Chapter One
CHARLOTTE
Irun my fingers along the edge of the training table as my eyes drink in the Ice Foxes’ logo. It’s everywhere—from the towels to the wall to the rolling cart.
I snap a photo with the crest in the background and text it to Dad.
First day as the physical therapist for the Ice Foxes. Can you believe it?
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
Proud of you, kid.
Then another:Your mom would’ve been proud too.
It’s only six words, but they land deep. I swallow hard, letting the moment sink in.
It’s no surprise I’m back in Colorado, where I grew up. Dad coached high school hockey until last year, when he retired.
My brother David played ten NHL seasons until a torn hip labrum cost him his first-step burst. Even after surgery, he couldn’t get that jump back, so he traded his stick for a whistle. Now he’s the Ice Foxes’ assistant coach.
As I line the tape in straight rows, I hum the chorus of an ’80s power ballad Dad used to blast on Saturday morning skates. I used to ride shotgun with a thermos and a sack of orange cones because I begged to help him set drills.
After college, I spent several tough years in Minnesota at a performance clinic, dialing in lower-extremity work—knees, hips, adductors. I also covered road assignments with the local minor-league affiliate, the level below the NHL where injured vets rehab and prospects get ready for call-ups.
Long nights. Clean plans. No shortcuts.
All worth it.
I pull my hair into a tighter ponytail and smooth the collar of my team jacket. It’s a little big, but that somehow makes it better, like the role itself is still settling on me, and I’m ready for it.
I’m covering the training room tonight, watching the in-house monitors, staging braces, and listening for radio calls while our head athletic trainer, Vic Morales, handles the bench. I twirl my neon highlighter once—a ritual that always settles me.
First day or not, I can’t afford to miss anything.
The noise of the crowd slips through the vents, a low roar under the fluorescent hum. The air smells sharp and clean.
Dan, our head physical therapist, and Dr. Patel, our team doctor, hired me because my plans are clear, safe, and they work—clean return-to-play tests, no surprise setbacks. David stayed out of my interviews so it was fair.
I earned this.
“Okay, Charlotte,” I murmur. “You’ve got this.”
Pride sits in my chest, bright and a little nauseous. Good nerves.
It helps that my best friend still lives here. Kristy and I grew up two blocks apart—years of sleepovers, summer skates, and rink-side vending machine raids. After college, I headed off for grad programs and travel clinics, and she built her life here, opened her own wellness practice, and now works with everyone fromteachers to triathletes. We kept in touch, but being back in the same zip code again feels like fate—a reminder that coming home isn’t just about hockey.
The only catch is I’ll be working with my brother’s best friend. Declan Tremayne is the Ice Foxes’ captain, and growing up he was a permanent storm cloud.
He might be David’s best friend, but he and I were never close.
The last time we really crossed paths was at my parents’ backyard ribs night the summer I left for college.
He swung by with David between development camp and preseason, shoulder taped from offseason maintenance, his baby daughter asleep in a carrier. I think he said maybe five words to me.
That was eleven years ago.
My mouth tightens as another memory surfaces. When I was twelve, I practically lived at the rink where my dad coached. It was a Saturday high school game, and Declan was seventeen, the star forward on Dad’s team. I wedged myself onto the bench to hand out cups, bumped the cooler, and sent red sports drink everywhere.
