"Again."

Wes moved through the agility drill with fluid precision, his cleats gripping the training room floor as he navigated the ladder pattern Harper had laid out. There was barely a hitch in his movement now—just the slightest hesitation on his injured side, visible only to her trained eye.

"Good," she said, checking his form. "Two more sets."

"Only two?" He flashed her that dangerous smile. "I'm disappointed, Doc. Getting soft on me?"

"Would you prefer I add resistance bands?"

"Actually, never mind. Two sets is perfect."

She tried not to smile as he started the next round. Tried not to notice the way his practice shirt clung to his shoulders, or how his focus sharpened when he concentrated on a particularly challenging sequence. Tried, and mostly failed.

"Looking good, Carter!" Hayes called from his spot on the treatment table, where Paige was working on his shoulder. "Almost like a real athlete again."

"Better than you on your best day," Wes shot back, not breaking rhythm.

"Yeah? Prove it. One-on-one, after practice."

"No one's proving anything," Harper cut in. "Not until—"

"Not until I'm cleared. I know, I know." Wes finished the set with a flourish. "But hypothetically, when might that be?"

Before she could answer, the training room door opened, admitting Coach Reid and a man Harper didn't recognize. But Wes clearly did—his posture straightened immediately, professional mask sliding into place.

"Mr. Anderson," he said, nodding to the stranger. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Just checking in on my investment." Anderson's smile didn't reach his eyes as he surveyed the training room. "Coach Reid tells me you're making progress."

Harper recognized the name now—James Anderson, one of the top NHL scouts, known for his ability to spot future stars. He'd been watching Wes since sophomore year.

"Significant progress," she said, stepping forward. "His strength and stability numbers are excellent, and his movement patterns are nearly back to baseline."

Anderson's gaze swept over her, dismissive. "And you are?"

"Harper Reid. Team athletic trainer."

"Ah, yes. The coach's daughter." He turned back to Wes. "The Bruins are very interested in your recovery timeline, Carter. They're willing to take a chance on you, despite the injury, but they need assurances about your readiness."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Hayes and Paige had gone silent, watching the exchange with poorly concealed interest.

"Wes is following a carefully structured return-to-play protocol," Harper said, keeping her voice professional. "We're not cutting corners."

"No one's suggesting corners should be cut." Anderson's tone suggested exactly that. "But perhaps a more... aggressive approach might be warranted. I know several specialists in Boston who—"

"With all due respect," Wes interrupted, "I trust my current medical team."

The words warmed something in Harper's chest, even as she maintained her professional expression.

"Your loyalty is admirable," Anderson said. "But this is your future we're talking about. The draft is approaching, and other prospects are moving up the rankings while you're stuck doing..." He gestured at the agility ladder. "Basic drills."

"Nothing basic about it," Coach Reid spoke up. "Harper's protocol is state-of-the-art. Carter's progress is right where it should be."

"And where exactly is that?" Anderson pulled out his phone, consulting something. "Because according to my sources, several players with similar injuries were back on the ice within eight weeks."

"Different injuries require different approaches," Harper said firmly. "Wes's case involved multiple structures, which necessitates a more comprehensive—"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure it's all very scientific." Anderson waved her off. "But the fact remains, Carter, that your draft stock is slipping. Teams are concerned about your durability, your commitment to returning at full strength. They need to see you on the ice, not just in the training room."

Wes's jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "I understand the pressure, sir. But I also understand that rushing back too soon could end my career before it begins."

"Or waiting too long could end it just as effectively." Anderson tucked his phone away. "Think about it, Carter. The Bruins won't wait forever."

After he left, the training room remained silent for a long moment. Coach Reid cleared his throat.

"Harper, a word?"

She followed him into her office, conscious of Wes's eyes on her back. As soon as the door closed, her father slumped against the wall.

"That could have gone better."

"He's wrong," Harper said fiercely. "Wes is progressing exactly as he should be. Pushing him faster would be dangerous."

"I know that. But Anderson has influence. If he starts spreading doubts about Carter's recovery..."

"Then what? We compromise his health for politics?"

"Of course not." Coach Reid ran a hand through his hair. "But we need to be strategic about this. The team needs him back, the scouts need to see him play, and Carter needs to secure his future."

"His future won't matter if he reinjures himself."

"No, it won't." He studied her face. "You care about him."

It wasn't a question. Harper met her father's eyes steadily. "I care about all my patients."

"Harper..."

"Don't. Please." She turned to her desk, needing the distance. "I'm doing my job. That's all."

"Is it?" His voice was gentle. "Because the way you looked at Anderson when he suggested changing Carter's treatment... that wasn't just professional concern."

Before she could respond, a knock interrupted them. Wes stood in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I think I tweaked something on that last set."

"Come in," Harper said, grateful for the distraction. "Dad was just leaving."

Coach Reid looked between them for a long moment. "Just... be careful. All of you."

Once he was gone, Harper gestured to the treatment table. "Where does it hurt?"

"It doesn't." Wes sat anyway. "I just needed an excuse to check on you."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah? Because you look like you're about to commit murder. Possibly with that resistance band."

Despite herself, she smiled. "It would be untraceable. The perfect crime."

"There's the Harper I know." His voice softened. "Anderson's wrong, you know. About all of it."

"Is he? Because he's not wrong about the draft, or the teams watching, or—"

"He's wrong about rushing the recovery. About doubting your protocol." Wes caught her hand as she reached for his knee. "About dismissing you."

The contact sent warmth spreading up her arm. "Wes..."

"I meant what I said. I trust you. Not just as my trainer, but as..." He trailed off, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You're the only one who sees the whole picture. Who understands that this isn't just about getting back on the ice, but about doing it right."

"That's my job."

"Is it just your job?"

The question hung between them, loaded with meaning. Harper looked down at their joined hands, at the way his fingers fit perfectly between hers.

"You know it's not."

His breath caught. "Harper—"

"But it has to be." She pulled away reluctantly. "Especially now, with Anderson watching and the team counting on you and everything else..."

"I know." He stood slowly, testing his knee. "But sometimes... sometimes I wish it didn't have to be."

The honesty in his voice made her heart ache. "Me too."

They stayed like that for a moment, the admission hanging in the air between them. Finally, Wes cleared his throat.

"So, about those two sets..."

"Three now," she said, finding her professional voice. "For making me worry."

"I wasn't actually hurt."

"No, but you made me think you were. That deserves punishment."

His laugh was warm. "Yes, ma'am."

As she followed him back to the training room, Harper couldn't help but notice how the other players watched them—the knowing looks, the careful distance they maintained. Even Paige and Hayes had made themselves scarce.

Everyone could see it, she realized. The way things were changing between them, the lines blurring despite their best efforts to maintain them.

The question was: how long could they keep pretending those lines still existed?

Because Anderson was right about one thing—time was running out. The season was progressing, the draft approaching, and decisions would have to be made.

She just hoped they were making the right ones.

"Ready?" she called to Wes, who was already positioning himself at the start of the agility ladder.

"For you?" His eyes met hers, full of things they couldn't say. "Always."

Some progress couldn't be measured in drills or statistics. Some healing happened in the spaces between professional and personal, in the moments when pretense fell away and truth shone through.

The trick would be figuring out how to protect that progress—and each other—when the rest of the world came crashing in.