And then he’s gone, taking all the air with him.
The hallway stretchesbefore me like a gauntlet, each step on the industrial carpet a small testament to my poor professional judgment. My keycard trembles in my hand.
Three steps. Swipe. Safety.
The door across the hall opens with the inevitability of a Greek tragedy.
Finn O’Reilly emerges. He’s all tousled hair and knowing eyes and that particular brand of Southern charm that probably got him out of detention and into sorority houses with equal efficiency. His coffee cup is raised in mock salute, his grin sharper than his skating.
“Well, well,” he drawls, the words dripping with honey and mischief. “Looks like somebody took their physical therapy real serious last night.”
My stomach performs complicated gymnastics. “O’Reilly.”
“Now don’t go lookin’ all panicked, sugar.” His gaze slides over my rumpled clothes with the thoroughness of a medical examiner. “I’m many things, but a snitch ain’t one of ‘em. ‘Sides, watching our boy Nate finally work up the stones to go after what he wants? That’s entertainment money can’t buy.”
The casual way he reduces last night to conquest and distraction makes my ribs twist sharply. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” He takes a slow sip of coffee, studying me over the rim. “Honey, I’ve seen that man demolish opposing teams without breakin’ a sweat, but you? You make him look like he’s holdin’ lightning with bare hands.” Before I can formulate a coherent comeback that doesn’t sound too defensive, he steps aside with an elaborate bow. “Go on, Cinderella. Try not to leave any glass slippers lyin’ around.”
I flee into my room as if something is chasing me,realizing that my carefully constructed professional identity just cracked down the middle.
The bus rideto morning skate becomes an exercise in psychological warfare disguised as team bonding.
Finn greets me with theatrical enthusiasm, his “Morning, sugar!” carrying enough volume to turn heads without crossing into obvious territory. He settles into his seat with the satisfaction of a cat who’s discovered the canary’s hiding place, occasionally catching my eye to raise his coffee cup in a mock toast.
The rest of the players offer the polite, casual respect you’d expect for someone still new to the fold, but now I’m hyperaware of every glance, every pause in conversation when I pass. Are they looking at me differently, or is paranoia eating my perception?
Nate sits across the aisle, earbuds in, eyes closed, the picture of athletic focus. I catch the almost-smile playing at the corners of his mouth, the way his fingers tap against his thigh in rhythm with whatever song he’s listening to. He knows I’m watching him, and he enjoys it.
“Coach,” Finn calls out with deceptive casualness, “what’s the protocol for booking time with medical staff? Just curious if there’s a formal process or if it’s more...flexible.”
My chest constricts as every head on the bus turns toward Coach Novak, who furrows his brow with genuine confusion. “If you’re having issues, you go through Mercer or tell me directly. Carver’s here primarily for Russo’s rehabilitation, but she’ll work with anyone who needs treatment.”
“Special attention for our star goalie, huh?” Finn’s grin could cut a diamond. “Must be nice getting house calls.”
A few players chuckle, the joke sliding past them without catching. But I feel the barb land.
The weight of what I’ve risked slams into me with brutal clarity. One whisper to the wrong person—that I’m compromising my professional judgment, that my treatments are clouded by personal involvement—and my credibility evaporates. Worse, if Defenders management starts to believe it, the career I’m building could go up in smoke before it ever takes root.
I’ve been saving for years while working at Melissa’s practice, putting in long hours, watching every dollar. The Defenders accelerated my timeline tenfold. They pay better than I ever imagined, and with this windfall, I’ll finally be able to lease the space in Yorkville I’ve been eyeing, hang my own shingle, build an elite PT practice with my name on the door.
Some of Melissa’s dancers will stay with me when I make the jump, and plenty of Leo’s boxing buddies already slip onto my table whenever I visit him in Brooklyn. Add the Defenders to that roster, and my client list will be unstoppable.
But all of it hangs on reputation. My future clients won’t book because I say I’m good. They’ll book because someone they trust recommends me. Having Defenders players on my résumé is the golden ticket. But if even one rumor spreads that I blurred the line between therapist and player, that dream doesn’t just stall, it collapses before it even starts.
Female physical therapists already fight for respect in male-dominated sports. Any suggestion that I’m just another woman who couldn’t keep boundaries with athletes, and I’ll be blackballed. Not just from hockey, butfrom any team worth working for. I’d be lucky to scrape together a caseload of weekend warriors while the space I’ve been chasing sits empty, mocking me.
“It’s called medical treatment,” I say, keeping my tone even though fury burns under my ribs. “Something you might recognize if you ever admitted to feeling pain.”
Finn laughs, delighted. “Touché, Doc. Touché.”
“I’m not a doctor,” I snap, knowing it’s useless. O’Reilly’s hardly the first athlete to blur the difference, and he won’t be the last.
Nate finally cracks one eye open, voice lazy. “You’re awfully chatty this morning, O’Reilly.”
Laughter ripples through the bus, the attention sliding neatly off me. Finn gives Nate a look I can’t quite read—half amusement, half respect—and lets it go.
The bus hums on, conversation shifting around me, but the damage lingers. I turn to the window, let Montreal’s morning traffic blur by, and start rebuilding the walls Nate tore down with such devastating ease.
