1
IN WALKS TROUBLE
Tori
The file on my desk is three inches thick.
Zayden Bishop. Twenty-nine years old. Right winger for the New York Knights. Six-foot-two, two hundred and ten pounds of French-Canadian hockey prodigy who’s been playing through what looks like a rotator cuff issue for at least six weeks, based on the game footage I reviewed last night.
I flip through his injury history while my coffee goes cold. Separated shoulder, 2021. Broken wrist, 2022. Concussion protocol twice in three years. The man treats his body like a rental car with full coverage insurance.
I’m sore just thinking about it.
Outside my window, January in New York is doing its thing—gray sky, bitter wind, cold that makes you question every life choice that led you to a city where the air physically hurts. The Knights’ facility is shiny and modern, all glass and steel, but I can’t focus on that. Not when I’m about to get hands-on with the most notorious player on the roster.
Dana Cross, Director of Athletic Performance and the reason I have this job, appears in my doorway. She’s got her tablet tucked under her arm and that look on her face. The one that saysI’m about to ruin your morning.
“You ready for Bishop?”
“Define ready.”
She almost smiles. “He’s essential to the playoff run. His shoulder’s been bothering him for weeks. He’s been hiding the severity.”
“I noticed,” I say, tapping the file. “You can see it from the nosebleeds. He’s favoring his left side on every shot.”
“Which is why you’re taking point. Full oversight. Recovery plan, travel schedule, progress reports—all you.”
I set down my coffee. “Dana.”
“I know he’s difficult.”
“Difficult is an understatement. I’ve heard the stories.” Everyone has. Zayden Bishop doesn’t do interviews, doesn’t do media days, doesn’t do anything that isn’t hockey or—according to the rumors—his kid. The tabloids call him cold. Unapproachable. The guy who looks through you like you’re furniture.
“The stories are mostly bullshit,” Dana says. “He’s private, not hostile.”
I raise a brow. “Is there a difference?”
“You’ll see.” She checks her watch. “He’ll be in exam room two. Don’t let him charm you.”
I almost laugh. “Charm isn’t exactly his reputation.”
“No,” she agrees, already walking away. “But he’s got other tricks.”
I have no idea what that means, and I don’t have time to ask because my phone buzzes with a calendar reminder.Bishop, Z. - Initial Assessment. 9:00 AM.
Perfect. Another ego with a jersey number.
I grab my tablet, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and head down the hall.
Exam room two is bright, sterile—my kind of place. Fluorescent lights, adjustable table, wall of equipment I probably won’t need today. I’m setting up my assessment forms when the door opens and Zayden Bishop walks in.
And he’s... not what I expected. There’s no swagger, no look-at-me energy. He enters like he’d rather not be here at all—shoulders tight, gaze scanning the room like he’s searching for threats.
I wait for the arrogance. TheI’m a big dealenergy I’ve gotten from every other player who’s sat on my table. It doesn’t come.
He’s wearing Knights athletic gear, black joggers and a hoodie pushed up to his elbows, and there’s a tension in his jaw that tells me he’s not happy to be here.
Second thing I notice: he’s unfairly attractive in person.
