KENDALL
Hockey.
One of the only sports where you sit close enough to hear bones break,
where fans pay to watch car-accident-like injuries in real time, and where
tall walls of plexiglass and nets ring the rink because a puck flying at slapshot speed could knock the Chiclets out of a fan in the nosebleeds.
Somehow, Penelope Matthews—the Hawkeyes’ GM—recruited me out
of the NFL to be team doctor for a sport where players don’t just show up;
they skate out with the kind of pride you can feel in your bones.
It’s game three. We’re down 0–2 in the Western Conference playoffs. The
boys have worked all year to get here. A loss tonight doesn’t mean we’re
dead… but we’d be bleeding. And no amount of med school and a five-year
fellowship can keep a team from hemorrhaging on the scoreboard. It’s up to
them.
A win tonight and the city breathes again. Our guys sleep a little sounder.
I’m on the bench at the far end, shoulder to shoulder with the equipment
guys and Theo, our athletic trainer, kit open at my feet: gloves, gauze,
ammonia caps, extra mouth guards, stacks of blue nitriles. I’ve taped three
wrists, glued one knuckle, and told a rookie he’s not dying—he just needs
to spit the blood out before he swallows it and pukes on the spot.
The puck pops up near the boards in front of us. Scottie Easton, our right
wing, snatches it and wheels through neutral. The crowd’s roar shifts—
hopeful, hungry. I stand because I always stand when he hits the blue line;
the way he leans into speed should be illegal.
The hit comes a breath after he crosses.
A defenseman meets him shoulder-to-chest and drives through. Textbook
—and still vicious. The kind of hit that won’t go unspoken for. Scottie goes
glass, then down, and the whole bench surges forward.
I hop the boards as soon as I’m sure I’m not going to set out in front of a
player, my body moving on instinct and adrenaline, Theo on my heels, and
Aleski Mäkelin skating full force towards us to build a force field to protect
us from getting run over by players.
“I got you Doc,” Aleksi says… and I know I can trust that he does.
By the time I drop to my knees beside Scottie, the world has narrowed to
the cold sting of ice shavings and someone in section 224 screeching, “Get
up!”
Aleksi pointed his stick at the drunk fan as a warning to the fan in 224 to
shut his mouth about his teammate or he’ll do it for him.
“You’re going to be fine, East.” Aleksi calls out of his shoulder, still
standing guard as other players start to circle around us now to give us
some privacy from fans without blocking out too much light.
“Hey, Scottie. It’s Kendall and Theo.” My gloved hand cups the back of
his helmet as his eyes blink fast, unfocused. “Don’t try to sit up yet. Look at
me.”
His pupils are big. Too big.
Theo’s already got the light out, flashing. We both know what this is and
move in unison.
“What period?” I ask, steady.
He swallows. “First.”
“Good. Who are we playing?”
He blinks. Blinks again. “—Vegas? No. Sorry. Sorry.”
“Okay.” Calm is the job. Calm is the whole job. After a fellowship with
the pro football team in Florida and then getting hired on as the team doctor
for an additional two years, I know a concussion when I see one. In my first
Hawkeyes season, I’ve seen more concussions than in my years in the NFL.
“Follow my finger.” Left to right. His eyes lag to follow, just slightly, but
enough.
“I can skate,” he mutters. “I’m fine, Doc, I can—”
He braces to move. Theo rests a palm to chest. “Easy, buddy. Doc’s
making the call.”
Two of our players crouch low and close to us, waiting for my word.
“You’re not skating anywhere,” I say, firmer now. “We’re going to the
tunnel and you’ve got a date with a quiet room. You know the drill.”
The crowd drops from roar to rumble, their patience and tone starting to
shift. Someone pounds on the glass—three angry thumps. I don’t look up.
This is the playoffs and Scottie is key, but my job isn’t to win the Cup. My
job is to keep the players healthy.
He attempts to push up to his knees. His glove slips. Strong as a horse,
stubborn as one too. I catch his shoulder pad and give him one second of
gentle pressure. Just enough to remind him I’m not asking.
His mouth twists. “You’re pulling me, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m pulling you.”
Two of our other players: Wolf Ziegler, our defensive player, and Slade
Matthews, our center and captain, flank him under the arms, and as they
help him up, he throws me a look that says every awful thing this means to
him: Not tonight, not like this. It lands low, a bruise under my ribs. I tuck it
away.
Boards, gate, the tight chute of the tunnel. A few drunk fans boo me; two
of our guys on the bench bark something protective and unsavory back on
my behalf.
I’m not always loved by fans. Sometimes not by players either. They
work their whole lives for this moment, and I’m the one who sometimes
ends their night early.
It’s not a choice I make lightly. But at the end of the day, as the doctor of
this team, it is my choice—and Theo and I are the only two qualified to
make it.
The arena noise slams the back of my skull when the door shuts, leaving
only rubber under skates and Scottie’s swearing while Slade gives him the
best consolation pep talk he can muster.
The quiet room is small, bright, and as sterile feeling as you’d expect for
a medical space in the belly of a locker room stadium.
Everything starts moving like clockwork. Like Theo and I have done this
more than a dozen times… because we have.
Helmet off.
Orientation.
Symptoms.
Theo tries to use humor to lighten the mood between the three of us, but
it fails both times.
“I know,” Scottie says when I shine the light again. “I know what you’re
going to say.”
“Then say it to me.”
Head tipped back, eyes closed. “I’m out.”
“You’re out,” I confirm. “Tonight.”
His jaw flexes. “What about the road game?”
“We’ll see how you feel tomorrow,” I say, gentle but immovable. “Right
now we’re not there.”
A knock. An assistant coach peeks in with the face I’ve learned to hate.
“Dr. Hensen—uh—they just want to know.”
“I’ll tell the bench.” I respond. Then I turn to Scottie: “You’re staying
put. I’ll grab a towel and a bottle. Head back, eyes closed, slow breaths.
You don’t do anyone any favors pretending this is less than it is.”
His mouth twitches. “You gonna tell my mom?”
At least the humor’s alive. I chuckle. “If you don’t, I will.”
Back on the bench, the guys are tight and keen—the kind of angry that
focuses you. I lean between coaches and say the words no one wants to
hear. Coach Haynes’s head dips, and then he nods as if he was expecting
this but was hopeful I would come back with better news. I wish I were
coming back with better news, too.
The next line is already over the boards, and the hitter is back on the ice.
Wolf bee-lines and plants him into the plexi. The ref’s whistle shrieks. Wolf
skates to the box with a satisfied grin; Coach Haynes slams his clipboard.
As if we needed our best left-side D serving time for retaliation. But
trying to reason with Ziegler, who’s as close to a provoked, angry hornet’s
nest when an opposing team messes with one of his teammates–is
impossible.
We take a penalty that feels like it lasts an hour. JP Dumont, our goalie,
robs a sure goal with a toe save I’ll see in my dreams. A defenseman eats a
slap shot in the sacrum and pops up anyway.
Between whistles, I tape a finger, refill a mouth-guard tub with ice, one
eye on the clock, one on the players. You learn your team like a set of vitals.
Every time #8, Aleksi Mäkelin, loops past our side, he cuts a glance to me
—quick, yet warm, like checking on me is as reflexive as lining up for the
draw. It’s ridiculous, kind of sweet, and also… not the sort of distraction I
need as the team doctor, considering players are off limits. Which is just as
well.
“Hydrate,” I say to Aleksi when he’s close enough.
It’s neutral–Both clinical and safe. Not to mention that I say it to
everyone so there’s no concern that it sounds like favoritism. I say it to him
like it isn’t a tell.
He grins around his mouth guard like I told him his shot looks pretty.
Blond hair flying, skating like physics owes him an apology.
Horn. Intermission. The room turns into steam, curses, the slap of tape.
Slade Matthews’ voice sounds something like belief. I duck into the quiet
room: towel over Scottie’s eyes, breaths steadier. Theo is already jotting
notes; we’ll debrief every chart in the morning.
“You’re doing great,” I tell Scottie. “Any nausea?”
“Just nausea about not being on the ice.”
“You’re not missing much. It’s boring out there. Real snooze fest,” I lie.
He snorts. “You’re a shitty liar, Doc.”
I swap his bottle and review Theo’s plan. “No screens. No lights. No
heroics. If you want back on the ice for the upcoming game, you need to
show me you’re healthy enough.”
He shoots me a begrudging thumbs-up.
Second period ages me. We’re down one off a tipped shot. I realize I
forgot to breathe for a minute when stars press in and dissolve. Irony noted.
Halfway through, Aleksi takes a stick up high and comes to the bench
blinking, one hand cupping his eye.
“Sit,” I tell him, already reaching. Blood, bright and thin, spiders down
his cheekbone. “Don’t rub it.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he says with a slight Finnish accent, and takes a seat
in front of me. “How tough do I look right now, Doc?” He asks, still
grinning.
“You want it straight?”
“Always. You know how I like it.” His eyes sparkle back at me with
playful interest, eating up the banter.
I cut him a look—his grin widens. This flirting can’t keep going on like
this. Not if I want to keep my license. Not with the medical board still
remembering my last review.
“Fine. You look like a raccoon who lost a bar fight.” I say, pressing a little
too firmly with the gauze. He winces, but the smile doesn’t fade.
“Hold still,” I say instead, pressing a little too firmly with the gauze.
He winces, but the smile doesn’t fade. “You’re enjoying this,” he says.
It’s not a question. He thinks he knows the answer.
“I’m enjoying you not bleeding on my floor,” I fire back.
“Mm.” His grin curves slow, like he’s in on the secret. “Keep telling
yourself that.”
Damn him. The worst part is—he’s right, but I’ll never own up to it. The
board still has my last ethics review tucked neatly in a file somewhere from
a complaint that lacked proof. One wrong move and I’m the headline again.
I clean, clot, and slap on a couple of butterfly strips on the wound. It’ll
hold… for now.
I glance over his face again to make sure I didn’t miss anything. His
lashes are absurdly long—too pretty for someone with that jaw line. They
make those crystal-blue eyes unfairly bright. Hard not to get lost in them,
especially this close. He catches me staring as I finish up and his grin turns
into a sexy smirk.
Dammit, stop being hot while I’m working.
“Stop smiling. You’ll pop it open and it’ll scar.”
“Don’t girls find scars sexy?” he asks.
“I don’t know… maybe girls do. You’ll have to find one to ask. Women
prefer their men with working brain cells. You’re damaged goods.”
He chuckles, low in his chest, clearly pleased with my answer. “Then it’s
lucky I’m not looking for a girl.”
I freeze for half a beat. His eyes glitter back at me as if he knows he’s
baiting me in, waiting for me to bite.
He leans in, voice dropping. He leans in, voice dropping. “Fun fact—your
pupils dilate when you look at something you want. Want me to test it?”
“Fun fact—if you don’t stop talking, I’ll butterfly-strip your mouth shut
next.”
There’s no truth to my threat, and he knows it. In an industry full of men,
you learn to beat them at their own game. Or at least settle for a draw.
He mimes zipping his lips, eyes dancing, then pops up from the bench
when they call his number.
He shoots me a wink, only seen between us, and then tugs on his helmet,
our nine-inch height difference plus his skates giving him an unfair
advantage.
“Don’t write checks you can’t cash, Doc. You’d have to catch me first.”
Then he takes one step and jumps over the boards. I step back as he
skates off, blades carving through the ice. The boards rattle with the next
hit, the roar of the crowd filling the void between us.
Cold whips past my cheeks, but I barely feel it. My skin’s still flushed
from the heat of our exchange. The familiar rush of adrenaline hums
through my blood, the same one that always follows our back-and-forth.
This is exactly why I set boundaries. Why I promised myself nothing—
especially not a pair of blue eyes and a smile like that—would ever mess
with my focus again. Fraternization between a player and team doctor could
cost more than just my license but also rattle the Hawkeyes franchise with
sanctions against the team that could cripple the team’s playoff eligibility.
But when his name booms through the announcer’s mic, the traitorous
part of me perks up and takes notice of him skating across the ice, with one
last smirking glance back at me.
I shove the thought away, reaching for the med kit, rechecking supplies
that don’t need rechecking. Gauze, tape, saline–all perfectly fine. Still, I
count them again. Anything to keep my hands moving and my mind off the
fact that I just patched up the league’s biggest problem child… and maybe
my own.
The third period is hockey stick warfare. My gloves squeak at how hard
my fists are clenched.
Somehow, we pull it off.
3–2 over Colorado.
This isn’t the series. But it’s a lifeline. 2–1.
The player tunnel turns into chaos—mitts slapped, helmets knocked,
words spoken that I won’t put in any report.
My first stop is the quiet room to check on Scottie, and then from there,
document, document, document. In the locker room, relief and joy braid
through triage. Theo and I ping-pong across bodies—shoulders, eyes,
hamstrings. Bruises are already blooming like storm clouds and no one
seems to care. They’ll take an ice bath and be good as new because of the
endorphin rush of a win.
Aleksi drifts into my orbit smelling like sweat and wintergreen, halfdressed in the slacks from his press suit, hair still damp from the showers,
chest bare and flushed from the ice. The gash is holding. My work.
He taps my kit like it’s a door.
“Congrats, Doc,” he says, voice rough from yelling on the ice but still
carrying that warmth that sneaks under my skin. “Series is a real thing
again.”
It’s not the first time I’ve seen him shirtless. I’ve patched up half the
roster over the years: torsos, bruises, stitches. It’s just anatomy. Usually.
But Aleksi’s different. Maybe it’s because he’s so at ease in his own skin,
all six-three of him radiating confidence. Or maybe it’s because that same
skin reads like a map of things I can’t help but want to know more about—
things I’ll never find in a medical chart.
My gaze catches on the pale arc beneath his sternum. An old surgical
scar.
I know the basics: open-heart surgery at two years old, done in Germany,
and several others after that. A hip repair at nineteen that nearly ended his
career. I know his twin sister lives in Helsinki where he greew up, but she’s
been working in France for the last year. His mother and nephew live there
too, and he’s close to all of them. The contents of their care packages make
the rounds in the locker room. Home-made confections his mother makes,
store-bought Swedish and Finnish treats from his childhood, new skin care
products his sister thinks he’ll like—he’s always proud to share. I know he
was close with his father before he passed somewhere between college and
Aleksi signing with the international team, but the rest is a blank. Just the
little bits I’ve heard, the hints he’s dropped since joining the Hawkeyes last
summer when they brought him up from the farm team.
I catch myself wondering what each mark cost him. What he remembers
of it.
And that’s exactly the kind of wondering I can’t afford.
Knowing a patient’s medical history helps you treat them. Knowing their
personal one blurs lines you can’t uncross. I’ve seen enough careers end
over that mistake—mine almost included.
I clear my throat and gesture toward his face instead. “Looks like it’s
holding.”
“Good thing,” he says, grin crooked. “You’d charge double for an afterhours patch-up job, right?”
He picks up a small black packet from the bench beside him, the label full
of impossible Finnish vowels.
“Celebratory salmiakki,” he says. “My mom sent it in her latest care
package. Very… acquired. Makes your face do fun shapes.”
I don’t know why the sweetness of Aleksi’s mother is the thing that gets
me. Maybe because my own relationship with mine is… strained, at best.
She hasn’t remembered my birthday since I was a kid, missed my high
school and college graduations, and I didn’t even bother inviting her to my
med school ceremony. The idea that she’d ever send me a care package is
laughable.
But it doesn’t make me jealous of Aleksi. If anything, part of me wants to
be that mom—the one who sends her grown son candy across an ocean, just
to remind him of home. I thought I’d be a mother by now, but life and an
ugly divorce had other plans.
“You’re giving me experimental candy?” I ask, lifting a hesitant brow.
“For your collection of interesting data,” he says with a grin. “Apparently
Jupiter’s finally in a good mood. Obviously improved puck luck.”
“Obviously.” I slide the packet into my kit. Aleksi and his random facts.
“Hydrate.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes crinkle. “You’re very bossy when we win.”
“I’m always bossy.”
“True.” He tips his head, studying me. “You okay? You sprinted for East
when he went down.”
“I’m fine. More importantly, he will be too.” I nod toward the quiet room.
“He’s not my biggest fan right now. We’ll re-evaluate before morning
skate.”
“Tell him I’m bringing the good licorice. Not the evil kind.”
“Right. That’ll fix it,” I deadpan, and he laughs, because even if candy
can’t fix the loss of a shift, it helps. Especially because Scottie Easton is a
human dumpster when it comes to food. I’ve rarely seen him without some
kind of snack in his hand… unless he’s skating.
He taps two fingers to his temple in an exaggerated salute. “See you at
Oakley’s after media. I owe you a drink for the eye.”
“You don’t owe me anything. It’s my job.”
The idea of sitting casually with Aleksi at the bar while he buys me a
drink sounds nice in theory, but it’s also one step closer to misleading him
into thinking something between us could ever happen. Nothing can happen
as long as we both work for the Hawkeyes and he’s a professional player.
“Right,” he says, bright, unbothered by my attempt to rationalize
whatever that was on the bench.
I should shut it down. Instead, the corner of my mouth betrays me. He
catches it like a puck through traffic, smiles like he knows exactly what he’s
doing, and then he’s gone—swallowed by victory, steam, and music.
The rest is routine.
Head coach wrap-up. Media crushes the hall like a tide. I do my
interview, hating the “female doctor in a male sport” questions. Today, most
stick to Easton: Will he play on the road in two days? What’s his current
condition?
I give them as little as possible and get out.
I dodge cameras, finish my notes, and send the concussion report.
Cammy, Peyton, Vivi, and Penelope—the group of WAGs I’ve somehow
become part of, even though I’m not a wife or a girlfriend—are waiting to
walk to Oakley’s. Still, these girls are the closest thing I’ve got to a family.
They’re the ones who made moving here and leaving behind everything I
knew in Florida bearable. Actually, more than bearable. They were my
saving grace after the media storm that branded me the jersey-jumper
doctor following my divorce.
We head to Oakley’s together, the local sports bar just a few blocks from
the arena where the players and fans flood after every game. One soda, a
round of hugs, and I’m out—successfully dodging Aleksi. Not that it’s
difficult. He’s a social butterfly, magnetic in a way that keeps people
orbiting him. Still, even in a packed room, I can feel it—the weight of his
gaze finding me again and again. Those bright blue eyes that always seem
to shimmer when they land on me.
I catch him trying to work his way through the crowd more than once,
only to get stopped by a fan. He’s too polite to brush anyone off, which
gives me enough time to slip to another corner, pretending to be fascinated
by whatever conversation I can latch onto. But it never lasts. Before long,
I’ll look up and he’ll be watching again—mischief curving his lips, like he
knows exactly what I’m doing. Like he thinks this is a game.
In my car, I don’t turn the radio on. My brain is still a highlight reel—the
hit, the pupils, the glue, the wink. I pull the licorice out of my pocket,
regard the label, and almost laugh at the dare. I put it back.
There’s a rule that keeps my life clean and my heart intact. I broke it once
and watched my life burn. I’m not watching the full rerun.
So I focus on what’s ahead. It’s what I’ve done since fourteen: best
grades, hard work, every scholarship, college acceptance, med school, and
never repeat the life path my mother—and her mother—took: drugs,
alcohol, worthless men.
Unfortunately, my retired NFL ex-husband is Exhibit A in repeating my
mother’s choices. I should’ve seen the love-bombing the day I met him in
the locker room. I should’ve known a reputation doesn’t change just
because you make a wedding vow. Four years of long-distance marriage
became one of my worst mistakes.
Then a year of post-divorce bad decisions and worse rumors had the
medical board sniffing around for “fraternizing with a patient” when the
press made fake allegations to sell stories. It wasn’t true, and the case
closed. But it almost ended me.
I was almost done being a team doctor until I bumped into Penelope
Matthews at a charity event and she asked if I’d ever thought about
switching leagues. The NHL felt like fresh air, and having a female GM felt
like a new start.
That’s when I solidified my rule. No players. Not ever again.
Now I just need to keep it. No matter how a six-foot-three Finnish winger
keeps stealing my attention.
Eyes on the only thing I’m allowed to carry home: we got a win. The
series is alive.
When I open the door to my tiny studio apartment, the only thing I can
afford, even with the generous salary Penelope pays me, it’s a reminder of
every financial crater my ex-husband left behind. My name was still tied to
his debt, his credit cards, the house. I’m finally free of it now, but barely.
And yes, I did turn down the Hawkeyes’ offer to live in the team’s
discounted apartment complex where all the players stay during the
season… because, well, that should be self-explanatory. No players. And
living with them is too close for professional boundaries.
I drop my bag. Something like his grin still lingers in my mind,
unreasonably bright in the dim. I flick the light off, shake my head, and tell
the empty room the one fact that can’t be ignored:
One hot night with Aleksi isn’t worth my medical license.
God… I hope I’m right about that.

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