5:45 AM feels different in the winter. The world outside is pitch black, and the arena parking lot is empty except for my Corolla and – because of course he drives one – Chase's ridiculous black Range Rover.

It's the kind of car that screams "my parents have money but I'm trying to look subtle about it." Unlike Tyler's bright red convertible that might as well have had "compensating for something" written on the side.

I squint, double-checking it's actually his car. Last thing I need is to walk in there all worked up only to find some other rich hockey player who happens to own the exact same overpriced SUV.

But no – I recognize the Bears decal in the back window and the small dent in the passenger door from where Jackson crashed into him on purpose last season. Not that I've memorized what his car looks like or anything.

He's early. Mr "I'll Show Up When I Want To" is actually early. I check my phone twice to make sure I'm not somehow late, but no – there's his car, taunting me with its perfect wax job.

Because apparently even his car has to look unfairly good at this ungodly hour.

The wind picks up, sending old practice schedules skittering across the asphalt like tumbleweeds. I clutch my coffee closer, cursing myself for not wearing a warmer coat. But my good winter jacket is still at the dry cleaners because apparently this week is just determined to test me in every possible way.

The walk to the entrance feels longer than usual, each step crunching on salt-covered concrete. Security cameras track my movement – new additions after some rival fans got too rowdy during playoffs last year.

Pete's at his usual spot by the door, newspaper spread across his desk like always. He's worked here since I was born.

"Morning, Emma," he calls out, not looking up from his crossword. Seven down must be giving him trouble again. "You're here early."

"Patient at six," I say, like my stomach isn't doing backflips at the thought.

"Mm-hmm. Your boy's already inside." Now he does look up, eyes twinkling like he knows exactly what he's doing. "Eager one, isn't he?"

My boy. Right. Because that's not complicated at all. Because Pete definitely doesn't remember every single thing that's ever unfolded in this building, including that time he had to break up a fight between Jackson and Chase during playoffs last year.

I'm sure he has no opinion whatsoever about a Mitchell and an Anderson being alone together at dawn.

"He's not my anything," I mutter, but Pete's already back to his crossword, humming something that sounds suspiciously like "Ice Ice Baby." Real subtle.

The hallway stretches ahead, fluorescent lights flickering like they're trying to set a mood. I pass the Wall of Fame again, steadfastly ignoring both Tyler's smug face and the empty space where this year's team photo will go. The one that should have Chase in it, if I do my job right. No pressure or anything.

The lights are already on in the rehab room when I push through the door. Chase is sprawled in one of the chairs, scrolling through his phone, wearing basketball shorts despite the freezing temperature. His knee brace peeks out beneath the hem, stark white against tan skin. He looks exhausted, the kind of bone-deep tired that comes from lying awake all night staring at the ceiling. I know that look – wore it myself for months after my injury.

"You're early," I say, dropping my bag at my desk. It lands with a thud. I'd packed it last night, triple-checking I had everything I needed.

Not because I was nervous.

Definitely not because I spent an hour trying to look competent and professional while also not looking like I tried too hard.

He doesn't look up. "Couldn't sleep."

"Pain?"

"Nah." Now he glances at me, and there are shadows under his eyes that weren't there yesterday. The usual spark in those blue eyes is dimmed, replaced by something that looks almost like vulnerability. It's disconcerting, seeing him without his usual armour of sarcasm. "Just not used to being off the ice."

Something in his voice – a crack in the usual confidence – makes me pause. I know that feeling.

The ache of missing something that's been part of your daily routine since before you could walk. The way you lie awake at night, phantom sensations of what you're missing haunting you like a ghost.

After my ankle, I didn't sleep properly for weeks. Just lay there replaying the moment everything went wrong, wondering if I could have done something different.

But I'm not here to sympathize. I'm not here to notice how the light softens his features or how his hair is still messy like he just rolled out of bed. I'm not here to remember how that same hair felt tangled in my fingers that night. I'm here to do my job.

"Well, let's get you back there, then." I pull up his protocol on my tablet, the screen creating a barrier between us. Three pages of exercises and stretches that I definitely didn't review six times last night. "But first—"

"Yeah, yeah. I need to heal, follow instructions, and be a good boy." He stretches, and I definitely don't notice the way his shirt rides up. Just like I don't notice how his voice wraps around the word 'good' like it's something else entirely.

God, I need more coffee.

"Hit me with your worst, Anderson."

For the next hour, I try to keep things strictly professional while also dealing with the fact that my job literally requires me to put my hands on him.

Just great.

Fantastic, even.

I guide him through the initial exercises, testing his range of motion. Each movement is a negotiation – between pain and progress, between what he wants to do and what his body will allow. My hands have to adjust his positioning sometimes, and each touch makes my cheeks heat up.

"Keep your back straight," I tell him, pressing lightly between his shoulder blades. "You're compensating with your hip flexors."

"Maybe I just like having your hands on me."

I press down slightly harder than necessary. "Maybe you'd like to do this with Dr Martinez instead?"

"Nah." He grins through the discomfort, that same grin that got me into trouble last time. "She's not nearly as fun to annoy."

"Keep it up and I'll schedule you for 5 AM tomorrow."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

He laughs, then grimaces as he shifts his knee. "Damn, Anderson. You really know how to hurt a guy."

"Breathe through it," I instruct as he struggles with a hamstring stretch. My hands are steady on his calf, supporting the movement. His skin is warm under my fingers, and I try very hard to stay focused on the alignment of his knee. "The tissue needs to—"

"To elongate properly, yeah." He grits out. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, and I have to fight the urge to wipe it away. "I have done this before, you know."

"And yet here you are."

His laugh turns into a hiss of pain. "Damn, you really don't pull punches."

"Would you rather I sugar-coated it?"

"No." He relaxes as I ease him out of the stretch, tension draining from his shoulders.

This close, I can smell his body wash – something expensive and woodsy.

"It's refreshing, actually. Most people around here treat me like I'm made of glass."

"You're not glass."

I check his knee for any signs of swelling, my touch clinical even as my pulse jumps. The joint is warm but not concerningly so. No excessive inflammation. Good range considering the injury. All totally normal things that I am absolutely focusing on instead of how solid his quad feels under my hands.

"You're just an idiot who doesn't know when to slow down."

"Ouch."

But he's grinning, that real smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. The one I remember from the party, right before everything got complicated. The one that made me forget about teams and rivalries and all the reasons why kissing him was a terrible idea.

"Tell me how you really feel, Anderson."

"That's Miss Anderson." I step back, needing distance.

"Right, right." He watches me work, too intense for this early in the morning. His gaze follows my movements like he's studying plays on ice, looking for weaknesses, for openings. "You know, you're different than I remember."

My hands falter for just a second. A memory – his fingers tangled in my hair, the taste of tequila on his tongue, the way the world had narrowed to just us in that moment. "Well, I wasn't exactly your physical therapist at that party."

"No," he agrees softly. "You weren't."

The quiet that follows feels heavy. The bass thumping through the walls. The taste of cheap beer. The look in his eyes right before I'd grabbed his shirt and pulled him down to my level. The way he'd hesitated for just a second before kissing me back like he'd been waiting all night to do it. The way he whispered my name like a prayer...

The timer on my phone goes off, saving me from myself.

"Time for ice," I announce, probably too loudly. "Ten minutes."

He sighs but doesn't argue, settling back as I wrap the ice pack around his knee. When I step away, he catches my wrist again, just like yesterday.

"Emma."

"Don't." I pull free. "We're not doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Whatever this is." I gesture between us. "I'm your physical therapist. That's it."

His eyes darken. "Is that what you want?"

No. Yes. I don't know.

"What I want is irrelevant." I turn to my desk, shuffling papers I don't need to shuffle. "What matters is getting your knee functional again."

"Always so practical." There's something like admiration in his voice. "Alright, Miss Anderson. Have it your way."

The rest of the session passes quickly, thankfully. I demonstrate his home exercises, write out his protocol, and definitely don't think about how well he fills out that Bears training shirt.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asks as he packs up.

"6 AM sharp."

"You know," he pauses at the door, "most people would kill for this time slot."

"Most people aren't trying to get back on the ice in time to beat my brother's team."

His grin is quick and sharp. "Ah, so you do keep track of hockey."

Damn it.

"Goodbye, Mr Mitchell."

He laughs all the way down the hall.

I wait until his footsteps fade before slumping into my chair. My phone shows three missed texts from Maya:

How was lover boy this morning?

Did you kill him yet?

Hello??? Are you making out in the rehab room???

I type back: I hate you.

Her response is immediate: No you don't. Coffee after your shift? You can tell me all about those professional hands of his.

MAYA.

What? I'm just invested in your patient's recovery. ;)

I drop my phone into my drawer before I can say something unprofessional. Through the wall, I can hear the familiar sounds of early morning practice starting up. The scrape of skates, the thud of bodies against boards, the sharp crack of stick on puck.

Chase should be out there. The thought hits me unexpectedly, followed by an even more surprising wave of determination. I want to get him back on the ice.

Even if it means watching him score against my brother's team again.

Even if it means fighting this electricity between us for weeks.

Even if it means remembering, every single morning, exactly how his lips felt against mine.

Five weeks and six days to go.

But who's counting?