that's my job. My stupid, complicated, definitely-going-to-get-me-in-trouble job.

"Speaking of which," she continues, stirring her milkshake with that look in her eyes that means I'm in trouble, "how's that going?"

I murder an innocent cherry tomato. "Fine."

"Fine?" Her eyebrow does that thing it does when she knows I'm full of shit. She's been calling me out since we were twelve and I swore I was "fine" after falling on my face fifty times trying to land my triple loop. "Just fine? The guy you made out with at—"

"Maya!" I whip my head around, but everyone's too busy with their own Friday night drama to notice my slow descent into madness.

"—that party is now completely at your mercy for six weeks, and it's just fine?"

"It's professional." The tomato is beyond dead now. "He's my patient. End of story."

"Uh huh." The slurp she takes of her milkshake is obnoxiously loud. "And that's why you've mentioned his arms three times today."

"I was discussing his form for the exercises!" Heat creeps up my neck as I remember this morning's session. The way his muscles tensed under my hands when I corrected his position. How he smelled like that stupid expensive body wash that's probably worth more than my car. How easy it would be to just... nope.

Not going there.

"It's literally my job."

"Sure, sure. Very professional." She's using that voice – the one she used when I claimed I was totally over Tyler two days after catching him with Carina. "Just like it was very professional when you spent twenty minutes telling me about his 'excellent muscle engagement.'"

I grab my napkin, fully prepared to stuff it in her mouth, when the door chimes. January wind blasts through the restaurant, carrying with it my actual worst nightmare.

Tyler West and Carina Reed.

My ex and Chase's ex, because apparently the universe has a really sick sense of humour. She's wearing Tyler's Bears letterman jacket – similar to the one I used to wear back when I was dumb enough to think having your boyfriend's name across your shoulders actually meant something.

Her blonde hair is perfect, obviously, making my strawberry waves feel like a birds' nest in comparison. They look like some sort of hockey power couple, which makes sense since that's exactly what they are.

Maya's eyes go wide. "We can leave—"

"No." I sit up straighter. "I'm not running away. This is our spot."

But because my life is apparently one big joke, the door chimes again.

Chase Mitchell walks in, sees Tyler and Carina, and freezes.

Our eyes meet across the room, past the sea of Bears jerseys and pitchers of cheap beer. His jaw tightens, and for a second I think he's going to turn around and leave. Instead, he limps over to our booth, each step careful but determined.

He's trying to hide it, but I can tell by his gait that he overdid it in therapy today. Not that I'm going to bring that up now, because apparently I've lost all sense of professional boundaries.

"This seat taken?"

Maya kicks me under the table so hard I'm probably going to bruise. "Nope! All yours!"

I'm going to kill her. Maybe with one of those resistance bands Chase keeps snapping during his exercises. Death by physical therapy equipment – that'll look great on my license review.

Chase slides in next to me, too close in the small booth. He smells like winter air and that cologne that's been haunting my dreams, and his thigh is pressed against mine under the table.

It's ridiculous how my body just forgets how to function whenever he's this close, like all my training just evaporates and I'm back to being that awkward thirteen-year-old who couldn't land a single axel without face-planting.

"Fancy meeting you here, Miss Anderson."

"Are you following me?" The words come out sharper than I intend, probably because I can feel Tyler watching us from across the room.

He steals one of my fries, just like Maya did. What is it with people and my food today? "Contrary to popular belief, I do actually eat."

"Shouldn't you be resting that knee?" God, even off the clock I can't shut up about his injury. I'm like the world's most annoying PT stereotype.

"Shouldn't you be enjoying your Friday night instead of talking about my knee?" His smile is dangerous, the kind that got me into trouble at that party. The kind that makes me forget about things like professional ethics and brother-approved dating pools.

Maya watches us like we're her favourite reality show. "Oh, this is good."

A laugh from across the room draws my attention back to Tyler and Carina. They're at the bar now, her hand on his arm, both of them glancing our way with matching smirks. Like they're in on some private joke about the sad ex-girlfriend and her pathetic attempt at moving on.

Chase follows my gaze. Something dark flashes across his face – the same look he gets when he's about to do something stupid.

"Well," he says loudly enough to carry, "since you're here, want to review my home exercise program? I think I might need some... hands-on assistance."

I choke on my water. Maya kicks me again, definitely leaving a bruise this time.

"Mr Mitchell—"

"Chase," he corrects, throwing his arm across the back of our booth like we do this every Friday night. His fingers brush my shoulder, and I swear I can feel it through three layers of clothing. "We're not in the clinic now."

From the bar, Carina's laugh gets sharper. Tyler's watching us with narrowed eyes, that same possessive look he used to get during games when someone checked me out.

Two can play this game.

"Alright, Chase." I lean into him slightly, letting my hair fall over his arm. The rational part of my brain is screaming about professional boundaries and ethical guidelines, but that part's getting real quiet under the weight of Tyler's stare and Chase's cologne. "How's your knee feeling? Any unusual... stiffness?"

Maya makes a strangled sound into her milkshake.

His eyes darken, but his smirk widens. "Nothing I can't handle with proper... treatment."

"Oh my god," Maya whispers.

Tyler and Carina are full-on staring now. Good. Let them stare. Let them see that I'm not that same girl who cried in the arena parking lot. Let them see that Chase Mitchell isn't pining over his perfect ex either.

"Your form could use some work," I continue, riding this wave of reckless confidence. "We might need extra sessions."

Chase's fingers trace patterns on my shoulder, and I try not to shiver. "Whatever you recommend, doc."

"Get a room!" Maya calls out, breaking whatever spell we're under.

Reality crashes back in like cold water. I jerk away from Chase like I've been burned. What am I doing? This isn't me. I don't play games, don't try to make exes jealous. I especially don't flirt with patients in public where literally anyone could report me to the licensing board.

"I should go." I grab my coat, nearly knocking over my water in my rush to escape. "Early morning tomorrow."

"Emma—" Chase starts, but I'm already sliding out of the booth.

I make it halfway to the door before Tyler intercepts me. He smells like beer and that same cologne he's worn since high school, and it takes everything in me not to step back.

"Replacing me already?" His voice is casual, but there's an edge to it that I remember too well. "With Mitchell, of all people?"

"Move, Tyler."

"Does your brother know?"

"None of your business." I try to step around him, but he moves with me.

"Everything about you is my business, Em."

"Back off, West."

Chase appears at my side, all traces of playfulness gone. He's not smirking now, and something in his stance reminds me that for all his goofing around in therapy, he's still one of the most dangerous players on the ice.

"Or what, Mitchell?" Tyler sneers. "Gonna fight me? Oh wait, you can't. How's that knee?"

"Tyler." Carina says as she joins us. "Let's not make a scene."

The whole restaurant is watching now. Perfect. Just perfect. Tomorrow the entire hockey community will be talking about how Tyler West's ex made a fool of herself at The Blue Line. Again.

Chase's hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady. "Come on, Emma. I'll walk you to your car."

"How sweet," Carina coos. "Taking care of your physical therapist. Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Something inside me snaps. Maybe it's the way she's looking at me like I'm something stuck to her designer boots. Maybe it's Tyler's possessive tone. Maybe it's just that I'm tired of everyone in this town thinking they know my story better than I do.

"Actually," I hear myself say, "he's taking care of his girlfriend."

The words hang in the air like smoke after a goal celebration.

Maya drops her milkshake.

Tyler's jaw drops.

Carina's perfectly plucked eyebrows shoot up.

And Chase... Chase is looking at me like I just handed him a championship trophy wrapped in a bow.

"That's right." His arm slides around my waist, pulling me close. The movement is smooth, natural, like we've done this a hundred times. "Got a problem with that, West?"

I should take it back. Should laugh it off, say I was joking, maintain some kind of professional boundary. Should probably start updating my resume because there's no way Dr Martinez isn't going to hear about this.

Instead, I lean into Chase's warmth and smile sweetly at my ex-boyfriend. "Have a nice night, Tyler. Carina."

We make it to the parking lot before the gravity of what I just did hits me.

"Oh god." I pull away from Chase, pacing in front of my car. "Oh god, oh god, oh god."

"Emma—"

"What did I just do? I can't date a patient. I can't date my brother's rival. I can't date anyone! I'm not dating anyone!"

"Emma."

"Dr Martinez is going to kill me. Jackson is going to kill me. I'm going to kill me—"

"Emma!" Chase catches my shoulders, stopping my spiral. His hands are warm even through my coat, and he still smells like winter and bad decisions. "Breathe."

I look up at him, expecting to see annoyance. Instead, his eyes are serious, almost gentle. Like they were that night at the party, right before I kissed him.

"I have a proposition for you."

"I am not actually dating you."

"No," he agrees, but his hands stay on my shoulders. "But maybe we should."

I stare at him. "What?"

"Think about it." His thumb traces my collarbone through my coat, and I try not to remember how his hands felt on my body that night. "You want Tyler off your back. I want Carina to stop trying to 'fix' me. We're already spending time together for rehab..."

"You want to fake date." The words taste ridiculous in my mouth, like something out of those romance novels Maya pretends she doesn't read.

He grins. "Got a better idea?"

I should say no. Should run far, far away from this terrible idea. Should probably move to Canada and start a new life as a moose researcher or something equally far from hockey players and their stupid propositions.

Instead, I hear myself ask, "What's in it for you?"

"Besides annoying West?" His thumb is still moving, and I try not to shiver. "Maybe I just like spending time with you."

"Chase."

"Fine." He steps back, and I hate that I miss his warmth. "Carina's dad is on the team board. They've both been... pushing for us to get back together. Having a new girlfriend would get them to back off."

"And that's it?"

His eyes flick to my lips for just a second, and I'm back at that party, pushed against a wall, tasting tequila and him. "That's it."

I should say no. I'm about to say no.

But then I think about Tyler's possessive tone. About Carina's stupid smirk. About five more weeks of this tension that's slowly driving me insane.

"Rules," I hear myself say. "We need rules."

His grin is blinding. "Whatever you say, Miss Anderson."

In my pocket, my phone buzzes with what I'm sure are fifty texts from Maya.

What have I just gotten myself into?

The question echoes in my head as I watch Chase walk away, his limp barely noticeable but screaming at my PT brain. He turns back once, just before getting into his stupidly expensive car, and the look in his eyes makes my stomach flip. It's the same look he gave me at that party, right before I grabbed his shirt and changed everything.

Maya's going to have a field day with this.

Jackson's going to have an aneurysm.

And me? I'm probably going to lose my mind, my license, or my heart.

Maybe all three.