Page 5

Hawthorne Arena smells like sweat and bleach.

Not fresh bleach, either—old, like it soaked into the walls a long time ago and gave up trying to be clean.

I stand just inside the service entrance, fingers curled tight around the strap of my duffel. It’s six-fifteen a.m. Too early for players. Too early for staff. Perfect.

The cold air cuts through my hoodie as I step farther inside. The rink is dark, mostly, just emergency lights on around the edge of the ice. There’s comfort in that. Shadow over spotlight. Empty space over noise.

I hear the low scrape of a blade against ice, so I stop.

The sound comes again—long, sharp, clean. Someone’s skating. Fast.

I edge toward the glass. The overhead lights are off, but the security flood at the far end gives enough illumination to see one lone figure slicing across the rink. Big frame. Dark gear. Moving like he’s got something to outrun.

He skates like it’s a fight.

Quick turns. Explosive stops. Everything about his movement is angry—controlled, but barely. I don’t know hockey well, but I know bodies. And this one’s pushing harder than he should.

He drives down the center, cuts left, and his right leg falters. Not much. Just a subtle hitch. If I blinked, I’d miss it.

But I don’t blink.

And I don’t miss things like that.

He’s hurt. Not enough to stop, but it looks like he’s running from demons. Or to them. I’m not sure.

I should walk away, start my new job that I’m so excited about. But my feet don’t move. I haven’t been around hockey players, and watching this one on the ice is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s different than seeing players run in shoes.

The skater circles again, catches sight of me through the glass, and slows. Just a little.

He stops hard, sending a spray of frost against the boards. Then he turns and skates directly toward me.

Shit.

I inhale, trying to figure out what I’m going to say. Keep it professional.

I back up from the glass, trying not to look like I was watching him, but it’s too late. He’s already stepping off the ice, tugging off his gloves, dark eyes locked on me like I just interrupted something personal.

He’s taller than I expected. Big, in that way that screams genetics. Hair dark and messy, jaw unshaven, mouth set in a flat line.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Neither do I.

We just stare.

Then he jerks his chin toward my bag. “You with the team?”

“Um,” I clear my throat, very intimidated by his whole persona. “Athletic therapy. New PTA.”

His gaze drops to my paperwork. “Sage Monroe.” The way he says my name—slow, almost testing it—makes my stomach knot.

“Yeah.”

He nods once, as if that settles something. “You’re early.”

“So are you.”

That gets the faintest pull of a smirk. Not friendly. Not really amused, either.

He brushes past me toward the bench, grabs a water bottle, takes a long drink. I take the chance to glance down at his skate, the leg that faltered.

“I noticed you’re favoring your right side,” I say.

He doesn’t turn around. “Didn’t ask you to watch me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were.” He tosses the empty bottle into the bin with a loud clatter, finally facing me again. “Let me guess. First day. Trying to impress the staff by diagnosing players before breakfast?”

My jaw tightens. “Trying not to let a torn groin become a season-ending injury. But sure, let’s call it ambition.”

He stares at me for a beat. Then another.

And just when I think he’s going to push—snap, dismiss, test me—he says, “You’re not wrong.”

I blink.

“It’s tight,” he adds. “Worse when I cut wide.”

I smile to myself, proud to have a good eye.

He shrugs. “It’s our little secret though… Sage .”

My eyes dart to his, surprised I have to keep a secret already. First day. First athlete I talk to. And I have to keep this a secret? I haven’t even started work yet.

“How is it a secret if it’s so obvious?”

He studies me like I’ve surprised him, just a little.

A slow smile pulls at his mouth. This one’s different. Still sharp but edged with something closer to curiosity. Not warm. But not ice either.

“I should get going. First day and all,” I say.

As I walk off, he says, “Remember our little secret, Sage.”

A chill runs up my spine at the tone in his voice, so I keep walking to the doors I think I’m supposed to be entering through.

This is it. My fresh start.

“You must be Sage,” a man says as I enter through the door. I’m so thankful I’m in the correct place. I gave myself time in case I would get lost. “Sage Monroe. I’m Riley, head PT,” he says, shaking my hand. “Welcome to the madhouse.”

Riley’s office is tucked away. He’s younger than I expected—maybe early thirties, with sandy hair and the kind of easy smile that puts people at ease immediately.

I settle into the chair across from his desk, pulling out a notebook to take notes. Professional. Prepared. Exactly the kind of young professional they will be proud to employ.

“So,” Riley says, leaning back in his chair. “Janet mentioned you’re coming from UC San Diego. Athletic department there too?”

“Yes, for about six months.” I keep my voice steady, matter of fact. “I loved the work but had to relocate for family matters.”

He nods, not pressing for details. “Well, you’ll find this place keeps you busy. We’ve got hockey, basketball, soccer, track—you name it. But hockey’s our crown jewel. Your main focus. Mine as well. Division I, nationally ranked, and these guys beat the hell out of each other on a regular basis.”

He hands me a thick folder stuffed with papers. “Player charts. Injury histories, current treatments, ongoing concerns. I want you to study these today—really get to know our guys on paper. Then later you will learn their bodies, their weak spots, their habits.”

I flip through the folder, scanning names and medical histories. Henderson, Davis, Morrison. Pages and pages of young men pushing their bodies to the limit.

“Think you can handle that for your first day?” Riley asks.

“Absolutely.”

He stands, gesturing toward the door. “Let me show you around, then you can get started on your reading.”

The tour is quick but thorough. Treatment rooms equipped with massage tables and ultrasound machines. A hydrotherapy pool that smells like chlorine and determination. Cold tubs for recovery. Hot tubs for loosening tight muscles.

“Equipment room’s down the hall,” Riley says, pointing to a heavy door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only.’ “You’ll probably spend time in there fitting guys for braces, checking protective gear. And this—” he opens another door “—is where the magic happens.”

The ice rink spreads out before us, pristine and empty in the morning light now. Rows of seats stretch up toward the ceiling, and I can almost hear the echo of games played and won and lost on this ice.

It was darker in here earlier when I met the… I didn’t get his name.

“Practice starts soon,” Riley says. “That’s when you’ll really see what we’re dealing with.”

Back in his office, I settle in with the charts.

Henderson catches my attention first—recurring shoulder issues, probably from taking too many hits along the boards. Morrison’s dealing with an ankle strain that keeps flaring up. But there’s nothing about a hip in here.

These aren’t just statistics on a page. They’re puzzle pieces I need to fit together to help these athletes perform at their best.

When Henderson arrives for his pre-practice session, he’s exactly what I expected—broad shoulders, easy grin, the kind of confidence that comes from being good at something your whole life.

“You must be the new PT,” he says, settling onto the treatment table. “Riley said you’re from California?”

“ PTA. But yes, that’s right,” I say, keeping my voice professional. “You may take a seat.” I begin working on his shoulder, feeling for tension points and areas of inflammation. “How’s this feeling today?”

“Not bad. Little tight after yesterday’s scrimmage.”

I guide him through a series of stretches, watching how his body responds, noting where he winces or pulls back. His shoulder blade moves differently than it should—subtle compensation patterns that could lead to bigger problems if we don’t address them.

“You know what you’re doing,” he says after I finish working on his arm with deep tissue massage. “That feels pretty damn good now. Thanks.”

The compliment warms me more than it should. This is what I’m good at. What I trained for. What makes me feel useful instead of broken.

The rest of my shift passes in a blur of player evaluations and treatment planning.

Riley checks in periodically, offering guidance and answering questions, but mostly he lets me work.

By the time I clock out, my feet ache and my hands smell like massage oil, but I feel more like myself than I have since everything fell apart in California.

“Good first day,” Riley says as I gather my things. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yes! I will be here.”

Walking to my car in the employee parking lot, I pull out my phone. No missed calls. No threatening messages. Just a normal Monday evening after a normal first day at a job I actually earned.

I did this. Packed up my entire life, drove three thousand miles, found a place to live and a job that challenges me, all in the span of a week. A week ago, I was hiding in a motel bathroom, too scared to even look at my phone.

Now I’m standing in a parking lot in a new state, financially independent and professionally valued.

Maybe I really can build something new here, something that belongs only to me.

The thought carries me all the way home.