I knew that, objectively. I’ve seen the photos, the game footage, theSports Illustratedspread from three years ago that made every woman in America suddenly interested in hockey. But photos don’t capture how massive he is in person—towering over me with all that bulky muscle. They don’t capture how his eyes scan the room before landing on me, assessing, cataloging.
Dark hair. Darker eyes. A face that belongs on magazine covers, all sharp angles and stubble.
Stop it,I tell myself.He’s a patient. He’s everything you promised yourself you’d never be stupid enough to want.
“Mr. Bishop.” I keep my voice clinical. “I’m Victoria Wells, Tori. I’ll be handling your rehabilitation.”
“Zayden,” he says. Low voice, a little rough, with just a hint of an accent that betrays his Quebec roots.
“Have a seat on the table, Mr. Bishop. We’ll begin with a full assessment.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, that I didn’t immediately start fawning—but he doesn’t argue. Just walks to the exam table and sits, movements careful, confirming what I already suspected. “Okay,” he says. “But call me Zayden.”
“Shirt off, please.”
He pulls the hoodie over his head, then the T-shirt underneath, and I keep my face neutral through sheer willpower. He’s built like a hockey player—broad shoulders, defined chest, functional muscle that comes from years of actual training, not vanity reps in front of a gym mirror. There’s a scar on his left side, probably from the 2021 surgery. His skin is tan even in January, which either means good genetics or a spray tan habit I’m going to silently judge him for.
I wash my hands and then approach. “I’m going to palpate the shoulder. Tell me when it hurts.”
He nods.
I start with the trapezius, working my way across to the deltoid. His muscles are tight—way too tight—and when I press into the junction of his neck and shoulder, his jaw clenches.
“That hurt?”
“It’s fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.” I press again, watching his face. “Scale of one to ten.”
“Four.”
I move to his rotator cuff, and when I find the spot I’m looking for—the one that’s been causing all the problems—he sucks in a breath.
“Four?” I repeat.
“Maybe six.”
“Mmhmm.” I continue the assessment, cataloging every flinch he tries to hide, every compensation pattern his body has developed to work around the damage. By the time I’m done, I have a very clear picture of what we’re dealing with.
I step back, and jot a few notes. “How long have you been playing through this?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me. I can’t fix what you won’t admit is broken.”
He looks at me then—really looks—those dark eyes assessing and I feel the weight of his attention like something physical. There’s an intensity to him that’s almost uncomfortable, like he’s seeing more than you want him to see.
“Since October,” he finally says.
“October.” I don’t bother hiding my disbelief. “You’ve been playing through a rotator cuff impingement for three months.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not the flex you think it is.” I pick up my tablet, and start typing notes. “You have inflammation in the supraspinatus, early signs of tendinopathy, and your compensation patterns have put extra strain on your bicep tendon. If you’d come in when it first started hurting, we’d be talking about two weeks of modified training. Now we’re looking at six to eight weeks of intensive rehab.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts. “I don’t have six to eight weeks.”
“Then I suggest you follow my protocol exactly, because if you keep pushing through this, you’re looking at surgery. And that’s not six weeks. That’s six months.”
