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"I'm Katarina Novak, your new nutritionist. I've reviewed everyone's files, and honestly? I'm impressed you're all still standing."

Please don't let him recognize me.

More laughter. A rookie raises his hand.

"What's wrong with our diets?"

I click to my first slide. It's a photo of an energy drink next to a banana.

"This," I point to the drink, "has thirty-nine grams of sugar and enough caffeine to kill a horse. This," I point to the banana, "has potassium, natural sugars, and won't make your heart explode."

"But the drink tastes better," someone calls out.

"So does cake. Doesn't mean you should eat it before a game."

I flip to the next slide—meal timing charts color-coded by position.

"Goalies need different fuel than forwards. Defensemen burn calories differently than centers. One-size-fits-all nutrition is why half of you hit the wall in the third period."

Aiden, the captain, leans forward. "What's our biggest problem?"

"Hydration. Recovery nutrition. And the fact that three of you are basically surviving on coffee and spite."

I don't look at anyone specific, but I feel eyes on me from the back of the room. The same dark stare that's been burning into my skull since I walked in here five minutes ago.

Liam Steele. Parking lot disaster. Griffin's personal nemesis. The man currently slouched in his chair like he'd rather be getting a root canal.

The man whose heart-shaped lock I've traced with my tongue.

"Questions so far?"

A hand goes up. "What about cheat meals?"

"What about them? You're professional athletes, not monks. But if your cheat meal turns into a cheat week, we're going to have problems."

"Define problems," the same voice asks.

I smile. "Problems like me showing up at your apartment with a meal plan and a very loud whistle."

The room erupts in laughter.

"Any other questions, or can I start fixing your lives?"

Silence. Then Aiden grins.

"Welcome to the team, Kat."

I click to the next slide and get to work, walking them through hydration protocols, meal timing, and supplement guidelines. Most of the guys take notes. A few look genuinely interested. Others are clearly just waiting for this to be over so they can get back to whatever hockey players do when they're not destroying their bodies for sport.

But Liam? He's not taking notes. He's just watching me. Not in a creepy way—more like he's trying to solve a puzzle he didn't know existed.

Fine. Let him stare.

If only you knew you're looking at your mystery woman.

After forty minutes of explaining why spinach won't kill them and energy drinks aren't a food group, I wrap up.

"Individual assessments start tomorrow. I'll be calling you in alphabetically, so Adams, you're first. Any final questions?"