The scouts were easy to spot—three men in dark suits, sitting just above center ice, notepads balanced on their knees. Harper recognized the logos: Bruins, Rangers, Maple Leafs. Three Original Six teams, all with their eyes on one player. The entire arena seemed to vibrate with anticipation, and no one felt it more keenly than Wes Carter.

She watched him during warm-ups, noting the tight set of his shoulders, the extra snap in his shots, the way he kept glancing up at the scouts when he thought no one was looking. This wasn't just another game. This was an audition.

"He's wound tighter than a spring," Korra observed from her usual spot next to Harper. They'd developed a routine over the past month—Korra would come watch the men's games, Harper would watch the women's matches, and they'd both pretend it was purely professional interest. "Think he'll hold it together?"

Diego West skated past their bench, shooting Harper a worried look. "Carter's been weird all day," he muttered. "Barely said two words at practice this morning."

Ryan Hayes nodded in agreement as he glided by. "Yeah, and he nearly took Paige's head off in warm-ups. Someone needs to talk him down before—"

"I've got it," Coach Reid interrupted, appearing behind them. He fixed Harper with a meaningful look. "Keep an eye on him. Not just his playing—watch his left knee. He was favoring it during drills."

Harper frowned. "He didn't come see me about it."

"Would you expect him to? Today of all days?" Her father's expression softened slightly. "You know how he is. How they all are at this stage—thinking they're invincible, thinking they can play through anything."

"Were we like that?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Something flickered in her father's eyes—pain, maybe, or regret. "Worse, probably." He squeezed her shoulder briefly. "Just... watch him. Please."

The starting lineup took the ice, and Harper's breath caught at the fierce determination on Wes's face as he lined up for the faceoff. She'd seen him play dozens of times now, but something was different tonight. He wasn't just hungry for a win—he was desperate for it.

The puck dropped, and all hell broke loose.

Wes played like a man possessed, throwing himself into every play with reckless abandon. He scored twice in the first period, each goal more spectacular than the last. The crowd roared, the scouts scribbled, and Harper's anxiety ratcheted up with every hit he took, every awkward landing, every time he pushed his body past its limits.

She noticed it first during a routine play—the slight hesitation before he pushed off with his left leg, the barely perceptible wince when he landed. Most people wouldn't have caught it, but Harper had spent weeks studying his movements, learning his tells.

"Slow down," she muttered as he crashed into the boards after a particularly aggressive check. "Just slow down."

"You seeing what I'm seeing?" The team doctor, Dr. Miller, had appeared at her shoulder.

Harper nodded grimly. "His knee. He's compensating with his right side, which is putting extra strain on his hip flexors and—"

"And making him vulnerable to exactly the kind of hit that could end his season." Dr. Miller sighed. "Want to try getting him off the ice?"

"You really think he'd listen?"

"Not to me." He gave her a pointed look. "But maybe to you."

During the first intermission, she cornered him in the hallway outside the locker room. "Carter."

He turned, still buzzing with adrenaline, eyes bright with the high of competition. A bruise was already forming along his jawline where he'd taken an elbow. "Can't talk now, Doc. Kind of in the middle of something."

"Yeah, I noticed. You're also in the middle of destroying your body." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Your left knee—how long has it been bothering you?"

His expression shuttered. "It's fine."

"Don't lie to me. I can see you favoring it. The compensation patterns, the delayed weight transfers—"

"I said it's fine." But he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"You're trying to impress them." She gestured toward the ceiling, toward the suits with their notepads and expectations. "But you won't impress anyone from a hospital bed."

Something flickered across his face—frustration, maybe, or fear. "You don't understand. This is my shot. My one shot."

"I understand better than you think." Her own knee twinged, a phantom reminder. "Just... be smart out there. Please. The way you're playing—it's not sustainable. Your body can't take this kind of punishment."

He studied her for a long moment, close enough that she could see the beads of sweat at his temples, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. "Worried about me, Doc?"

"Worried about my workload if you get injured."

His lips curved into that familiar smirk, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Liar."

Before she could respond, Ryan Hayes stuck his head out of the locker room. "Carter! Coach wants us back in." He paused, taking in their proximity, the tension in the air. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," Wes said, stepping back. "Just getting some professional advice."

The second period started much like the first, with Wes at the center of every play. But something had shifted. The opposing team had clearly decided that if they couldn't stop him legally, they'd try other methods. The hits got harder, the checks more frequent, until Harper could barely watch.

"They're targeting him," Korra said unnecessarily. "And he's letting them."

She was right. Instead of playing smart, Wes seemed to take each hit as a challenge. He gave as good as he got, but Harper could see the toll it was taking. His movements were just a fraction slower, his recoveries just a bit less smooth. The rest of the team noticed too—Diego started running interference, Paige stepped up the physical game to draw attention away from Wes, but it wasn't enough.

With three minutes left in the second period, Harper saw it coming before it happened. Wes had the puck, was streaking toward the goal with that fluid grace that made him so spectacular to watch. His left knee was practically buckling with each stride, but he wouldn't stop, wouldn't slow down. Two defenders converged on him. In that split second, Harper saw his choice—take the hit and possibly score, or pass to Diego, who was wide open on the wing.

Wes Carter had never been very good at taking the safe option.

He accelerated, threading between the defenders in a move that defied physics and common sense. The crowd held its breath. The scouts leaned forward.

And then everything went wrong.

The hit came from his blind side, catching him just as his left knee gave out. His body twisted one way while his leg stayed planted, and the sound—God, the sound—was like something out of Harper's nightmares. A sickening pop, followed by the distinctive crunch of ligaments tearing.

The arena went silent as Wes Carter, star forward and NHL hopeful, crumpled to the ice.

Harper was moving before her brain could process what had happened, medical kit already in hand. The team parted for her, faces drawn with concern. Paige was arguing with the refs, Diego was hovering nearby, and her father—her father looked like he'd aged ten years in ten seconds.

Wes was trying to get up, because of course he was. His face was white with pain, but his jaw was set in that stubborn line she'd come to know so well.

"Don't move," she ordered, dropping to her knees beside him. The ice soaked through her pants, but she barely noticed. Her hands moved with professional efficiency, assessing, cataloging. Anterior drawer test positive. Valgus stress test positive. Significant swelling already beginning. Classic signs of—

"ACL," Dr. Miller confirmed quietly, kneeling beside her. "Probably MCL too, from the mechanism of injury."

Wes's breath hitched as they stabilized his knee. "How bad?"

Harper met his eyes, saw the fear he was trying so hard to hide. "Bad enough. But we'll fix it. That's what I'm here for, remember?"

A stretcher appeared, and the rest of the medical team moved in. Harper stepped back on shaky legs, suddenly aware of the entire arena watching. Coach Reid appeared at her side, one hand steady on her shoulder.

"You saw it coming, didn't you?" he asked quietly.

She nodded. "His knee was compromised before the hit. I tried to—"

"I know you did." He squeezed her shoulder. "This isn't on you, Harper."

But it felt like it was. She watched as they stabilized Wes's leg, as they lifted him onto the stretcher. The team gathered around, tapping their sticks on the ice—a hockey player's salute to a fallen comrade. Diego was saying something about payback, Paige was trying to calm him down, and through it all, Wes kept his eyes locked on Harper until they wheeled him away.

The game resumed eventually. Briar won, but it felt hollow. The scouts packed up their notepads and left. The crowd filed out. And Harper stood in her training room, staring at the exam table where she'd teased Wes about his ankle tape just that morning.

Her father found her there first. "Surgery tomorrow morning at Mass General. Dr. Patel's doing it."

"Good. She's the best." Harper started organizing supplies that didn't need organizing. "I'll coordinate with her office about the rehab protocol."

"Harper." Something in his voice made her look up. "I'm taking you off his case."

"What? No. Dad, I'm the most qualified—"

"You're too close to it." He held up a hand when she started to protest. "Don't argue. I've seen how you look at him, how he looks at you. It's not professional."

"Nothing has happened."

"But it could. And I can't have that—not for his sake, not for yours, and not for this team." His expression softened. "I'm trying to protect you both."

"I don't need protection. I need to do my job."

"Your job is to take care of this team. All of them. Not just one player."

Before she could argue further, Korra appeared in the doorway. She took in the scene—Harper's clenched fists, Coach Reid's stern expression—and cleared her throat. "They're taking him to the hospital now. He's asking for you, Harper."

Coach Reid sighed. "Go. But tomorrow, we're assigning his case to someone else."

Harper brushed past him without responding. She had more important things to worry about right now than professional boundaries and her father's rules.

Wes needed her. Everything else could wait.

The problem was, she was starting to realize that "everything else" included her own heart—which was somehow already tangled up in this mess, whether she wanted it to be or not.