Page 9

NINE

LEXI

I’m so fucking late.

I’m going to blame my alarm I silenced twice this morning.

Goddamn Apple and their nine-minute snooze feature.

Shoving the last bite of bagel in my mouth, I tear into the conference room at the United Airlines Arena where I should’ve been five minutes ago, out of breath, sweaty, and wishing I wasn’t wearing jeans.

“I’m here.” I collapse in the first chair I find and dig through my purse for my water bottle. There’s a stitch in my side, and my lungs hurt. I do Pilates multiple times a week, and I thought I was in better shape than this. That run from the employee parking lot and two flights of stairs kicked my athleticism to the curb, and I’ve been humbled. “Sorry. Traffic.”

Stuart Klein, the Stars’ recently appointed Director of High Performance and my new boss, narrows his eyes.

I don’t like that look.

I know what that look suggests.

If you were a man, I’d laugh and say “no worries.” Since you’re a woman, I’m about to chastise you in front of everyone because no matter how hard you try, it’s not going to be good enough.

Fucking prick.

I’ve worked my ass off for my spot on this team. I’ve fought from the ground up, graduating with a degree in exercise science and kinesiology, then getting my master’s in athletic training.

I’ve outworked my male counterparts time and time again to claw up the ranks from the ECHL to the AHL and, eventually, the NHL. I’ve been knocked down, but I’ve gotten up. I’m proud to be the person in charge after just four years with the Stars. I’m honored to be the one who oversees other titles like Head Physical Therapist, Head Performance Coach, and Manager of Player Rehabilitation.

I deserve to be here, and I’m not going to let some douche who doesn’t know my work ethic think he has me figured out.

Thank god I don’t interact with him on a day-to-day basis.

I might be smiling sweetly on the outside, but inside, I’m hoping he chokes on his breakfast. I’m trying to figure out how to sneak laxatives into his coffee. I’m eager to show him how good I am at my job so I can say see? Anything boys can do, girls can do better.

“Now that everyone is where they should be, we can start,” Stuart draws out.

Instead of rolling my eyes at his insinuation, I glance around the table to see who’s joining us today. This meeting has been canceled and rescheduled so many times, and the fact that it’s actually happening is the biggest surprise of the year.

Our owner and governor, Kirk, is here, along with our CEO, Jared, and the Stars general manager, William.

There are so many white men in this room that I’m worried the New Balance, high-waisted khaki shorts, and white socks stocks might drop while they’re all here.

Coach Saunders is across from me with his arms folded across his chest. The rest of the training staff fills the other seats, which leaves the last spot to…

Riley .

I haven’t seen him since the night of the accident, and my heart skips a beat when his eyes briefly meet mine. I try to give him a smile so he knows I’m here for him, that I’m on his side, but he looks away. He scowls, and the rejection stings.

“This might be a difficult meeting for you, Riley, so we’re going to go off your cues,” Kirk starts. “We don’t need to make any decisions today, but with the season approaching, we want to get the ball rolling.”

“Ball rolling on what?” Riley scratches his jaw. His fingers drift over the beard he has now. The stubble is new, but familiarity sinks in when he shoves his glasses up his nose. “We don’t need to sit here and pretend like I have a future on this team. I know it. You all know it. The idiots on social media know it. Let’s not pretend I’m going to make a miraculous comeback and play on opening night. I’m miserable. I’m not who I used to be, and sitting here with you all is my idea of hell.”

Riley’s never been rude to the media like Liam is, but he doesn’t have the charisma Maverick exudes. He’s polite, answers the questions he’s asked, and moves on. This attitude and snappiness are new, and I’m not sure what to make of it.

“You’re always going to have a spot on this team, even if it means you’re permanently on the bench,” Coach Saunders says, and the consideration in his voice is something rare. He’s usually barking out orders to the guys on the ice. Yelling over whistles and looking like he’s going to break a whiteboard, but there’s sincerity in his tone. “We’re going to honor your contract. Every penny of it.”

“ What? ” Riley blinks. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m serious. It comes with stipulations, though. You’re not playing, but you’re expected to do everything else that’s required of players on my team. Therapy and rehabilitation—both physical and mental—which I know you’ve been bullshitting up to this point, are mandatory. Showing up to practice and games and traveling with the team is non-negotiable. So is voicing your opinion when I ask for feedback on lines and what isn’t working with a shift. If you don’t want to put in the work, that’s fine. We’ll go our separate ways, and you won’t be on our payroll.”

Riley is quiet. He stares at his hands, and I wonder what’s running through his mind.

When I asked the guys if they’ve talked to him, they said he removed himself from their group chat. He doesn’t answer their messages. He doesn’t come out of his room when they stop by and visit.

I can’t imagine the weight he’s carrying.

To have something you love ripped out from under you is heartbreaking, but to lose a physical part of yourself too?

It’s unfathomable.

“Fine,” Riley finally mumbles. The relief on Coach’s face is instantaneous, and I bet he was expecting more of a fight. “Whatever.”

“I, um, did some research,” I say, and everyone in the room—except for Riley—turns to look at me. The combined wealth around me is pushing two billion dollars, so I’m sure these men must think I’m an absolute fucking joke.

“Research?” Coach asks.

“Yeah.” I clear my throat and roll my shoulders back, refusing to be intimidated. I’m a strong, capable woman who deserves her place at this table. “There’s another hockey player who lost his leg via amputation after going into cardiac arrest during a game. He’s able to skate today. It’s not the same level of intensity required of NHL players, but?—”

“Thank you, Laura, for your insight,” Stuart says. “But it’s pointless. You know we shouldn’t be worrying about skating right now. We need to focus on a long-term rehabilitation plan, which?—”

A noise startles me. I knock my water bottle over, and the sound echoes in the quiet room. When I turn, I notice Riley’s palm splayed out on the table.

“She wasn’t finished speaking,” Riley says, deathly low. The look in his eye is murderous. A shiver races up my spine when he curls his fingers into a fist. My cheeks turn bright red when he stares at my boss and tilts his head to the side. “And her name is Lexi. L-e-x-i. That’s not difficult, is it? Treat her with respect and get it right, or I’m leaving.”

Holy shit .

I think I need to get my head checked, because that outburst was the hottest display of emotion I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life.

“Of course.” Stuart reaches for the papers in front of him. He shuffles them, and he might be close to exploding. Or firing me. “My apologies.”

“Better. We’ll work on it.” Riley leans back in his chair and looks my way. His gaze is soft, but his attention is intense. Overwhelming, like I’m the only one in the room. I don’t know why I’m suddenly nervous, but I feel like I can’t not be. “What were you saying?”

“Right.” I reach into my purse and pull out the file I’ve been working on the last few weeks. The research and interviews I’ve done have consumed me, and while I’m shocked we’re sitting here having this meeting at all, I’m so glad we are. “Like I mentioned, skating again is a real possibility. It’s going to take time. The therapy Coach mentioned is one of the components, but there will be additional training as well. Add in relearning how to walk with a new piece of machinery you’re not familiar with, and you’re going to need to put in hours of work. And I mean work , which includes giving your best effort and not stopping when you want to quit.”

I pause for a breath, surprised when no one interrupts me. They’re normally eager to throw out ideas they think are better than mine and talk over me, but Riley must’ve gotten his message across.

The romance books I read are right: having a guy turn a little unhinged and defend your honor is sexy as hell.

“We’re going to need a promise from you that you’re going to show up. Your performance doesn’t have to be great. It just has to be something,” I say.

Riley draws in a breath. His bottom lip quivers before he drops his eyes to the table. When he pushes his glasses up his nose again, I see faded cuts on the back of his hands and the marks near his wrist that are turning to scars.

God .

I want to hug him.

We’re not best friends but we are friends. After spending eight months together year after year, and seeing the reminder of what happened to him while hardly anyone else glances his way, makes me want to burn the world down.

“Do you really think you could do that?” Riley asks.

I nod. “I do. But only if you’re willing to meet us halfway.”

“What—” He exhales slowly. “Can you give me an idea of what this plan would look like? If it’s even obtainable.”

“Of course.” I open my folder and nudge a stack of papers his way. I skipped a dinner date with the girls two nights ago to put this together, and I’m glad I did. I love my friends to death, but seeing the hope in his eyes makes a version of happiness I’ve never experienced before race through me. “That’s a list of exercises you’d start with, and we’d build from there. I consulted with an occupational therapist as well as your prosthetist, and I think with a dedicated leader who believes in you and has knowledge of your situation, you will skate again.”

“Max,” Stuart clips, and our Manager of Player Rehabilitation sits up. “Take a look at this and see if it makes sense. If it does, I want you to be at the helm of Mitchell’s recovery. We’ll be the league leaders in rehab. Other teams will try to model their program off of ours. We could probably sell and market this?—”

“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” Riley asks, and Stuart gapes at him. I do too, because I’ve never heard a player be so direct with someone in a position of power. Every person in charge of Riley’s future is in this room, and he doesn’t seem to care who he’s talking to. “Is there a reason why you’re planning to delegate this to Max when he had no part in designing the plan?”

“That’s what we pay him to do. It’s literally in his job description. It’s more labor-intensive than stretching quadriceps when a player has a cramp during a game,” Stuart answers. “He’s who I trust.”

I hate the shame that runs through me with his condescending tone.

I’m so used to defending my job to people.

They hear athletic trainer and diminish what I do to only handing out Band-Aids. They ask if I’ve slept with anyone on the team, if I’ve found a good use for the stretching tables we have in the training room, and they never believe me when I say I wouldn’t come within a hundred feet of a relationship with a player.

To hear someone who’s supposed to be my boss diminish my work so blatantly makes me mad as hell.

So much for that Women in the Workplace celebration we had back in August.

“He’s who you trust?” Riley grabs his crutches and stands. He’s unsteady on one leg—he’s not wearing his prosthetic today—but he makes a show of leaning over the table and glancing at Stuart’s lower body. “Funny. I don’t see you walking around with a missing fucking leg. Until you do, I’m the one making decisions about who works with me. The only way I’ll agree to this is if Lexi is the one in charge. It’s her plan. It’s her job, and she outranks everyone on your team. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Kirk interjects. “Very clear, Riley. Going forward, Ms. Armstrong will lead your rehabilitation. She’ll give us weekly progress reports to ensure you’re sticking to your end of the agreement, and we’ll uphold our end.”

“Lovely.” Riley looks my way again. It’s less intense than before, a gentleness in his gaze. A reminder he’s still in there. “You’re the best of the best, Lexi. You kept our team injury-free for eighty-two games and then some. When Hudson hurt his shoulder, you had him back on the ice in four days, and he hasn’t had any pain since. When Grant took a puck to the neck last year, he played again that night because of your treatment. You’re qualified, and you know your stuff. I’m not interested in working with someone who isn’t familiar with my body.”

Familiar with his body sounds entirely too intimate for what I do, but I am familiar with his body.

I know he’s ticklish on the back of his left leg, just above the bend of his knee. I know he prefers heating pads over ice when he’s feeling stiff. I know about the scar he had on his right foot from where he injured himself when he was a kid.

I know so much about him, but looking at him now makes me think I don’t know him at all.

Who could ever pretend to know what he’s gone through?

“I…” I rub my hands on my jeans. I feel like I’m on fire. “I would be honored to take on this role.”

“Great.” Riley makes his way to the door. “Thanks for the meeting.”

He leaves without saying anything else, and the tension in the room dissipates. Small conversations break out, and I’m surprised when Coach throws a crumpled piece of paper at my shoulder from across the table.

“Do you have a minute to stop by my office?” he asks.

Dread sinks like a brick in my stomach. My hands are clammy, but I give him a feeble nod. “Of course.”

It’s never good when Coach wants to talk to you, and I think I might be in a shitload of trouble.