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CHAPTER THREE

Ally

Dennis, the general manager, meets me in the main lobby of the rink.

He’s an older man, balding with a thick mustache, and his handshake is firm but impersonal. “Welcome aboard, Dr. Perry,” he says briskly, already turning toward the hallway leading deeper into the rink.

“Thank you,” I say, following close behind. It’s strange, almost surreal, to see the behind-the-scenes areas of the rink, a place that always seems so unreachable from the stands.

Dennis leads me through a series of hallways that open into larger, specialized spaces. The players’ lounge is the first stop: a sleek room with leather couches, flat-screen TVs, and even a foosball table tucked into one corner.

I nod appreciatively as Dennis points out the training room next door.

“This is your office,” he says, gesturing to a small but well-organized space just past the training room.

I peek inside, noting the modern desk, ergonomic chair, and the neat rows of medical supplies already in place.

Beyond that is the crown jewel: the physical therapy wing. High-tech equipment fills the room, treadmills with harnesses, resistance machines, and even cryotherapy chambers.

I whistle under my breath, genuinely impressed.

“They don’t spare any expense for their players, do they?” I ask.

Dennis chuckles. “The owner wants results. He makes sure we have what we need to get them.”

As we move back toward the hallway, Dennis glances at me sideways. “You’re a local, right? Minneapolis born and raised?”

I nod. “Yes, sir. It’s good to be back after taking some years away for college and med school. This city is still home, even after all that time.”

He hums thoughtfully, his eyes scanning me. “If I’m being honest, you look a little young to be working on becoming a doctor.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes but keep my tone polite. “I get that a lot. But my residency went well, and I’m more than prepared for this fellowship.”

He scratches his chin. “Well, I’ll give you this: you came highly recommended. We wouldn’t have hired you otherwise. Dr. Martins doesn’t give out praise lightly.”

I nod, keeping my face neutral even as the lump in my throat tightens. It’s good to hear, but I know this is a trial by fire. Still, I’m ready for it, or at least I hope I am.

“I’m twenty-four,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended. “More than old enough to be in a fellowship.”

Dennis raises his hands in mock surrender. “No offense meant. It’s just that you all keep getting younger every year. Makes me feel ancient.”

I relax slightly, though his comment still rubs me the wrong way. He checks his watch, then gestures for me to follow him. “We’d better get downstairs. The players are about done with practice. Time to meet the team.”

As we walk, the hallway seems to stretch forever, a long tunnel lined with team banners and photographs of past victories.

I adjust the strap of my bag, gripping it tighter to steady myself. My face remains neutral, professional, but beneath the surface, my nerves buzz like static electricity.

The hum of fluorescent lights above only amplifies the tension in my chest.

We pass a familiar corner, and something in the air shifts.

Memories hit me like a slap, stopping me mid-step. I glance at the vending machine tucked into the alcove, its once-bright paint now dulled and scratched from years of use.

I can still see us there, me at barely eighteen, starry-eyed and so painfully na?ve, leaning against the wall while he grinned down at me.

His hockey stick rested casually against the corner, forgotten in the haze of post-practice adrenaline.

The rink had been quiet then, the sounds of practice fading as the arena emptied out.

That night, it had felt thrilling—forbidden.

Now, the memory makes me cringe.

I can almost feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I remember how I hung on his every word, thinking he was larger than life.

He wasn’t.

He was just a boy, and I was just a girl swept up in the romance of hockey.

I’m grateful I never let it go too far.

The relationship had fizzled quickly, leaving nothing but a bittersweet reminder of how young and foolish I’d been.

In hindsight, I could see it for what it was: not love, not even a real connection, but a reflection of my obsession with the game itself.

Dennis keeps talking, his voice a low drone I barely register as I shake off the memory.

I adjust my bag again and take a steadying breath. Back then, I had dreams of playing hockey professionally. I wasn’t bad, either, quick on my skates, intuitive with the puck, and always ready to give it my all.

But reality had caught up to me quickly. I wasn’t big enough, strong enough, or fast enough to compete at the level I dreamed of.

Still, the ache lingers. The dream never truly leaves. Working with the Marauders now feels like a second chance, even if I’m no longer the one holding the stick.

I straighten my shoulders, pushing the memory aside as we approach a set of heavy double doors. Beyond them, the sound of voices and laughter grows louder.

My stomach twists again as Dennis pulls the door open.

The warm air inside the locker room envelops me instantly, thick with the mingling smells of sweat, damp gear, and the medicinal tang of liniment.

The lively chatter and laughter that had been echoing out into the hall abruptly stops.

The silence is absolutely deafening.

Every head turns toward me, a sea of curious, skeptical faces. Their eyes feel like spotlights, scanning me from head to toe.

My chest tightens, but I lift my chin and force myself to walk inside.

And then I see him.

The man from earlier, the one who slammed into the boards, is sitting on a bench near the center of the room. His broad shoulders are slightly hunched, his dark hair curling against his forehead, still damp with sweat.

His eyes, sharp and piercing, lock onto mine with an intensity that sends a jolt through me.

Next to him, two other men sit casually, their postures relaxed but their attention unmistakably fixed on me as well.

They’re strikingly handsome, their identical features impossible to miss. Dark hair, chiseled jawlines, and the kind of easy confidence that turns heads. Twins.

My heart flips unexpectedly, and I curse the involuntary reaction.

This is work. These are patients, not distractions.

Dennis clears his throat, breaking the tension. “Everyone, this is Dr. Ally Perry, our new team doctor. She’ll be taking over from Dr. Martins when her fellowship is over.”

A ripple of murmurs spreads through the group.

I nod politely, trying to appear confident and collected, but the weight of their stares presses heavily against me.

I remind myself why I’m here, planting my feet firmly and standing tall. It’s time to show them and myself, that I belong.