Game night. Jacksonville Rays versus the Pittsburgh Penguins. Puck drops in twenty minutes and shit just keeps hitting the fan. First, Walsh tripped on a poorly placed electrical cord heading out to practice and busted his knee. The damn thing is still swelling. I’ve got him nursing an ice pack in the locker room.
Meanwhile, J-Lo has some kind of stomach bug. He’s been puking his guts out for the last hour. And now Karlsson is worried he overextended his finger. Not to mention these guys are all a bunch of raccoons who like to raid the medical bags. All my athletic tape is missing.
“Hey—Avery,” I say, catching him in the hall. “Do you have any athletic tape?”
He huffs, brushing past me. “It’s not my job to chase after you, holding your first aid kit, Price. I’ve got my own job to do.”
“I’m not asking you to follow me around, Avery. I just need some tape—”
He spins around, getting up in my face. I hate that my natural reaction is to flinch away. He sees it and smirks. “Listen, Princess. I don’t know whose dick you sucked to win your fellowship, and frankly I don’t care. But I’m not gonna let your constant incompetence affect the way I run my PT program. Do you job, or I’ll find someone else who will.” With that he stomps away.
I’m so shocked, I can’t even muster a reply. Did Avery really just accuse me of performing sexual favors to win my fellowship? Over the past several weeks, I’ve given that asshole every chance to prove he’s not a sexist pig. But now I’m done. I am so fucking done. He comes at me again, I’m going there. Full spider monkey.
Rushing to the end of the hall, I’m fuming as I dive into the backup medical bag. I’m so frustrated with Avery. And I’m starving. And I have to pee.
“Hey, Hurricane.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Caleb standing there with a box of blades in his hands.
“You’re looking extra twisty today,” he says. Clearly, he can read the ‘fuck off’ sign I’ve got hanging around my neck.
“Either help me or get lost, Cay,” I say, digging through the bag.
“Ooo, twisty and salty. Like a sexy, mean pretzel,” he teases. “My favorite kind.”
“God damn it,” I snap, zipping the bag shut. “Where the hell is all the athletic tape?”
He huffs a laugh. “The guys stealing your stuff?”
I brush my hair back off my face. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” As I say it, I know I’m thinking more about Avery than the missing tape.
His dark eyes narrow at me. “When’s the last time you had something to drink? Or eat? You’re looking feral—”
“I’m fine,” I snap.
Now he’s smirking, and it makes me want to nut punch him. “You’re hangry.”
“I’m not hangry, Cay. I’m just busy. I’m working. And all you guys are making it freaking impossible today!” I take a shaky breath, glancing around. “I gotta go hunt down some tape,” I mutter. Apparently, I’ll pee when I’m dead.
I move to brush past him, but he sticks out his hand. “Whoa, whoa. Hold on there, killer. Where are you going?”
“I’m going to find an EMT, and I’ll ask to raid their bag—”
“Nope. Come on,” he says, pulling me down the hall.
“Caleb, let go,” I huff. “I know how to do my damn job. Are you a doctor?”
“Nope,” He hands off his box of blades to Jerry as we pass him. “But I was a hockey player for twenty years, and now I’m the equipment manager on an NHL team. Do you know what that means, Hurricane?”
“What?” I say with a sigh, letting him lead me towards the locker room.
“It means I manage equipment,” he says with a wink.
He pulls me into the busy locker room. Rock music is blasting as the guys get themselves pumped up for the game. The room is crowded and noisy and buzzing with excitement. Jake sees us immediately and flashes us a smile.
“Novy, cut the music!” Caleb shouts.
Novikov snatches up his phone and the volume of the rock music cuts in half.
“What’s up, Sanny?” one of the guys calls.
“Whoa, Hot Doc in the lock!” another shouts, and then the room is full of hoots and hollers.
I roll my eyes. It’s so close to game time that they’re all wearing layers of moisture-wicking undershirts, jocks, kneepads, hockey shorts, socks, chest protectors, jerseys. The only peep show I’m getting is their fingers—and even some of those are already stuffed into gloves.
“What’s up, Doc?” Sully calls, which makes half the guys burst into more laughter.
Caleb snatches up a plastic box and calls out, “Alright, everyone pay up! Give the Doc back her athletic tape. Now.”
Grumbles and groans filter around the room as the guys shift.
“Do it, or I won’t wash your practice towels for a week,” he barks. “Things are about to get really musty up in here, fellas!”
As one, the room moves, the guys digging in their bags or reaching on their shelves to grab their athletic tape. Caleb does a circuit of the room, letting the stolen tape rattle into the plastic bin. I shake my head, lips pursed in annoyance, as even Jake shrugs and tosses a roll of tape in. It seems the only one who didn’t steal from my bag is Ilmari.
Caleb brings me the bin with a smirk. “And that’s how it’s done. Got anything to add, Doc?”
I glance at him, and he gestures with his eyes over his shoulder at the crowded locker room.
Oh, right. Establish dominance. Hockey boys follow strong leadership.
Clearing my throat, I snatch the bin from Caleb. “Right, so listen up! The next guy who steals from my medical bag is gonna get a courtesy tape job. Teddy here is gonna mummify your cash and prizes with any tape you steal,” I say, jerking my thumb at the wide-eyed intern. “Your girls can have fun helping you rip it off after the game!”
The guys go wild, laughing and ribbing Teddy, whose cheeks promptly turns an adorable shade of salmon pink.
Caleb grins, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “Come on, Hurricane. Lemme show you something.” He leads me out of the locker room and across the hall into equipment manager HQ. “This is a secret, okay? You tell any of the guys, and we’ll get a load of trash pandas in here stealing from us too.”
I raise a brow. “Not even Jake?”
“Especially not that asshole. I’d never get him out of here.” He points out a small black box labeled FIGURE SKATES.
I give him a scathing look but he just grins.
“Open it.”
I pop off the lid and gasp with delight. It’s packed full of snacks, and none of it is dietician approved: chocolate-dipped granola bars, teriyaki jerky sticks, candy bars, oatmeal pies. I’m legit about to cry. “Ohmygod.”
“Go crazy,” Caleb says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “See you out there.”
We’re four minutes from the end of the second period and I’ve already dealt with a bleeding lip, and two gruesome body checks that took the guys down to the ice. They’re both okay, but they’ll be feeling it in the morning.
My eye can’t help but follow Jake as he darts up and down that ice. He’s a machine, working the puck out of the Rays’ defensive zone and shooting it down the ice. He’s been on the line with J-Lo a lot and they seem to work well together. Each time his shift is over, he sprints to the bench, barreling over the boards to rest and rehydrate.
I may as well be invisible to him right now, and I don’t mind. I love watching him in his element. His intensity is magnetic. He’s just so beautiful inside and out—
“No, no—cover him!” Jake yells, launching to his feet.
Oh shit. The Penguins are working the puck in front of the net. Ilmari drops down, pads flat against the ice. He’s sliding left and right as the players fight in front of him.
“Get it out!”
“Get the puck out!”
The whole bench is shouting as the Rays fight to get control of the puck. It’s madness. Snow is spraying in Ilmari’s face.
Shot on goal.
It hits Ilmari’s knee pad and ricochets off, but the Penguins rebound.
“Come oooon!”
Heart in my throat, I watch as Ilmari and the defense fight it out. The Penguins are feral. They want this goal and they’re ready to bleed for it.
“Get it out of the slot!”
The bench is going nuts and so is the crowd. The whole arena is on its feet, screaming for the Penguins to make this goal. Jake and J-Lo both already have one leg over the boards, ready to leap back into play, but they have to wait for this dogfight to end. Morrow and Hanner are on their own. It’s pandemonium.
All the while, I only see Ilmari. He’s in full butterfly, guarding his net with everything he’s got. Playing the game means everything to him. But what will be the ultimate cost?
I swallow, heart racing as he gets a reprieve. The Rays worked the puck away from the net. No goal. The Penguins fans are screaming their outrage, booing as the puck moves down ice.
Morrow and Hanner race to the bench as Jake and J-Lo go flying off to join the fray. Morrow promptly puts his head between his knees and throws up. It’s nothing but electrolyte water. He’ll recover and be demanding to get back on the ice when Jake’s shift is over.
I take a breath, turning my focus back to Ilmari. He clambers up to his skates and a zing of knowing rattles me to my core. He’s not okay.
“Get him off the ice,” I whisper, knowing no one can hear me.
The crowd is going crazy. They wanted a goal before intermission.
My gaze darts up to the jumbotron. Less than a minute left. But the Penguins have the puck, and they’re racing down the ice. Ilmari gets into his stance.
The Rays catch up, and it’s a tussle in the slot to clear the puck. Ilmari darts left, following the forward, but then the winger shoots the puck through Jake’s legs to the guy waiting on the other side.
Shot on goal.
Buzzer.
Ilmari is too far left. The puck sails into the unguarded corner of the net and the cherry lights up, siren wailing, as the whole arena erupts with boisterous cheers.
The period is over, and the Rays are officially down 0-1. The players all clear the bench for intermission, their spirits shaken. I wait, watching as No. 31 collects his water bottle and ambles across the ice, pushing with only his left skate.
He lifts his mask up as he skates closer, and I see the simmering anger on his face. At himself. At his defense. Goalies can get deep in their own heads, taking each goal so personally.
Tomlin flips the door open for him to step through. “Alright, it’s alright,” he says, patting him on the padded shoulder. “You were working the rebounds. We just gotta get the defense to clear the puck better and there’s still a whole third period—”
Tomlin keeps rambling, but Ilmari isn’t listening. He’s too deep in his head. The jumbotron could drop from the rafters and he wouldn’t flinch. Tomlin slips in front of him, leading the way back towards the locker room.
“Hey!” I call out, rushing to Ilmari’s side. I put my hand on his arm.
He spins around, nearly whacking me in the face with the end of his stick. He’s pouring sweat, his pupils blown black.
“Oh…” I whisper. It’s worse than I thought. “Ilmari—”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, jerking away and stomping off.
“Don’t walk away from me!” I shout, chasing after him. “Mars!”
He ducks around the corner into the tunnel, under the halo of jeering Penguins fans and the few diehard Rays fans. They call out his name. He ignores them all.
I race after him, grabbing for his arm again as soon as we’re under the cover of darkness. The sounds of the arena echo behind us, but we’re alone in this narrow hallway, suspended in the dark between the rink and the locker room. Gear litters either side of us—row after row of colorful sticks, water bottles.
“Hey—hold on. Talk to me!”
He’s massive in his full kit. The skates add inches he doesn’t need, so he absolutely towers over me. The broad shoulders, the padded hockey shorts, the huge leg blockers. The only piece of him I can see inside his thick armor is his face and even that is now cast in deep shadow.
I step in closer, one hand on his blocker. “What’s your pain level?”
“Six,” he mutters.
“And if you’re not trying to put on a brave face for me so you can stay on that ice? What is it then?”
He jerks his blocker free but doesn’t move away. “Eight.”
“Oh, Mars…let me help you,” I plead.
“You are helping me.”
“No, let me really help you. Let me get you scans—”
“No.”
“We can’t keep doing this! I need to know what’s wrong. And I have an idea—”
“I said no,” he growls.
I take a breath. He’s in fight mode. Well, I’m a fighter too. I pop my hands on my hips and lift my chin. “Well, I’m saying yes.”
He scoffs, turning away.
“Walk away from me, Kinnunen, and just see what happens.”
He stomps forward, crowding me. “Are you threatening me, Doctor Price?”
“You’re damn right I am,” I growl right back. “I don’t think you understand the position you’re in here, Mars. You’re skating around like you call the shots. But I’m in charge,” I say, jabbing a thumb at my chest. “Did you forget that I sign your medical release forms? The FIHA wants your records, Mars. I’m the one that gets to fax them over. What I write on those forms depends on you. So, do you have a labral tear that will require emergent surgery, benching you for the rest of the season? Or do you have a mild groin pull and you’re sitting out for two weeks as a simple precaution?”
“You can’t bench me. I have to play—”
“No, you idiot. You have to live,” I cry, fisting his jersey with both hands. “You may look like a hockey Thor, but you’re not a god, Ilmari. You’re flesh and blood and you’re grinding yourself into that ice. And I won’t allow it.”
“What does that mean?” he growls.
I hold his gaze, letting the hammer fall. “It means you’re done. You’re benched, Mars—”
“No!”
“For the rest of this game and your Tuesday game at a bare minimum,” I add.
“Saatana,” he curses, punching the concrete wall. I doubt he feels it through the blocker. “I trusted you. I came to you for help.”
“And this is me helping,” I counter, not giving him a single inch.
“You said you would keep me on the ice—”
“I said I would try,” I correct. “You get to think about the game first. Every single person in this arena right now is thinking about the damn game. I’m thinking about you—”
The words are barely out of my mouth when he slings his massive, padded arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him. He crouches down in one swoop, pressing me closer, and then he’s kissing me. The stubble of his beard tickles my mouth. He tastes like salt and sweat, and something sweetly spiced, honey and menthol.
Oh, holy fuck—I’m kissing him back.
Yep, my lips are definitely moving. I’m tasting him. My fingers are clutching to his jersey. One minute we were standing in the dark, shouting at each other, and now we’re kissing. I gasp, slapping at his pads as I tilt my head back, breaking our kiss. He lets me go and I dart back a step. “What the fuck was that?”
He’s panting too, eyes locked on me.
I feel like the stupid fox who wanders into a sleeping bear’s den.
Don’t poke the bear, Rachel. Don’t poke the desperately attractive, sexual magnet of a man-bear.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters.
I let out a shaky breath, my fingers brushing over my lips. “Do that again, and my official medical opinion will lean towards amputation…and castration,” I add with a level glare.
He closes his mouth, jaw clenched tight, and gives me a curt nod.
“We’re doing this my way, Mars. No games. No practice. We’re going to get scans, and we’re going to get answers. And I promise I will do everything in my power to have you back on the ice in time for the Olympic scouts.”
He shakes his head.
“Hey, I made a promise, and I’m keeping it,” I say. “I will protect you, Ilmari. Even if that means I’m protecting you from yourself. Hate me if you want, but I’m putting you first. You’re done with this game.”
Not giving him a chance to contradict me—or throw me up against the wall and kiss me breathless again—I slip past him and head straight for the locker room. The coaches aren’t going to like it either, but I’ve made my decision.
