The scar on Harper Reid's left knee tingled as she walked into Briar University's hockey arena, a phantom reminder of the last time she'd stepped onto this ice. Three years, two surgeries, and one shattered dream ago. The early morning light filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the empty stands. Everything looked exactly the same—the championship banners hanging from the rafters, the school logo emblazoned at center ice, even the faint scent of coffee wafting from her father's office.

But this time, she wasn't here as a player.

Harper adjusted the strap of her medical kit, her new Briar University Athletic Training staff ID card catching the light. The lanyard felt foreign against her neck, so different from the weight of a jersey. Her footsteps echoed through the corridor as she made her way to the training room—her new domain.

"Look who finally made it to the big leagues."

Harper grinned, turning to find Korra West leaning against the doorframe of the adjacent training room. They'd gone through grad school together, but while Harper had done her residency with a pro team in Boston, Korra had landed the women's sports position at Briar right away.

"Somebody had to come save your ass," Harper replied.

Korra snorted. "Please. I'm not the one who has to deal with twenty-five overgrown boys who think they're invincible." She pushed off the doorframe, dark ponytail swinging. "Speaking of which, how weird is it going to be? Working for your dad?"

"About as weird as you'd expect." Harper started unpacking her supplies, organizing them with practiced efficiency. "But I earned this position. My resume—"

"Your resume is incredible and you know it. That's not what I meant." Korra perched on the exam table, watching Harper work. "I meant how weird is it going to be being back here? After everything?"

Harper's hands stilled on the roll of athletic tape she was shelving. The scar tingled again, a memory of ice and impact and dreams shattering like broken glass. "I'm fine."

"Uh-huh."

"I am. That was a long time ago."

"Three years isn't that long."

Before Harper could respond, voices echoed from the corridor—deep, male, full of early morning grumbling and the kind of easy camaraderie that came with being teammates. Korra hopped off the table. "Showtime. Try not to kill any of them on your first day."

"No promises," Harper muttered, but she was already straightening her shoulders, sliding into professional mode as the first players filtered into the training room.

Some she recognized from her father's recruiting talks over dinner. Rick Paige, senior defenseman. Diego West, no relation to Korra, junior center. Ryan Hayes, junior defenseman with a chip on his shoulder the size of Boston. They eyed her with varying degrees of curiosity and wariness as they came in for pre-practice taping and treatment.

And then he walked in.

Harper had heard about Wes Carter, of course. Everyone had. The sophomore forward who'd broken scoring records his freshman year. The NHL prospect who had scouts drooling. Her father's pride and joy, though he'd never admit it out loud.

What she hadn't heard was how he moved like he owned the ice even on solid ground, how his dark hair curled slightly at the edges where it needed a trim, or how his blue eyes could pin you in place with a single glance. He carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who'd never doubted his place in the world.

Their eyes met, and something electric crackled through the air.

"Well," he said, lips curving into a smirk that probably melted half the female population of Briar, "if it isn't the prodigal daughter."

Harper's spine stiffened. "If it isn't the golden boy who can't be bothered to tape his own ankles properly."

His eyebrows shot up, that smirk widening. A few of the guys snickered. "Been watching game tape, have you?"

"Someone has to. Your form is getting sloppy."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. The other players went quiet, watching the exchange like a tennis match. Wes's smirk faded, replaced by something sharper.

"My form," he said slowly, "is perfect."

"Your form," Harper countered, meeting his gaze steadily, "is going to get you injured if you don't fix it. But hey, what do I know? I'm just the person responsible for putting you back together when you break."

For a moment, no one moved. Then Wes laughed—a genuine sound that transformed his whole face. "Alright, Doc. Show me what I'm doing wrong."

Harper ignored the way her stomach flipped at his smile. She gestured to the exam table. "Sit. And it's Harper, not Doc."

"Whatever you say, Doc."

As she began examining his ankle, her father appeared in the doorway. Coach Reid took in the scene—his daughter treating his star player, the rest of the team pretending not to watch—and his expression did something complicated.

"Team meeting in five," he announced. "Harper, my office after."

She nodded, focusing on her work rather than the weight of his gaze. Her fingers moved professionally over Wes's ankle, but she could feel the heat of him, the solid strength in his legs, the way he watched her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

"Your hands are cold," he murmured, quiet enough that only she could hear.

"Better get used to it." She secured the tape with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. "You're all set."

He hopped off the table with fluid grace, testing the tape job. "Not bad, Doc." He started to leave, then paused. "Oh, and by the way? My form isn't the problem. I just like playing on the edge."

"The edge," Harper said, "is where people fall off."

Something flickered in his eyes—interest, maybe, or challenge. "Then I guess it's good I've got someone to catch me now."

He was gone before she could respond, leaving Harper to wonder what exactly she'd gotten herself into. The training room slowly emptied as players headed for the team meeting, their voices fading down the corridor.

Korra reappeared in the doorway. "Well, that was interesting."

"Don't start."

"I'm just saying, if that's how you handle all your patients, this season is going to be very entertaining."

Harper threw a roll of tape at her friend's head. "Don't you have some soccer players to torture?"

Korra dodged the tape, laughing. "Seriously though, you good?"

Harper looked around the training room—her new domain, so different from the ice she'd once called home. Through the window, she could see the team filing into the locker room, Wes's dark head visible above the others. Her knee tingled again, but this time it felt less like remembering and more like anticipation.

"Yeah," she said, surprised to find she meant it. "I'm good."

She had something to prove now, and it had nothing to do with playing hockey. She was going to be the best damn trainer this team had ever seen.

Even if it killed her.

Or them.