The hospital corridors of Mass General were too bright, too sterile, too familiar. Harper had walked these same halls three years ago, the antiseptic smell triggering memories she'd rather forget: the sharp ache of post-operative pain, the squeak of hospital booties on linoleum, the way time seemed to move differently in medical spaces—both too fast and too slow.

Dr. Rosalyn Patel met her at the nurses' station, iPad in hand. "Good, you're here. I was just reviewing the MRI results." She pulled up the images, and Harper felt her stomach clench at the familiar black and white shapes. "Complete rupture of the ACL, as we suspected. Grade two MCL tear with significant joint effusion. The medial meniscus is showing a bucket-handle tear, and there's some bone bruising on the lateral tibial plateau."

The medical terminology transported Harper back to her own diagnosis. Different doctor, same devastating litany: Complete tear of the ACL, partial PCL, significant cartilage damage. Surgery recommended. Recovery time estimated at...

"Harper?" Dr. Patel's voice pulled her back to the present. "You with me?"

"Yeah, sorry. Just... remembering."

The older woman's expression softened. "I reviewed your case files when Coach Reid mentioned you'd be handling the rehab. Dr. Matthews did your reconstruction, right? Using the patellar tendon?"

Harper nodded. "The graft never quite took the way it should have. Ended up with chronic patellar tendinitis and—"

"And that's exactly why we're going a different route with Carter. I'm planning to use a hamstring autograft. Lower risk of anterior knee pain, better long-term outcomes for high-level athletes." She paused. "Assuming his father signs off on the procedure."

"His father?"

"He's flying in from Vancouver. Should be here within the hour. Along with his agent." Dr. Patel's lips thinned. "Which is why I wanted to talk to you first. This case is going to be... complicated."

Before she could elaborate, voices echoed down the hallway—familiar voices trying and failing to be quiet.

"You can't all go in at once," a nurse was saying. "Two visitors at a time, and he needs rest—"

"We're his teammates," Diego West's voice carried clearly. "And his roommate. That's practically family."

"Yeah, and I'm his linemate," Paige added. "That's like... hockey family."

Harper turned to find half the team crowded in the hallway, still in their post-game clothes, looking simultaneously concerned and defiant. Ryan Hayes was holding what appeared to be a stuffed bear wearing a Briar hockey jersey. Diego had an enormous get-well card. Even the freshmen had shown up, hovering uncertainly at the edges of the group.

"I've got this," Harper told the harried-looking nurse. To Dr. Patel, she added, "Give me ten minutes with them?"

The doctor nodded. "I need to review the surgical plan with anesthesia anyway. But Harper?" She lowered her voice. "Remember what I said about complications. This isn't just about the injury anymore."

Harper wasn't sure what that meant, but she didn't have time to ask. The team was already mobilizing, and if she didn't take control of the situation, they'd probably try to smuggle Wes out of the hospital "for his own good."

"Alright, listen up," she said, channeling her father's coach voice. "Two at a time, five minutes each. He's on pain meds, so keep it quiet. And Hayes?" She pointed at the bear. "Where did you even get that?"

"Gift shop." He looked defensive. "What? They didn't have a moose."

Three years ago, when Harper had woken up from her own surgery, her hospital room had been full of flowers and cards. But the thing she remembered most was the stuffed penguin Korra had brought—because everyone knows penguins have bad knees, it's practically a solidarity gift.

"The bear's fine," she said, softening. "Diego, Paige, you're up first. The rest of you, wait here."

She followed the two players into Wes's room, noting how they both hesitated at the threshold. It was always shocking, that first glimpse of a teammate in a hospital bed. The harsh lighting made everyone look vulnerable, but it was especially jarring on someone like Wes, who normally radiated such confidence.

He was awake, though clearly groggy from the pain medication. His left leg was elevated, the knee swollen to twice its normal size despite the cooling therapy unit wrapped around it. But his face brightened slightly when he saw his teammates.

"You guys look like shit," he said.

"Speak for yourself, man." Diego tried for a smile. "Nice setup you've got here. Private room and everything."

"Yeah, well, apparently being a 'high-profile collegiate athlete' has some perks." Wes's attempt at his usual swagger fell flat. "Did we win?"

"Eight to three," Paige said. "Hayes got a hat trick."

"Good. That'll show those Harvard fuckers."

"Language," Harper said automatically, but her heart wasn't in it. She was too busy watching the way Wes's hands clenched in the hospital sheets, the tension in his jaw that had nothing to do with physical pain.

Diego must have noticed too, because he stepped closer to the bed. "Hey. We've got your back, you know that right? Whatever you need."

"Thanks, D." Wes's voice was rough. "Just... keep the team focused. Can't have everyone falling apart because I did something stupid."

"It wasn't stupid," Paige started, but Harper cut him off with a look. Now wasn't the time for that conversation.

"Five minutes are up," she said gently. "Hayes and Mitchell are next."

The parade of teammates continued, each pair bringing their own mix of concern and attempted normalcy. Hayes presented the bear with great ceremony ("His name is Hat Trick, get it?"). The freshmen looked terrified until Wes chirped them about their power play formation, and then they relaxed into their usual dynamic. Through it all, Harper watched the subtle signs of fatigue creeping in—the tightness around Wes's eyes, the way his responses got shorter, the slight tremor in his hands.

She was about to call an end to the visits when her father appeared in the doorway. The team's backup goalie, who had been in the middle of describing a particularly spectacular save, took one look at Coach Reid's face and made a hasty exit.

"Carter." Coach Reid's voice was gruff but gentle. "Your father's here. He's with Dr. Patel."

Wes went very still. "And?"

"And they need to discuss the surgical plan. Your agent's here too."

"Great." Wes's laugh had an edge of hysteria. "The whole circus."

"Son—"

"Don't. Just... don't." He turned his head away, and Harper's heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in his profile. "Can you give me a minute? Before they come in?"

Coach Reid nodded, but he caught Harper's arm as she moved to follow him out. "Stay with him," he said quietly. "He shouldn't be alone right now."

The door closed behind him, leaving Harper and Wes in a silence broken only by the steady beep of monitors. She busied herself checking his vitals, adjusting his cooling unit, anything to give him a moment to compose himself.

"I haven't seen my father in two years," he said finally.

Harper's hands stilled on the temperature controls. "What?"

"He left when I was sixteen. Said he needed to 'focus on his career.' Called twice a year after that—Christmas and draft day." His laugh was bitter. "Guess a potentially career-ending injury was enough to get his attention."

"Wes—"

"Don't." He met her eyes, and the pain she saw there had nothing to do with his knee. "I don't need pity. Especially not from you."

"Good, because I don't do pity." She perched on the edge of his bed, careful not to jostle his leg. "But I do do honesty. So here it is: this sucks. All of it—the injury, the timing, your father showing up now. It's completely fair to be angry about it."

"Angry doesn't help anything."

"Neither does pretending you're fine when you're not."

He was quiet for a long moment, studying her face. "How did you do it? When you got hurt?"

The question caught her off guard. She thought about deflecting, about maintaining professional distance. But maybe what he needed right now wasn't her professional side.

"Not well," she admitted. "I was angry at everyone—the other player, the doctors, myself. I threw myself into rehab like it was a punishment, pushed too hard too fast. Ended up setting my recovery back months because I was too stubborn to admit I was struggling."

"What changed?"

"Korra knocked some sense into me. Literally—she threw an ice pack at my head when I tried to do extra PT after hours." The memory made her smile. "She said I had to decide what was more important: proving I was tough, or actually getting better."

"And you chose getting better?"

"Eventually. Once I realized that being tough doesn't mean doing it alone." She met his eyes steadily. "You've got a whole team behind you, Wes. Let them help."

"And you?" His voice was soft. "Are you behind me too?"

Before she could answer, the door opened. Dr. Patel entered, followed by a tall man in an expensive suit who could only be Wes's father, and another man who had "sports agent" written all over his carefully casual designer clothes.

"Mr. Carter," Dr. Patel was saying, "as I was explaining, the surgical plan involves—"

"I've already contacted Dr. Sawyer in Vancouver," Wes's father interrupted. "He's willing to do the surgery next week, once the swelling goes down. We can have Wes transferred—"

"No." The word came out sharper than Harper intended, drawing everyone's attention. She forced herself to adopt a professional tone. "Moving him now would be inadvisable. The injury needs immediate surgical intervention to prevent further damage to the surrounding tissue. Dr. Patel is one of the top orthopedic surgeons in the country, and she's familiar with the specific demands of hockey players."

Wes's father raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"

"Harper Reid. I'm the team's athletic trainer."

"Reid? As in—"

"My daughter," Coach Reid said from the doorway. Harper hadn't even heard him come in. "And she's right. Wes needs surgery now, not next week."

The agent stepped forward. "Perhaps we should discuss this privately. The draft implications alone—"

"Are irrelevant compared to my patient's health," Dr. Patel cut in smoothly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I need to examine Mr. Carter's knee again before we finalize the surgical plan."

The political maneuvering that followed would have been fascinating if it weren't so frustrating. Harper found herself pushed to the edge of the room as Wes's father, agent, and various medical professionals debated his future. Through it all, she watched Wes's face—saw the way he retreated behind a mask of indifference, the same way she had when doctors had discussed her career in front of her like she wasn't even there.

Her father appeared at her shoulder. "This is what I was worried about," he said quietly. "It's not just about the injury anymore. It's about his future, his draft prospects, his whole career." He paused. "And you're already too invested."

"I'm his trainer. I'm supposed to be invested."

"Harper." His voice was gentle. "I saw your face when his father started talking about transferring him. This is exactly why I wanted to assign someone else to his case. You're too close to it."

"Because I understand what he's going through?"

"Because you care too much." He squeezed her shoulder. "The next few months are going to be hard enough without... complications."

She wanted to argue, to defend herself, but at that moment Wes looked up and caught her eye across the room. The mask slipped, just for a second, and she saw everything he wasn't saying: the fear, the uncertainty, the silent plea for someone—for her—to stay.

And she knew her father was right. She was already too invested, too involved, too...everything.

But she also knew she couldn't walk away.

"I can handle complications," she said finally.

Her father sighed. "That's what I was afraid of." He straightened up, coach mode engaging. "Alright, let's get this circus under control. Dr. Patel needs to prep for surgery, and Carter needs rest."

He moved into the fray with practiced authority, somehow managing to herd everyone toward the door. Harper started to follow, but Wes's voice stopped her.

"Doc?"

She turned back. "Yeah?"

"You never answered my question. Are you behind me in this?"

Harper looked at him—really looked at him. Past the cocky hockey star, past the injured athlete, to the person underneath who was just as scared and uncertain as she had been. And she knew there was only one answer she could give.

"All the way," she said quietly. "But we're doing this my way. No shortcuts, no pushing too hard, no trying to prove anything to anyone. Deal?"

His smile was small but real. "Deal."

She left him then, before she could say or do anything else that would prove her father right about her being too invested. But as she walked down the too-bright hallway, past worried teammates and hovering medical staff, she couldn't help thinking that maybe being too invested wasn't the worst thing.

Maybe it was exactly what they both needed.

The trick would be convincing everyone else of that—including herself.