The thing about small hockey towns is they hold onto the past like a dog with a bone.

Every grocery store trip turns into a walk down memory lane. Every coffee shop still has that damn photo of me and Tyler at junior prom hanging by the register, right next to my old figure skating medals that Pete refuses to take down. And don't even get me started on the old-timers at the diner who can't seem to decide which was more tragic - my ankle giving out two weeks before nationals, or the Bears crushing the Wolves in last year's championship game.

Small towns love their tragedies almost as much as their triumphs.

I'm squinting at my reflection in my Corolla's rear-view mirror, trying to decide if the bags under my eyes make me look more exhausted or hungover. My green eyes - the ones Mom always says look just like Grandma's - are bloodshot from another sleepless night, and my strawberry blonde hair is refusing to cooperate as usual.

Neither's great for day one of my internship.

The ID badge clipped to my scrubs feels like it's mocking me: "Emma Anderson - Student Physical Therapist." Two years of cramming for finals and surviving on ramen noodles, and this is what I have to show for it - a plastic rectangle that reminds me I'm really doing this, really working for my brother's rivals.

Jackson had thrown an absolute fit when I told him I'd accepted the Bears' internship. "Emma Grace Anderson," he'd said, full-naming me like he was Mom, "are you trying to kill me?"

The Bears' arena looms ahead of me, all concrete and steel and bad decisions. I spent most of high school in this building, but back then I was Jackson Anderson's baby sister, the one who'd bring him his forgotten gear or film his games for scout reels. Now I'm... what, exactly? The traitor working for the enemy? Tyler West's ex trying to prove she's moved on?

Both feel about right, neither feels good.

"Get it together, Em," I mutter, cranking up the heater. My car makes a sound like a dying whale - probably that radiator issue I've been ignoring since Christmas. But between student loans and my apartment's ridiculous security deposit, auto repairs are firmly in the "future Emma's problem" category.

This was supposed to be my moment, you know? That scene in every movie where the underdog finally proves themselves, cue the triumphant music and slow-motion walk down the hallway. Instead, I'm hiding in my car at 5:45 AM, seriously considering if it's too late to switch careers. Maybe I could be a kindergarten teacher. Or a lion tamer. Both seem less dangerous than what I'm about to walk into.

My phone lights up. Jackson.

You better not let those Bears push you around just because you're working for them now. And please tell me you're carrying that pepper spray Dad got you. He's been having stress dreams about "those hooligans" again.

I snort. Classic Jackson, still trying to fight my battles. He's been extra protective since The Incident - yes, capital letters required. Finding your baby sister having a full meltdown in the arena parking lot after catching her boyfriend with someone else will do that to a guy.

Sometimes I wonder if he feels guilty - he's the one who introduced me to Tyler in the first place. Team captain's little sister meets star defenseman, tale as old as time. Too bad no one warned me about the plot twist.

Just an internship, big bro. Pretty sure pepper spray violates some kind of medical ethics code. Tell Dad his "baby girl" can handle herself.

The words taste like lies, but they'll keep Jackson from worrying. Or at least keep him from driving down here himself, which knowing my brother is a real possibility. Hockey might be his whole life - the NHL scouts following him around like lovesick puppies make that clear enough - but I'm here to build something of my own. Something that has nothing to do with puck bunnies or rivalry games or ex-boyfriends who can't keep their hands to themselves.

I grab my coffee - black, enough sugar to make my dentist cry - and step out into the morning air. It's the kind of cold that bites, that sneaks under your coat and settles in your bones. The sun's barely up, casting long shadows across the frost-covered parking lot. My boots crunch against the pavement with every step, each one feeling heavier than the last.

The employee entrance is around back, past where the equipment trucks usually park. Today there's just an ancient hockey stick propped against the wall, probably abandoned after some late-night practice. The stick tape's peeling off in strips, revealing wood worn smooth by countless hours on the ice. I scan my badge, half-hoping it won't work. No such luck – the light blinks green, and the door clicks open.

Inside, the arena's got that early-morning emptiness that makes everything echo. A few people shuffle around – Dave the janitor's already on his third coffee, judging by his travel mug collection, and I can hear someone running drills on the ice. My ankle twinges, a phantom ache I thought I'd left behind years ago. Funny how muscle memory works – even now, just the sound of blades on ice makes my body remember that final jump, that terrible crunch, the way my dreams splintered along with my bones.

The air smells like rubber and sweat and that weird metallic tang you only get in ice rinks. It used to smell like victory to me, back when I was that fearless girl in sparkly dresses who thought she could conquer the world on a quarter-inch blade. Now it just reminds me of everything I've been trying to forget – both the recent wounds and the older scars that never quite healed right.

And here's the universe's biggest joke – after all that time avoiding ice rinks, after swearing I'd never set foot in one again after my ankle shattered, I somehow ended up right back here. Of all the PT internships I could have landed, I got stuck with the Bears. Maybe it's karma. Or just really bad luck.

I try not to look at the Wall of Fame as I pass, but my eyes betray me. Last year's championship photo draws me in like a car crash – you know you shouldn't stare, but you can't help it. There's Tyler, front and centre, wearing that smile that used to make my knees weak. Now it just makes me want to throw up. And next to him... no. Not going there. Not thinking about Chase Mitchell and that night after the championship. Some memories deserve to stay buried.

"Emma?"

I jump about ten feet in the air. Dr Martinez is standing in her office doorway, looking exactly like she did during my interview – crisp scrubs, reading glasses perched on her nose, the kind of confidence I'd kill for. Her smile's warm but her eyes are sharp as she waves me over.

"Thanks for coming in early," she says, closing the door behind us. Her office looks like a medical textbook exploded – journals everywhere, anatomy charts covering every inch of wall space, and about fifty sticky notes arranged in some system only she understands. "There's been a slight change of plans."

My stomach drops through the floor. This is it. Someone finally remembered I'm Tyler West's ex-girlfriend and realized putting me anywhere near the players is like lighting a match in a gas station. I'm about to get reassigned to the Peewee League or something. Maybe I can still apply for that lion-tamer job.

"Chase Mitchell took a bad hit in yesterday's game," she continues, flipping through what looks like a novel's worth of medical notes. "Grade 2 MCL sprain. He'll be your primary case for the next six weeks."

Oh.

Oh shit.

Chase Mitchell. The Bears' golden boy. Their star forward who can't seem to stay out of trouble. The guy who scored the goal that crushed my brother's championship dreams last season.

     Also not to mention, he's my brother's personal nemesis—the one player Jackson can't mention without launching into a five-minute rant.

And then there was that party last year. The one where I'd had just enough tequila to forget why kissing Chase Mitchell was a terrible idea. Where one dance turned into him backing me against the hallway wall, his hands tangled in my hair, tasting like beer and bad decisions. Where five minutes of heaven turned into a year of pretending it never happened.

If Jackson ever found out I kissed his nemesis... God, he'd probably disown me on the spot. Not that it matters anymore. Chase probably doesn't even remember it – guys like him probably kiss girls at parties all the time.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Dr Martinez asks. There's something in her expression that makes me wonder exactly how much she knows about last year's drama.

I think about Jackson's text. About Tyler's last words to me in this building. About all the reasons this is probably the worst idea since the invention of spray cheese. But I also think about my student loans, and my resume, and how badly I need this internship to work out.

"No problem at all," I lie through my teeth. "When do we start?"

"He'll be here at seven," she says, handing me a file thick enough to use as a weapon.

I flip it open, scanning the basics. Chase Mitchell, 22, senior forward. Six-foot-two of pure attitude and a medical history that suggests our star player has a habit of playing through injuries – which, having met him, surprises exactly no one.

"Fair warning: he's not exactly thrilled about being benched."

Fantastic. A grumpy hockey player with a hero complex who probably thinks he's invincible. I know that type all too well – I used to be one before my ankle taught me the hard way that bodies have limits. Maybe that's why I chose this field, why I'm so drawn to helping athletes recover. I know exactly how it feels to have an injury take everything from you in a single moment.

"He's already talking about getting back on the ice early," Dr Martinez adds, her expression knowing. "You'll need to keep him in check."

I touch my ankle unconsciously, an old habit I never quite broke. "Don't worry. I'm pretty good at spotting the difference between determination and stubbornness."

I find my workspace in the rehab room and start setting up, trying to ignore how my hands are shaking. The medical file sits there like a ticking time bomb. I should read it, be professional, and prepare for my first real patient. Instead, I pull out my phone and text Maya.

Remember how I said nothing could be worse than running into Tyler here?

Her response is instant: Don't you dare tell me...

I just got assigned to Chase Mitchell's rehab. Six weeks of knee exercises with my brother's mortal enemy.

THE Chase Mitchell? The one you drunkenly made out with at the party last year? The kiss you SWORE me to secrecy about because Jackson would murder you both?

Stop. Yes. That one.

Girl. You're not just screwed, you're MONUMENTALLY screwed. This is like, Shakespeare levels of drama. I'm coming over tonight with wine.

I groan and let my head thunk against the desk. Trust Maya to find the humour in my personal disaster. Though she's not wrong about the Shakespeare thing – this whole situation feels like something straight out of a tragedy. Probably one where everyone dies at the end.

This is fine. I can handle this. It's just six weeks with the most infuriating player in college hockey. The guy who lives to torment my brother's team. Who I definitely did NOT think about kissing again after that party last year.

Nope. Definitely not.

I yank my hair into a ponytail and start reviewing the intake forms. Six weeks. I can survive this for six weeks.

The door creaks open behind me.

"Well, well." That voice – deep, amused, and way too familiar – sends something that's definitely not a shiver down my spine. "If it isn't Anderson's little sister."

I turn slowly, a professional smile plastered on my face. Chase Mitchell leans against the doorframe like he owns it, all six-foot-whatever of him dressed in Bears sweats. Even with a knee brace, he manages to look annoyingly graceful. His dark hair's still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends, and those blue eyes are just as dangerous as I remember.

That smirk, though – that's exactly the same as the one he wore after scoring the championship goal. The one that says he knows exactly how good-looking he is, and exactly how much trouble he's about to cause.

"Mr Mitchell." Two can play at this game. "Ready to start your rehab?"

His eyes narrow slightly at the formality, but that smirk doesn't budge. "Ready when you are, Miss Anderson."

I close my eyes. Six weeks. What's the worst that could happen?

I'm pretty sure I don't want to know the answer to that question.

I look at him again, still leaning against that doorframe like he owns the place, and my stomach does this stupid little flip that I refuse to acknowledge.

Because this right here? This is my own personal nightmare. Stuck in a tiny training room with Chase Mitchell – the guy who makes it his life's mission to torment my brother, the same one I drunkenly made out with at last year's party, and now my patient for the next six weeks

I'm either going to strangle him or kiss him again, and honestly? I'm not sure which would be worse.

Welcome to day one.

Heyyyy, thanks for reading!

Oops... looks like I wrote another book. But this time, it's hockey romance, so I'm justifying my obsession with athletes on ice. (Seriously, who can resist?)

I hope you're loving the story so far—there's plenty more drama, banter, and tension (on and off the ice) to come. Weekly updates, so stay tuned! 🫶

See you next chapter!