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“Quinn!” someone calls from the bench—Griff, I think—but I don’t have time to look. The kid on the ice is grimacing through clenched teeth, his face pale beneath the helmet, and it’s my job to keep him still and safe until we can get him to the hospital.

“Hey, I’m Quinn, one of the medical responders,” I say as I kneel at his side. “Can you tell me what hurts most?”

“Shoulder,” he gasps. “I heard something pop.”

I nod, already scanning his body for other trauma. I gently palpate the area around his clavicle, checking for any irregularity, swelling, or deformity. His breathing is fast, shallow—part pain, part panic.

“Okay,” I say calmly. “You’re doing great. We’re going to get you off the ice and into the ambulance. Just keep breathing for me, okay?”

He nods once, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. These moments always get to me—not because of the injury, but because of the dreams that flash behind the pain. These young guys, they want it so badly. And sometimes, one hit is all it takes to derail everything.

I signal for the stretcher and spine board, watching as the rest of the team shifts on their skates at the bench, eyes trained on their fallen teammate. There’s a hush over the arena, the kind that makes your ears ring.

And then I look up.

That’s when I see him.

Wes Archer.

He’s standing near the end of the bench, removed from the coaching staff and players. Just far enough back to avoid attention, but close enough that I can’t miss him. His tall frame is unmistakable. Even in a plain black jacket and jeans, he commands the space like it still belongs to him.

My breath hitches before I can stop it.

He’s staring straight at me. And he doesn’t look away.

It’s like my heart has a muscle memory too, because it squeezes hard in my chest. I want to turn, to focus on the player, on literallyanything else, but my eyes betray me for a beat too long.

Wes’s expression is unreadable. Not angry. Not smug. Just... full of something. Regret. Maybe longing. Maybe he’s wondering if I’ll speak to him. If I’ll yell. If I’ll ignore him.

He’s not wearing his jersey. Not anymore. And I don’t need a press release to tell me what that means. I already know he’s not playing tonight—and not because of an injury. Wes Archer is done. Retired. Just like that.

But I can’t think about that right now.

I’m still on the ice. I’m still on the job. And even though my heart just tried to leap out of my chest, I have to pretend that it didn’t.

I break the stare. Force my gaze back to the kid. Focus.

We secure the player, strap him in, and begin the glide across the ice to the waiting gurney at the Zamboni entrance. The fans clap—a polite, hopeful kind of applause that doesn’t really mean much, but feels necessary. I let the other medics take over as we reach the edge.

As I turn to walk back toward the tunnel, I feel it again.

That pull.

Wes hasn’t moved. He’s still watching me. I fight the instinct to look back, to hold his gaze just one second longer.

But I don’t.

I do my job.

I return to my seat on the bench near the tunnel, pretending like none of it happened. Like the pit in my stomach doesn’t exist. Like my lungs aren’t on fire from trying not tofeelanything.

But it did happen.

Of course it did.

Because heartbreak doesn’t wait for convenient timing.

The game resumes. The crowd begins to buzz again, gradually building up volume like someone turning the dial on a radio. Iwatch without watching, charting vitals on a tablet and trying not to clench my jaw.