The trial day demanded everything I had. Coach Torres introduced me to the current medical staff—a grizzled team physician named Dr. Reeves and two athletic trainers who looked at me with polite skepticism.
Fresh-faced intern. Team captain's little sister, though they didn't know that yet. Another young doctor who probably couldn't handle the pressure.
I refused to crumble, demonstrating competence in ways that couldn't be dismissed, assessed a winger's knee inflammation, reviewed concussion protocols with Dr. Reeves.
By midmorning, the skepticism had begun to fade. Not completely—that would take time—but enough that the trainers stopped watching my every move like I might shatter.
Then Jay skated toward the boards, helmet off, grin dangerous.
"Dr. Ellis." He came to a stop in a spray of ice that somehow looked choreographed, leaning against the barrier with infuriating casualness. "You actually came. I wasn't sure you would."
Show off. Handsome one, must admit.
"You dared me." I kept my voice neutral. "And I don't back down from dares."
His laugh echoed across the rink, drawing glances from nearby players. "Good to know. I'll file that away for future reference. How's the trial going? Has Reeves tried to scare you off yet with his war stories about compound fractures?"
"He mentioned a few. I wasn't impressed."
"No, I don't imagine you would be." Jay's eyes held mine with an intensity that made my pulse stutter. "You don't get scare easily, do you, Summer?"
The way he said my name, low and intimate despite the public setting, made a heat coil in my stomach. Before I could respond, he winced slightly, rotating his shoulder with a grimace that looked almost genuine.
"Actually, since you're here—mind taking a look at this?" He rolled his shoulder again, and I watched the muscles move beneath his jersey with entirely too much interest. "I tweaked something during drills, and I trust your assessment more than the trainers'. No offense to them."
I should have refused, should have directed him to Dr. Reeves, maintained proper boundaries, protected myself from whatever game he was playing.
Instead, I heard myself say, "Move to the bench."
Victory flashed in his eyes, quick and unmistakable, before he schooled his expression into something more neutral. He climbed over the boards with athletic grace and suddenly he was beside me.
Close enough that I could feel the cold radiating off his gear. Close enough to smell ice and sweat and that cologne I was starting to recognize in my sleep.
"Sit," I ordered, gesturing to the bench, needing to establish some kind of professional boundary before I completely lost my mind.
He sat obediently, stripping off the top layer of his gear with practiced efficiency, pulling his jersey over his head in one smooth motion.
The compression shirt he wore underneath clung to every line of his torso like a second skin. I could see the definition of his abs, the broad expanse of his chest, the way his shoulders tapered to a narrow waist.
Clinical. Professional. He's just another patient with really exceptional muscle definition and arms that look like they could pin you against a wall and—
NOPE. Stop. Clinical assessment only.
"See, it catches when I lift it past here…" He demonstrated, and I saw the slight hitch in his movement.
I moved closer, positioning myself between his spread legs to get the right angle, and tried to ignore the way his breath hitched when my fingers found his shoulder through the compression fabric. "Here?"
"Little higher." His voice had dropped, rougher now. "Yeah, right there."
The examination became a negotiation of proximity and self-control. I asked clinical questions about pain levels and range of motion, and he answered them while his gaze held mine a beat too long.
My fingers mapped the anatomy of his shoulder, professional and thorough, but I was acutely aware of the heat of his skin beneath the thin fabric. The way his muscles shifted under my touch. The fact that we were in public and I was touching him and everyone could see and I didn't care.
When did I stop caring?
"You're carrying stress here," I said quietly, pressing into a knot beneath his shoulder blade. "This isn't from the drills, this is chronic tension. Have you been sleeping?"
"Not well." His voice had dropped, intimate despite the chaos surrounding us. "I keep thinking about someone I shouldn't be thinking about."
His eyes locked on mine, and the implication was unmistakable.
"You feel it too, right?" He shifted slightly, and suddenly my hands were on his bare neck where the compression shirt ended, skin against skin. "This thing between us. I'm not imagining it."
"I don't know what you're talking about." But my voice came out breathless, and we both knew I was lying.
"Yes, you do." His hand came up, fingers brushing my wrist where my pulse was absolutely racing. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. You've known since the first night I showed up in your ER."
Since before that.
Since you were seventeen and golden and I was invisible and desperate.
"This is inappropriate," I said, but I didn't pull away. Couldn't. "You're my patient…"
"Then stop being my doctor." His thumb traced a circle on the inside of my wrist, and I felt it everywhere. "Take the job. Work for the team. Then I won't be your patient anymore, and there won't be any rules stopping us from—"
"Callahan!"
Nathan's voice shattered the moment and he skated toward us with pointed authority, stick in hand, captain's C blazing on his jersey.
"Training's still in progress, in case you forgot. You're supposed to be running drills, not getting personal medical consultations!"
Nathan's eyes flicked to me—friendly but dismissive, the way you'd look at any team staff member you didn't know personally.
"Sorry about him. He thinks being talented means he can slack off whenever he wants."
"I wasn't slacking," Jay protested. "I was getting my shoulder checked. Very responsibly, I might add."
"Uh-huh. And I'm sure the shoulder examination required that much eye contact." Nathan's tone shifted to something friendly-threatening. "Keep your extras in your pants, Callahan. We've got a game this weekend, and I need you to focus on hockey."
"Fine, fine." Jay stood, hands raised in surrender, taking on his gear. "Back to drills, got it."
But before following Nathan toward the ice, he turned back to me with a conspiratorial grin.
"Any chance you can prescribe something for chronic bossiness? Because I'm pretty sure Captain Control Issues over there has a terminal case."
"I heard that. Get on the ice, asshole!" Nathan called without looking back.
Jay winked at me like we were sharing a secret and skated off to rejoin practice. I watched him go, heart pounding, hands still tingling from the memory of his skin beneath my fingers.
The trial day continued. More drills, more assessments, more opportunities to prove I belonged here. By the time the final whistle blew, I'd earned grudging nods from the trainers and a "not bad, kid" from Dr. Reeves that felt like a standing ovation.
Jay caught my eye from across the rink as players filed toward the locker room, and the smile he gave me was different from his usual cocky grin—softer, almost proud.
I looked away before I could analyze what that meant.
A rode back to the hospital for my shift on autopilot, my mind churning with everything I'd witnessed. Priya intercepted me before I reached the locker room.
"Summer." Her voice was strange—careful in a way that made my stomach clench. "We need to talk. Now."
She pulled me into an empty supply closet, and the fluorescent light flickered overhead like a warning.
"Xavier's wife." Priya's jaw was tight. "I ran into one of the nurses from OB during lunch, and she mentioned… I did some digging, asked around. Shouldn't have, probably, but I needed to know."
The dread building in my chest crystallized into something cold and sharp.
"What's going on?" I asked. "Did something happen?"
Priya exhaled sharply. "She had a prenatal appointment that day, Summer. She’s pregnant."
The words landed like physical blows. Each one stripped away another layer of the lies I'd been clinging to.
"He's not divorcing her…" I heard myself say. "He was never going to really divorce her."
"No." Priya's voice softened with something like grief. "He wasn't. I'm so sorry, Summer…"
Xavier wasn't leaving his marriage. He was building a family with his wife while keeping me in supply closets and car seats and locked offices.
Priya watched me with careful concern, waiting for me to crumble. But I didn't. Something had shifted inside me—hardened, maybe, or simply broken in a way that made the sharp edges feel less painful.
"The team offer," I said quietly. "It's still open."
"Summer…"
"I can't stay here." I looked at her, and I knew my eyes were dry, my voice steady in a way that probably worried her more than tears would have. "I can't walk these halls and see him every day, knowing what I know now."
Priya nodded slowly. "Then take it. Take the job."
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