Charlotte skates a few feet alongside me, eyes on my stride. “Looks solid,” she says, hands loose at her sides, within reach if I lose balance.
“Try the transfer again.”
I do. Controlled. Deliberate.
“Feels good,” I say. “Almost natural.”
Her mouth twitches. “Almost natural is still progress.”
I can’t help the grin that slips out. It’s been like this all week—her voice steady, my focus locked in, the ice finally back under my skates. The rink’s quiet except for us. No cameras, no teammates, no noise—just the rhythm of work.
She steps in close and crouches to check the strap tension on my brace. Her gloved hand brushes my calf and for a second, everything stills.
“Your hip’s staying level now,” she says without looking up.
“Guess I’m trainable after all.”
That earns me a look over her shoulder, half amused, half exasperated. “Don’t push it, Captain.”
But when she stands, I catch the flicker of pride she’s trying not to show.
We finish with balance holds at center ice—ten seconds each, her voice counting low. By the last one, sweat beads at mytemple and the ache in my leg is the kind that means I’m getting stronger.
The cold hits my lungs sharp and clean. I’ve been out here every day this week, but the sound of my blades cutting into the ice still feels like coming home.
Charlotte tracks my stride, eyes sharp, posture relaxed in that way that says she’s letting me push it but watching every move.
When she finally says, “That’s enough for today,” I coast to a stop near center ice, breath fogging in the rink air.
“C’mon, Doc,” I say, grinning. “Five more minutes.”
She shakes her head, amused. “You’d stay out here all day if I let you.”
I step off the ice still grinning, breath still coming fast, the good kind of ache humming through my leg. Charlotte walks beside me down the tunnel, gloves tucked under one arm, her tablet forgotten now that the session’s done.
“Feels different,” I say. “Not just the knee—everything.”
She glances over. “That’s what happens when you stop fighting the process.”
I give her a look, raising an eyebrow. “If I keep cooperating, do I get a reward?”
Her voice stays even. “You get less swelling.”
“Not the reward I meant.”
She clears her throat, eyes forward, but the corner of her mouth betrays her.
“You know,” I say, “working with you is the first time I’ve actually liked hearing someone tell me what to do.”
She looks up, amused. “Good. Because I’m not done.”
I smirk. “Enjoy it while you can. A little over two weeks and I’m cleared.”
She laughs under her breath, the sound low and warm.
“Seriously,” I say after a second. “Thank you.”
She straightens, eyebrows lifting. “For what?”
