"Tell me again why I'm voluntarily watching men chase a puck at eight in the morning?" Maya asks, yawning into her coffee cup. "I have a shift at the hospital in two hours."

I nudge her with my elbow. "Because you're my best friend and I needed moral support to be within ten feet of ice without hyperventilating."

She snorts. "Right. Moral support for your ice trauma."

Technically, I'm here on orders. Dr. Peterson told me yesterday that it would be a "smart move" to come watch morning practice.

Get to know how the players move, he said. Their rhythms, their patterns. It'll help when you're rehabbing them.

Sure, Dave. Happy to observe the very thing that completely destroyed my career and haunts my nightmares.

Well, it's not like I could say, Sorry, sir, I can't. I had a career-ending accident when I was fifteen and haven't stepped on the ice since without wanting to throw up.

Yeah. That would've gone over great.

So here I am. Sitting in the stands above the Bears' ice rink, pretending to be fine while a bunch of six-foot-tall men fly across the surface that ruined me.

"You sure this isn't just an excuse to sneak a peek at a certain blue-eyed player?" she asks, eyes narrowing as she follows my gaze.

It's not like I planned that part. But yesterday's awkward reunion with Chase is still in my mind, and maybe a tiny part of me wanted a second glance just to remind myself why we need to keep things professional.

"Is that him?" Maya asks, suddenly more alert. She points to the ice where Chase is skating gentle laps. "Number nine?"

I sigh. "Yes."

"Damn, girl. I see why you climbed him like a tree at that party."

"I did not climb him like a tree," I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one heard. "We just... fooled around a little."

Maya gives me a look that says she remembers exactly how detailed my drunk recounting of that night had been. "His hand up your dress and his tongue down your throat doesn't qualify as 'fooling around a little' in my book."

"Can we please not talk about this here?" I beg. "I'm trying to be professional."

"Mm, very professional to invite your bestie to ogle your hook-up during practice."

"I did not invite you to ogle him." But even as I say it, my own eyes track Chase across the ice. His skating form is nearly perfect despite the injury, each movement precise and fluid. The only tell is the slight hesitation when he pivots on his left leg.

The idiot should not be on the ice. I told him explicitly yesterday that he needed rest, ice, compression, and elevation. Not more skating.

"So how was it seeing him again?" Maya asks, watching my face carefully. "As awkward as you feared?"

"Worse," I groan. "He recognized me immediately, called me 'Blondie,' and proceeded to make suggestive comments about our history while I was trying to examine his knee."

"And?" She raises an eyebrow.

"And what?"

"Was there still chemistry?"

I open my mouth to deny it, then close it again. There's no point lying to Maya. She knows me too well.

"Unfortunately, yes," I admit. "But it doesn't matter. I'm his physical therapist now. There are ethical boundaries."

"Boring," Maya declares. "But I respect your professional integrity or whatever."

The team finishes their warm-up laps, and Coach Barrett calls them to center ice. My eyes drift to another player, number seven, and my stomach clenches.

"Speaking of awkward, there's your ex," Maya says, following my gaze. "Looking like a jerk as always."

Tyler skates past Chase, clearly saying something that makes his smile tighten at the edges. Even from here, I can feel the tension between them.

"What do you think Tyler's saying to him?" I wonder aloud.

"Probably trying to remind Chase that he saw him making out with you," Maya suggests. "Though knowing that douche canoe, he's pretending he's all wounded about it, as if he didn't cheat on you with approximately nine thousand puck bunnies."

I snort. "Douche canoe?"

"I'm trying new insults. Is it working?"

"Surprisingly well."

Coach blows his whistle, and the team breaks into groups. My attention inevitably follows Chase.

"So are they always this..." Maya gestures vaguely toward the ice, where players are now starting their stretching routine.

"Flexible?" I supply.

"I was going to say 'sexual,' but sure, flexible works."

She's not wrong. The team is going through their stretches, which involve a lot of hip thrusting, deep lunges, and positions that wouldn't be out of place in certain adult films.

"Look at number seventeen," Maya says, pointing to a player in a particularly deep lunge, ass nearly touching the ice. "That's just obscene."

I laugh, grateful for her distraction from my Chase Mitchell problem. "Hockey requires mobility."

"So does sex, but you don't see me stretching like that in public."

The team transitions to partner stretches, and I find myself holding my breath as Chase pairs off with one of his teammates. They face each other, feet wide apart, and grasp each other's forearms. Then they begin a rhythmic pulling motion, hips swaying back and forth in a way that's unmistakably suggestive.

"Holy hell," Maya mutters. "That's just grinding with extra steps."

"It's a hip flexor exercise," I correct her, though I can't deny the similarity.

"No wonder you have a thing for hockey players. This is basically foreplay on ice."

I roll my eyes. "I don't have a thing for hockey players. I had a thing for one hockey player, years ago, and it ended badly. And whatever happened with Chase was a one-time lapse in judgment."

Maya's eyes remain on the ice, where the players have now moved to what looks like deep squats with a twisting motion. "Seeing this display might make me question things... but then they open their mouths, and my bisexuality files a restraining order."

I nearly choke on my coffee. "Maya!"

"Just stating facts," she replies with a shrug. "Though I might make an exception for your blue-eyed boy down there. He's pretty enough."

"He's not my anything," I insist. "He's insufferable, arrogant, stubborn, and completely disregards medical advice."

"So why can't you stop staring at him?"

"Because he's going to seriously injure himself if he keeps pushing like this," I say, which is partially true. "Look how he's favoring his right leg. The strain on his MCL must be—"

"Uh-huh." Maya gives me a knowing look. "That's definitely why you're watching his every move."

I'm saved from responding when Coach calls the team together for drills. They break into offensive and defensive units, setting up for what looks like a scrimmage.

"Shit," I mutter, watching Chase line up for a face-off. "He shouldn't be doing contact drills."

"Did you tell him that?"

"Of course I did. I told him to stay off the ice completely for at least a week, maybe more."

Maya watches Chase win the face-off and dart away with the puck, his movements quick despite the slight hitch in his stride. "Seems like he's not big on following directions."

"Understatement of the century."

The scrimmage intensifies, players battling for the puck against the boards, bodies colliding with enough force to make me wince. It's only practice, but these guys don't seem to have an "off" switch.

"Hey," Maya says suddenly, "didn't you tell him at the party that your brother plays for the Wolves?"

I shake my head. "No, it never came up. I didn't even know he played for the Bears until Tyler barged in."

"So he had no idea you were Jackson Anderson's little sister when he had his fingers inside you?" She grins. "Oh, that makes it even better."

"How exactly does that make it better?"

"Because Jackson would murder any Bear who touched you, and Chase did a lot more than touch."

I groan. "Please don't remind me. And for the love of God, don't ever tell him. He's already pissed enough that I'm working for the Bears."

"Your secret's safe with me," Maya assures me. "Though I reserve the right to tease you mercilessly about it in private."

On the ice, the scrimmage heats up. Chase gets the puck again, fakes out a defenseman, then dishes it to a teammate.

There's something mesmerizing about watching athletes in their element, even stupid ones. The controlled power, the precision, the grace that belies their size. In another life, I might have appreciated the beauty of it. Now it just reminds me of everything I lost.

"That boy is gonna blow out his knee if he keeps playing like that," Maya observes.

She's right. With every shift of direction, every push off his left leg, Chase is risking turning his Grade 1 sprain into something much worse. And there's nothing I can do about it from up here in the stands.

The sound of skates carving ice fills the arena, punctuated by the sharp crack of sticks against pucks and the occasional shout from Coach Barrett. I find myself holding my breath each time Chase accelerates, waiting for the inevitable moment when his knee gives out.

Tyler skates up beside Chase, saying something that makes Chase's jaw tighten. Then Tyler's gaze shifts up to the stands, and lands directly on me.

Shit.

He gives a smug little wave that makes my stomach turn. I pointedly look away.

"Douche canoe alert," Maya mutters. "He's coming over here."

"What? No." I turn back to see Tyler skating toward the boards near our seats, that familiar cocky smile on his face that once made my heart race but now just makes me want to throw something at him.

I glance at Chase, who's watching the interaction with undisguised interest. His blue eyes track Tyler's movement toward me, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Is that jealousy? Or just typical testosterone-fueled rivalry?

"Emma!" Tyler calls up. "Didn't expect to see you at practice. Miss me already?"

Maya makes a gagging noise beside me. I paste on my most professional smile.

"Just observing the team, Tyler. Part of my job."

"Sure it is." His smirk suggests he thinks I'm there for him, which is so absurd I almost laugh. "We should catch up sometime. You know, for old times' sake."

"I don't think—"

"West!" Coach Barrett's voice cuts through the air. "This isn't social hour! Get your ass back in the drill!"

Tyler gives me one last meaningful look before skating away, leaving me fuming and Maya cackling beside me.

"I truly do not understand what you ever saw in him," she says.

"I was seventeen and stupid," I reply. "And he hadn't revealed his true douche canoe nature yet."

That makes her laugh harder. "I'm so glad that's catching on."

It's hard to believe I spent three years with him, planning a future, imagining our lives together. Then came that night. Walking into our apartment, hearing the moans before I even opened the bedroom door. And there he was—in bed with some random girl, fucking her like I never mattered. His stammered excuses couldn't compete with the sound of my heart shattering or the tears I couldn't stop.

Now he's just another player on the team I work for. Another body to assess, treat, and release back onto the ice. Nothing more.

My gaze drifts back to Chase, who's now lined up for another drill. Something about the way he's standing sets off alarm bells in my head. His left leg is barely taking any weight at all.

"He's pushing too hard," I murmur, more to myself than to Maya.

The drill starts, and Chase takes off, driving toward the net with the puck. He cuts sharply to avoid a defenseman, and that's when it happens. His left knee buckles, twisting at an unnatural angle. Chase goes down hard, sliding across the ice, his face contorted in pain.

My body moves before my brain can process what I'm doing.

"Emma!" Maya's voice follows me as I bolt down the stairs toward him. "What about the ice?!"

But I'm already gone, racing toward the boards. I kick off my heels without thinking, vault over the half-wall, and step onto the frozen surface that's haunted my nightmares for eight years.

Eight years since my own body hit this unyielding surface. Eight years since I felt bones shatter on impact. Eight years of waking up in cold sweats, feeling the phantom pain of my failed triple axel.

It happened when I was fifteen. The peak of my figure skating career, medals lining my bedroom walls, Olympic dreams within reach. I'd been skating since I was six, dedicating my childhood to the ice, to the pursuit of perfection. One moment of overconfidence, one slight miscalculation, and it all came crashing down—literally.

But none of that matters right now. Because Chase is down on the ice, curled around his left leg.

I slide to my knees beside him, my doctor brain taking over, pushing past the screaming terror of being on the ice again.

"Chase," I say firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Chase, look at me."

His blue eyes, clouded with pain, find mine. "Emma," he gasps. "Emma, Emma, Emma."

Just my name, over and over.

"I'm here," I tell him, already assessing the injury. "Don't move your leg. Where exactly is the pain?"

"Knee," he groans. "Fucking knee. Felt it pop."

Shit. That's not good.

The team has gathered around us, a circle of concerned faces. I'm vaguely aware of the medical staff approaching, but they're moving cautiously on the ice, nowhere near as fast as I was.

"Everyone back up," I order, not caring that these are professional athletes twice my size. "Give him space."

Surprisingly, they listen, moving back to form a wider circle. All except Tyler, who hovers just behind me.

"Is it bad?" he asks, and I can't tell if his concern is genuine or performative.

"I don't know yet," I reply without looking at him. "Chase, I need to check your knee. It's going to hurt."

Chase nods, his jaw clenched tight. "Do it."

As gently as possible, I palpate around his knee, feeling for damage. The swelling is already starting, and when I hit a certain spot, Chase lets out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.

My fingers work quickly, years of training guiding my movements. The knee is a complex joint, but also frustratingly vulnerable. I can feel the tell-tale signs of ligament damage, the unnatural looseness where stability should be.

Chase's skin is hot beneath my touch, feverish almost, a striking contrast to the icy surface beneath us. His breath comes in short, controlled bursts, his body rigid as he tries to contain his pain. But he doesn't pull away. Doesn't flinch. Just watches me with those blue eyes, trusting me despite the agony my examination is causing him.

"It's your MCL," I confirm. "Possibly a Grade 3 tear."

"What does that mean?" Chase asks through gritted teeth.

I meet his eyes, not sugar-coating it. "It means you should have listened to me yesterday when I told you to stay off the ice."

A ghost of his usual cocky smile flickers across his face. "Not big on following directions, Blondie."

"So I've noticed," I mutter.

The rest of the medical team arrives with a stretcher, and I step back to let them take over. Only then do I become aware of where I am, what I'm doing.

The panic that I've been holding at bay crashes over me like a wave. My lungs constrict. My vision narrows. The roaring in my ears drowns out everything else.

Not here. Not now.

A warm hand grips mine, and I look up to find Maya at my side, having somehow made her way onto the ice.

"Breathe, Em," she says quietly. "You're okay. Let's get off."

I nod, unable to speak. She leads me back to the boards, where someone has gathered my discarded heels. My hands are shaking too badly to put them on, so Maya helps me, then guides me back to the medical room.

By the time Chase is brought in on the stretcher, I've managed to pull myself together enough to be professional again, though Maya refuses to leave my side. I'm grateful for her presence as I help the team doctor examine Chase's knee more thoroughly.

"Definitely a Grade 3 MCL tear," Dr. Peterson confirms after the examination. "We'll need an MRI to check for other damage, but the MCL is shot for sure."

Chase's face is stony, but I can see the devastation in his eyes. "How long?"

Dr. Peterson looks at me, yielding to my expertise. "Dr. Anderson?"

I clear my throat. "Six weeks minimum. Possibly longer, depending on how you heal and whether there's any additional damage. We won't know for sure until we get the MRI."

"Six weeks?" Chase echoes, his voice hollow. "I'll miss the start of the season."

October to April. The hockey season stretches ahead of us, and he's staring down the possibility of missing a significant chunk of it. The Bears' playoff chances, their Cup dreams—all suddenly in jeopardy because of one stupid practice drill.

"It would have been one or two weeks if you'd rested it properly after the initial sprain," I can't help pointing out. "This is what happens when you ignore medical advice."

Maya elbows me. Right. Not helping.

"We'll get you the best care, Mitchell," Dr. Peterson assures him. "Dr. Anderson will be your primary PT. She specializes in knee injuries, and her recovery protocols are excellent."

Chase's eyes find mine, and despite the pain clouding them, I see a flash of that familiar mischief. "Looking forward to spending more time together, Doc."

I ignore the flutter in my stomach. "You'll be following a strict protocol this time. No shortcuts, no half-measures, no getting back on the ice until I clear you. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says, with a mock salute that's somewhat undermined by his grimace of pain.

"Let's get him to the hospital for an MRI," Dr. Peterson says. "Mitchell, you have anyone who can drive you home after?"

Chase shakes his head. "I can get an Uber."

"No way," I hear myself say before I can think better of it. "You'll need help getting settled with the brace and crutches. I can drive him."

Maya gives me a look that clearly says, "what happened to professional boundaries?" but I ignore her.

"That would be great, Dr. Anderson," Peterson says. "I'll let Coach know the situation. We'll need a comprehensive treatment plan by tomorrow."

After he leaves, Maya pulls me aside. "What happened to keeping things strictly professional?"

"This is professional," I insist. "He's my patient, and he needs help. That's all."

"Uh-huh." She doesn't look convinced. "Well, I've got to get to work but call me later with updates. And Em?"

"Yeah?"

"You ran onto the ice." Her expression is a mix of concern and pride. "Like, actually onto the ice. Without hesitating."

I hadn't fully processed that yet. Eight years of avoiding even looking at ice rinks, and today I ran straight onto one without a second thought.

The realization sends a strange mix of emotions coursing through me. Fear, still lingering just beneath the surface. Pride, at having faced my biggest demon. And confusion because I didn't even think—I just moved. For him.

"I guess I did," I say, somewhat dazed by the realization.

Maya's dark eyes study me, taking in the tremor in my hands that I'm trying desperately to hide, and the shallow rhythm of my breathing. She's been with me through every panic attack, every setback in my recovery. She knows what this means better than anyone.

"That's progress, babe." Maya squeezes my hand. "Now try not to fall for your patient while you're being all professional and stuff."

I roll my eyes. "Not going to happen."

"Sure, sure." She checks her watch and grimaces. "I really do need to get to the hospital. Those tiny humans need their favorite nurse."

"Go," I tell her. "I've got this handled."

Maya gives me one last meaningful look before heading toward the exit, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "disaster waiting to happen" under her breath.

As I glance over at Chase, now being prepared for transport to the hospital, I'm not entirely convinced she's wrong. Because when I saw him go down on the ice, my instinct wasn't just that of a doctor for a patient. It was something else.

And that's a problem I'm not ready to face.