Phoenix
I hated having to crawl out like some one-night stand he'd be ashamed of, even if I knew he didn't feel that way, so I left before he even woke. But because I was sappy, I drew a heart on the notepaper next to the phone and left it on his pillow.
Three hours later, I hung back near the hand-sanitizer station in the hospital, trying to look official. The ward had gone quiet now that the cameras were down the hall swarming Max and Ember. Here, beyond the double set of glass doors, everything felt softer. Reverent.
A nurse stepped forward and intercepted Cole before he could enter the isolation room. “Mr. Armstrong,” she said gently, “just a reminder—gown, gloves, mask. He doesn’t have much immune defense left.”
Cole nodded once, a serious, grounded kind of nod. No show. No PR grin. He took the precautions with careful, practiced movements: sliding the yellow gown up over his Dragons jersey, tying the back himself; pulling on the sterile gloves like he’ddone it a thousand times; fitting the mask over his nose and scruff-shadowed jaw.
He didn’t complain. Didn’t fidget. He just…focused. Like the kid inside mattered more than anything he’d ever done on the ice.
I tugged on my own mask and gown—protocol for visitors—my heart thudding weirdly hard. This was the first room he’d insisted on visiting after the cameras disappeared.
The nurse cracked the door. “He’s excited to meet you,” she whispered. “He’s a bit tired today, but he’s been waiting.”
Cole swallowed. I saw the flicker in his eyes—a mix of nerves and something tender. Then he stepped inside.
I followed only far enough to stay by the wall.
The boy lay propped up, tucked beneath a blanket patterned with tiny dragons. His hat was teal and far too big, slipping sideways over curls that looked too thin and too few. Pale skin. Dark shadows. Machines humming quietly.
He blinked awake at the soft footsteps.
“Hi,” Cole said, keeping his voice low, warm. Not the superstar version. Not the face he used for fans. Something gentler.
The boy stared at him for a long moment, dazed, like he couldn’t believe Cole was real. “You’re…a dragon,” he whispered.
Cole let out a soft laugh behind the mask. “I am.”
He didn’t go closer yet—waiting for the nurse’s nod. She checked the monitors, then motioned him forward. “He can hold your hand,” she said, “as long as the gloves stay on.”
Cole approached the bed slowly, reverently, as though every step needed permission. He crouched to get level with the boy.
“I’m Cole,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Eli,” the boy murmured. His voice was paper-thin.
“That’s a strong name,” Cole said, and something inside me twisted because he meant it. “I’m really glad I get to meet you.”
Eli gave a tiny smile and lifted one trembling hand off the blanket.
Cole froze—just for a heartbeat—then reached out, enveloping that small, fragile hand in both of his gloved ones. He kept his movements feather-light. The kind of gentle you don’t learn unless life has taught you where people break.
“Your hands are cold."
“They’re always cold,” Eli whispered, and the door opened behind us and a woman stepped in, her face lighting up when she saw Cole.
“Mommy,” Eli said. “Cole’s a dragon.”
She nodded, clearly having trouble forming words.
Eli blinked up at Cole. “Do you…really turn into a dragon?”
Cole’s eyes softened. “Absolutely,” he said. “And I’m the kind who can keep people warm.”
Eli giggled—a faint, breathy sound that punched straight through my chest. “Mommy says I’m always cold.” But as Cole held both his hands, Eli’s eyes widened. “You’re really warm.”
Cole nodded. “And there’s a parcel I've left with the nurses for you. Special team gloves for keeping your hands warm, a special jersey, and a signed stick from the whole team.”
