Page 18

Chapter Eighteen

Natalie

T he medical room is buzzing when I walk in.

Blake Maddox is perched on the exam table, shirtless, his massive body stiff with fear and frustration. His shoulder is already bruising, the deepening purple darkened against his skin.

Jordan stands off to the side, arms crossed, his usual easygoing expression replaced with something a hell of a lot more serious.

I move closer to Blake, ready to assess the extent of the injury.

Behind me, Hunter prowls the length of the medical room like a caged animal. Three steps, pivot, three steps back. His jaw clenches with each turn, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. Those steel-gray eyes dart between Blake's shoulder and the door, calculating, planning, probably running through every possible scenario for tomorrow's game.

I ignore all of it. Ignore him.

Instead, I pull on my gloves, snapping them into place.

“Alright, Blake,” I say, stepping forward. “Let’s see the damage.”

Blake exhales, tipping his head back with a groan. “It’s nothing, Doc. Jordan's overreacting.”

"Overreacting? You couldn't lift your fucking water bottle." Jordan's voice rises from the corner of the room. "That's kind of important for holding a hockey stick."

"I was being careful." Blake shifts on the table. "Doesn't mean I can't play."

The air cracks inside the medical room. Everyone wants that clean sweep victory tomorrow, and Blake's our key to making it happen.

"Listen, I just need—"

Jordan straightens and cuts in over Blake. "What you need is—"

A sharp whip-like sound echoes as Hunter's palm connects with the wall, silencing both of the men instantly.

Hunter spins on his heel and glares at all of us. "Both of you, shut the fuck up and let Natalie do her damn job."

The room falls silent.

Ignoring the warmth in my belly, I press my fingers against Blake's shoulder, grateful for the quiet. "Why don't you tell me what you were doing when you first felt the twinge?"

I tune out Jordan's muttering behind me as Blake explains how he first noticed the pain during this morning's recovery skate. But as he talks, his insistence that he's fine doesn't match the way he winces when I rotate his shoulder.

My fingers probe the joint, checking range of motion and muscle tension. The deltoid is tight, but what concerns me more is the way his rotator cuff responds when I test it.

Twenty-four hours before a potential series-clinching game, this isn't what anyone wants to see of their star player.

Hunter's presence burns against my back as he watches. His breath catches when Blake grimaces at a particular movement, and I flash back to that first night in his house when I picked up the newspaper articles spread across his counter. Hunter saved them all.

All these years he's had one thing on his mind. One thing, and one thing only. I remember vividly how his voice deepened and went all rough and emotional as he told me about his own career-ending injury against Vancouver.

I knew from that night on that this series isn't just about winning for Hunter…

It's about redemption.

And now his star player is injured right before the biggest game of his coaching career, threatening to derail everything when it's so damn close.

Just like it did twenty years ago.

I push those thoughts away. Right now, Blake needs the physical therapist, not the woman who's falling for his coach and would do anything to put things right for him.

"Try to lift your arm straight out to the side," I instruct, focusing on the task at hand.

Blake exhales slowly and does as I say, his biceps flexing as he tries to lift his arm laterally. He doesn’t even get halfway before he's drawing breath sharply through his teeth.

Hunter goes still behind me, the storm in his eyes ready to break loose.

“Shit,” Blake mutters, dropping his arm back to his lap. “Okay. That one sucked.”

Hunter’s boots scrape against the tile as he moves closer, his voice low, rough as gravel. “Try again.”

I close my eyes for half a second before forcing myself to stay calm. Hunter's on the edge. I can feel it.

“Hunter.”

“I said-" His voice rises loudly, his eyes hard on Blake's. "Try. Again.”

His voice leaves zero room for argument.

Shit.

Blake glances to me, then to Hunter before he sighs and tries again.

This time, he forces his arm higher. The muscles in his shoulder jump and tremble, but he grits his teeth through it. His fingers barely reach his chin before his whole body seizes up, and he hisses with pain.

Goddamn it.

"Stop." I force myself between them, my voice sharper than Hunter's a few seconds ago. "That's enough! He'll do more damage—"

Hunter doesn't even look at me, instead, he sidesteps me and waves his hand at Blake like he's some kind of fucking magician.

"Once more, Blake."

"NO!" I push Hunter's chest, forcing him away from the treatment table. "I said stop! You're going to make it worse!"

But Hunter's already gesturing for Blake to continue, completely dismissing my presence. Blake's arm trembles as he lifts it again, and I've never wanted to strangle someone more in my life than I do Hunter right now.

Fucking asshole. Fucking asshole!!!

I step directly into Hunter’s space, cutting off his view of Blake. My pulse is hammering, heat flooding my veins.

“When I say that's enough, Coach, that means that’s enough. Don't you dare undermine me in my own field of work.”

His jaw flexes as he drops his gaze to mine, eyes sharp, hard as steel.

I can’t believe it’s the same man who I just kissed moments ago as we laughed in the kitchen, rolling around on the ground and smearing frosting on each others faces. This is the same fucking man who held me under the stars, whispering things that made my heart ache . Made me believe for the first time that I might actually stand a chance at getting my own fairytale.

But right now?

That mans gone.

He's not hearing me. Not seeing me. He's only seeing hockey. The series. The potential victory tomorrow night. The history that’s inches from his grasp.

Blake exhales sharply behind me, rolling his shoulder with a wince. “Nat, I think I can play.”

Hunter’s eyes stay locked on mine, not blinking and speaking through me to his captain. “Yeah? You think so, Maddox?”

My lip twitches through a snarl aimed right at the man staring back at me.

“Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?”

I throw my hands in the air, spinning on the spot.

“Hunter, this isn’t some grit through the pain bullshit. This is a muscle strain. A bad one! If he forces it now, we might as well wrap his shoulder in caution tape for the next two rounds.”

Hunter’s jaw flexes. “We need him.”

I scoff.

“Oh, I know you need him. You need him tonight . But what about next week? What about the next series? The Stanley Cup Finals, if we make it? Because if he plays tomorrow, you can kiss all of that goodbye . ”

Hunter’s nostrils flare, but I don’t give him a second to argue. I spin toward Blake, ignoring the heat of Hunter’s stare burning into the side of my face.

“You want to play?” I demand.

Blake hesitates, flicking his gaze between me and Hunter. “I mean—”

“Not him,” I snap, jerking my chin at Hunter. “Not the team. You . Do you want to play if it means potentially tearing your shoulder and spending the rest of the playoffs sitting on your ass in a sling?”

Blake swallows hard. He’s a good captain. He wants this win just as much as Hunter does. But he also knows his body, knows that I’m not bluffing.

He exhales, dropping his gaze. “I’ll do whatever you say, Doc.”

Hunter’s hands flex at his sides, his whole body tight. “Blake—”

“ Hunter. ” The daggers in my eyes force Hunter to take a step back. “You don’t get to make this call. I'm the physio, and it's my damn job. Not yours.”

His jaw ticks, his throat working on a swallow as I close the space between us. Step by step, I feel his heat growing hotter the closer I get. A muscle jumps in his forearm, the veins in his hands and biceps flexing, standing out in sharp relief as his fingers twitch.

For the first time, I notice the slight flush creeping up his neck. Like he knows how close we are to falling over the edge with each other. Like he feels everything I'm feeling too.

“The hell I don’t get a say,” he growls, his voice gravel-rough, vibrating straight through my bones. "This is my damn team, Hayes."

I tip my chin up, refusing to be intimidated. Refusing to let my pulse betray the way his anger shouldn't be turning me on like this.

I step even closer. So close, my breath skates across his jaw, my chest brushing his as I level him with a whisper meant only for him.

“You’re not him, Hunter.”

His nostrils flare, breath catching. His pupils are blown so wide, the steel-gray of his irises is nearly swallowed whole.

I don’t stop.

I can’t stop with Hunter.

I care too much to stop.

"You’re not the kid who got blindsided into retirement anymore," I murmur, my voice steady even as my pulse pounds like a drum. "You’re not the guy fighting to stay on the ice because it’s the only thing that makes him feel like he’s worth a damn."

His jaw clenches. His breath is coming harder now, every inhale brushing against my skin.

"You’re not him anymore."

Silence. Thick, electric silence.

His body is so goddamn big, so devastatingly solid, and I don’t miss the way his fingers twitch again, like he’s fighting every instinct screaming at him to grab me. To shake me. To anchor himself the only way he knows how.

To get that control.

To touch me .

Suddenly, inside all the anger, all the fury, all I can think about is how his hands felt on my body a few nights ago. It's this burning passion we both hold so deeply inside.

The way he pulled me into him under the stars, like he needed me the same way he needed air in his lungs. The way his lips devoured mine, rough and soft all at once, his grip tight like he wasn’t just kissing me… he was claiming me.

I kissed that man like I’ve never kissed anyone before.

I did it because I believed in him.

And now?

Now, his eyes are burning into mine like he’s remembering it too.

Like somehow, he might just be starting to listen.

A muscle jumps in his throat as he swallows thickly, his gaze flicking down to my lips. He holds it there, lingering just long enough to make my heart flutter before he drags it back up again.

My skin hums like it’s waiting for him to do something. Anything.

And then—

He rips himself away from me, turning on his heel, pacing like he’s trying to shake the feeling off his body.

Like I’m the only thing in this goddamn room that could rattle him like this.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his voice hoarse. “So what do we do then? Play without him? Is that what you're saying?”

I take a steadying breath, shifting into full professional mode and ignoring the way my body hums to be close to him again.

"We ice it. All night. Every twenty minutes on, twenty off. I've got specialized compression wraps that'll keep the swelling down while he sleeps."

Hunter's eyes stay fixed on me as I continue, my voice gaining confidence as he finally starts to nod as if he's agreeing with me.

"Tomorrow morning, we do targeted stretches. Very specific range of motion exercises that will give us the full story. Double dose of anti-inflammatories too, but nothing that'll mask the pain too much - we need to know if he's pushing too far."

I turn to Blake.

"I'll monitor you through warm-ups pre-game. Test your mobility, strength, everything. We make the call tomorrow if you play or not. If anything feels off, you're benched. No arguments."

Blake nods, but looks to his coach like he's questioning my methods.

"That sound good to you, Coach?" he asks, skepticism laced through his voice.

I brace myself, fully expecting Hunter to push back. To argue. To demand more certainty, more guarantees.

Instead, he moves closer.

Not to Blake.

To me.

His broad chest brushes my arm as he stops beside me. I don’t dare look at him, not when every nerve in my body is already wired from the intense shouting match we just had. Not when the residual adrenaline is curling into something darker. Something hotter. Something only Hunter's touch can remedy.

"You follow her plan," Hunter finally says on a sigh.

His voice alone sends a shiver down my spine. Deep, rough, a low husky growl that vibrates straight to my core.

God help me… I like him like this. Unhinged. On edge. A step away from losing his restraint.

I swallow hard, but it does nothing to stop the ache pooling between my thighs.

But the point remains… he's saying these words.

He's trusting me.

Blake’s brows lift slightly, like he expected something different. Hell, I expected something different.

But Hunter’s jaw is locked tight, his teeth clenched so hard I swear I can hear it. He doesn't like it. Doesn't like my decision. But he’s backing me up anyway.

And that?

After years of enduring my parents' constant criticism and negativity - two people so miserable in their own lives they used me as their emotional punching bag…

That means everything.

"Let's get to work."