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I wasn’t seeing the player or the asshole from the picnic. I was seeing someone scared.

“Lie back down,” I said. “Let me see what you did to it.”

I worked in silence, my hands gentler this time. I checked for new damage, finding where the muscle had tightened from skating too soon.

“I needed to know if I could still do this.” The words burst out of him.

“And?”

“I can, but I only made it through twenty minutes before it started pulling.”

“Because you’re not ready.”

“I know, but sitting out feels like disappearing.”

I knew that feeling. I’d lived in it. The fear that you were taking up space someone else could use better. That if you disappeared tomorrow, the world would just…close around the gap you left, like water.

“You’re not disappearing,” I said. “You’re healing. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” His expression cracked open.

It made me want to reach for him, which was absurd because this was a treatment room and he was a patient, and I had no right to want anything.

“Yes. And if you give me six days and listen, you’ll be ready.”

“You can fix it in six days?”

“I can get you functional enough to play for game two. But only if you stop being stupid.”

The smallest smile touched his mouth. “Noted.”

I stood close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Close enough that when he exhaled, I felt it.

The door opened, and Coach Beecham walked in.

I stepped back so fast I nearly tripped, my professional mask snapping into place.

“How’s my goalie?” Coach asked, striding closer.

“Progressing.” I kept my voice steady despite my racing pulse. “He’ll be ready for game two if he follows the treatment plan.”

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” His gaze fell on Brashe. “You listening to the doc?”

Brashe’s eyes stayed on me. “I am.”

“Good. Good.” The coach stayed for another few minutes, asking about timeline and restrictions. I answered, aware of Brashe watching me the whole time. “Keep me updated. We need him.”

He left, and the moment was gone.

“Same time tomorrow,” I said, not looking at Brashe. “And no skating.”

He headed for the door, but stopped, looking back. “I’ll try.”

After he left, I sat at my desk and pulled up his chart on my tablet, trying to focus enough to make legible notes.

He wasn’t what I’d thought. He wasn’t…anything like what I’d thought.

The player reputation was false. The charity work was real. He’d shown up early and trusted me enough to admit he was scared.