Harper knew something was wrong the moment she walked into the training room. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut, and Diego's expression as he hurried past her said everything she needed to know.

"He's in a mood," he warned quietly. "Like, worse than usual."

She found Wes already on the treatment table, a month's worth of frustration radiating from his rigid posture. His practice jersey was soaked with sweat—which was impossible, because he wasn't cleared for practice yet.

"What did you do?"

He didn't look at her. "Nothing."

"Try again." She moved closer, noting the fresh swelling around his knee, the slight tremor in his quad muscle. "Because this doesn't look like nothing."

"I did some skating. Light stuff. No big deal."

The casual way he said it made something snap inside her. "No big deal? You're not cleared for skating. You're barely cleared for weight-bearing exercises. Who even let you on the ice?"

"I don't need permission."

"Actually, you do. That's literally my job—to clear you for activities when you're ready. Which you're not."

"Because you won't let me be!" He finally looked at her, and the raw anger in his eyes took her aback. "I'm falling behind. Every day I sit here doing these baby exercises, I'm losing ground. The team is struggling, scouts are losing interest, and you've got me doing straight leg raises like I'm some recreational player who just wants to walk normally again."

"That's not fair."

"No? Then tell me, Doc, what's your real timeline here? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're being overcautious. Like maybe you're projecting your own injury onto me."

The words hit like a physical blow. Harper took a step back, struggling to maintain her professional composure. "You want to have this conversation? Fine. But not here."

She turned on her heel and walked to her office, not checking to see if he followed. He did, of course—she could hear the uneven cadence of his gait, the sound making her anger flare hotter because he was obviously compensating for the strain he'd put on his knee.

The door had barely closed behind them when he started again. "I talked to other players who've had ACL surgery. They were skating at four weeks."

"Good for them. Did they also have MCL and meniscus damage? Did they rush back too soon and end up with chronic issues? Did they—"

"Stop treating me like I'm you!"

The words echoed in the small office. Harper felt them like a knife between her ribs, sharp and precise.

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"Aren't you?" His laugh was bitter. "You're so scared of me making your mistakes that you won't let me take any risks at all."

"I'm trying to protect your career."

"No, you're trying to protect yourself. Because if I come back from this and you didn't, what does that say about you?"

She reeled back like he'd slapped her. "Get out."

"Harper—"

"Get. Out."

But he didn't move. Instead, he sank into her office chair, the fight suddenly draining from him. "I can't sleep," he said quietly. "Every night, I lie there thinking about everything I'm losing. The team, the draft, my whole future... it's all slipping away, and I can't do anything about it."

The raw vulnerability in his voice cracked something in her chest. "Wes..."

"My dad calls every day. Wants updates, timelines, projections. The agent too. They keep talking about other surgeons, other protocols, ways to speed things up." He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "And I know—I know—you're right about taking it slow. But it feels like drowning. Like watching everything I've worked for disappear while I just... wait."

Harper moved closer, perching on the edge of her desk. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what? That I'm terrified? That every time I see the team struggle, it feels like my fault? That I—" His voice cracked. "That I don't know who I am without hockey?"

"I do." The words came out barely above a whisper. "Know who you are, I mean. You're not just a hockey player, Wes. You're the person who helps Liu with his chemistry homework. Who stays late to work with the freshmen on their shot accuracy. Who makes Diego laugh even when he's stressed about med school applications."

He looked up at her, something vulnerable and raw in his expression. "How do you know about the chemistry tutoring?"

"I pay attention." She smiled slightly. "It's kind of my job."

"To the team, maybe. But you notice... everything."

The way he said it made her pulse skip. "Someone has to."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with things unsaid. Finally, Wes spoke again, his voice soft. "Tell me about your injury. The real story, not the medical file version."

Harper's hands clenched on the edge of her desk. "Why?"

"Because I need to understand. And because... because I think maybe you need to talk about it too."

She was quiet for a long moment, gathering her thoughts. "It was the championship game. Senior year. We were down by one with two minutes left, and I had a breakaway chance." She could still feel it—the ice under her skates, the weight of expectation, the roar of the crowd. "Their defender caught me from behind. Clean hit, technically, but I was off balance. When I went down..."

"You knew it was bad?"

"I knew it was over." She swallowed hard. "Not just the game—everything. My hockey career, my Olympic dreams, all of it. Gone in one second of bad luck."

"But you found something else. A new dream."

"Eventually. After I finished being angry at the world." She met his eyes. "That's what I'm trying to prevent with you, Wes. Not the comeback—the bitterness. The pushing too hard because you're scared of losing everything."

He was quiet for a moment, studying her face. "How did you get past it?"

"I stopped fighting the recovery process and started working with it. Found other ways to stay connected to the sport. Started seeing myself as more than just an athlete."

"Is that what you see in me? More than just an athlete?"

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with meaning. Harper's heart thundered in her chest.

"I see you," she said simply. "All of you. The good, the stubborn, the frustrating... and the extraordinary."

He reached for her hand, his fingers warm against hers. "Harper..."

"Don't." But she didn't pull away. "We can't."

"I know." He squeezed her fingers once before letting go. "But sometimes... sometimes I wish we could."

The admission hung in the air, too honest to take back, too dangerous to acknowledge fully. Harper took a shaky breath.

"If you want to skate," she said finally, "we'll work up to it. Properly. With a progressive loading protocol and proper supervision. But you have to trust me, Wes. No more going behind my back, no more pushing too hard. Deal?"

His smile was small but genuine. "Deal. But only if you promise something too."

"What?"

"Stop treating me like I'm going to break. I'm not your knee, Harper. I'm not your past. I'm just... me. Trying to find my way back."

The words hit home in a way she hadn't expected. "I'll try. But you have to be honest with me. About the pain, the pressure, all of it. No more pretending you're fine when you're not."

"Okay." He stood carefully, testing his knee. "Though for the record, the skating wasn't completely stupid. I managed three laps before—"

"Before your knee swelled up like a grapefruit?"

"Details." But his smile reached his eyes this time. "So, what's my punishment for unauthorized ice time? Extra ice therapy? More straight leg raises?"

"Oh no. Something much worse." She grinned wickedly. "You get to help Liu practice asking Tiffany Chance to formal. In front of the whole team."

"You're evil."

"I prefer 'professionally creative.'"

He laughed—a real laugh, the kind that transformed his whole face—and Harper felt something warm unfurl in her chest. This was dangerous territory, this easy intimacy, this understanding that went beyond trainer and patient. But as she watched him limp back to the treatment room, already plotting ways to help Liu while maintaining his dignity, she couldn't bring herself to regret it.

Some lines, once crossed, couldn't be uncrossed. Some connections, once forged, couldn't be broken.

The trick would be figuring out how to navigate them without destroying everything in the process.

"Hey, Doc?" Wes called from the doorway.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For... seeing me."

The words carried more weight than their simplicity suggested. Harper met his eyes, saw everything he wasn't saying—couldn't say—reflected there.

"Always," she said softly.

It wasn't professional. It wasn't safe. But it was true.

And maybe, just maybe, that would have to be enough for now.