Page 90 of Goalie Secrets

Lionel sighs. “Look, Vanya, I hear you, but—”

I hang up. I can’t listen to another lame excuse from clueless, helpless men who refuse to do the right thing. If Lionel won’t act, I’ll go straight to Kyle. He should have known better than to sign off on Jeremy’s return to hockey before there’s time for comprehensive tests. He didn’t even run it by me!

I stomp to my car, keys jingling in my hand. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I slam the door shut and shove the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, but my mind is louder, swirling with thoughts and fears.

Jeremy is so damn stubborn! How far is he willing to take the “tough hockey player” mentality? All the way to permanent damage?

I drive out of the parking lot, bursting with determination to right this wrong. Jeremy is not fine. He’s putting on that damn act like always, as if gritting his teeth will magically make the dire symptoms go away. In my gut, I know something is wrong. I will not let him worsen his condition.

I’m not fighting Jeremy; I’m fightingforhim.

“Call Kyle.” The Bluetooth connects to my contact list to dial my boss’s number. It goes straight to voicemail.

“Kyle, I just saw Jeremy. We need to get him back to Dr. Leroi. The lab in Chicago is the only one that can determine how badly his injury affected the labral tears. I’m heading back to the office to make those arrangements.”

I hang up. I’m done asking for permission. I’m getting Jeremy tested in Chicago whether or not the organization gives the green light.

This isn’t about me. It’s not about keeping Jeremy off the ice to save my research or forward my career. None of that matters. Nothing in this world matters more than his safety, because I love him. I love him so fucking much.

My hands grip the wheel tightly, knuckles whitening as pressure pricks at my eyes again. I give in. The tears surge, blurring my vision and yet making other things clearer.

I love him. In my bones and till the day I die, I am in love with Jeremy Lopez.

How did it take this awful moment to admit what I’ve known in my heart? The last few months have been the happiest of my life because he’s in it. Our quiet dinners and passionate nights have made me feel seen in ways I never thought possible. His unwavering support of my career—to the point of putting asidehis pride so I can keep our affair a secret—is more than I could expect from any lover.

No one and nothing matters more than him. His smile, his happiness, his kindness are all fundamental to who Jeremy is. They are some of the many reasons I’ve fallen for him.

But his judgment, when it comes to hockey, is flawed. He’s risking an entire future by having tunnel vision on this season. Lesser injuries have ruined patients’ lives. I won’t let that happen to the man I love.

Unfortunately, the man I love probably hates me right now.

I was serious about confronting the league. By the end of today, a lot of other people will be on the “we hate Dr. Kapur” bandwagon. I will pull every string I know to keep Jeremy from doing more damage to his body, including telling my boss that he’s wrong. I’m willing to risk everything—my reputation in the medical community and all the plans I had for my future—if I can guarantee Jeremy’s health.

I swipe away tears with the back of my hand. The gesture is useless because the gushing is nonstop. A horn blares behind me. I didn’t realize the light had turned green. I press the gas too hard, the car jerking forward onto the road.

My chest feels like it’s going to cave in. Why does he have to be so damn infuriating? Why can’t he trust me? I see Jeremy’s face in my mind. Warm brown eyes and a gorgeous smile make me weak with longing.

Another horn blares, somewhere to my left.

A deafening crash.

A jolt that throws me sideways.

The world spinning out of control.

My body crushed against the door.

The world outside is a blur of noise and motion. The spinning slows, but the terror doesn’t. My ears ring, my breath shallow and shaky. The car jolts to a sickening stop as metal screechesagainst bark. A tree trunk as wide as the door leaves its shape on the passenger side.

Silence settles like dust after the chaos, thick and suffocating. Pain ripples outward from my chest, relentless, like the aftershock of a bell rung too hard. My head is pounding.

When I lift my hand to my temple, my fingers tremble, hesitant to confirm what I already suspect. They come away warm and sticky, smeared with blood. The sight of it doesn’t shock me as much as it should. My body has already shifted into survival mode, prioritizing analysis over terror.

Adrenaline surges, leaving me shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. I test my limbs, but the sharp stab in my ribs halts me before I can move more than an inch. Broken. At least two, maybe more. The calculation is automatic, clinical—a desperate grasp at control in a situation where I have none.

The tree looms in my shattered passenger window, massive and unyielding, bark splintered from the impact. Another 180 degrees and it would’ve split me in two.

Cool air snakes through the wreckage, brushing against my skin like icy fingers. Glass glitters across my lap, almost pretty as it catches light. Then, sound cuts through. Sirens, faint at first, rise in a steady crescendo. Help is coming. The knowledge should bring relief, but it barely registers over the fog creeping into my thoughts.