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Especially when it seems intrinsically tied to his recovery.Every medical professional worth their weight in rock salt knows that the mental game is the biggest hurdle in healing.

ólaffson:

I don’t want to pressure you. Not ever. Take some time to think about it. If you say no, I understand. I won’t ask again.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” My eyes skate away from his face, unable to risk seeing disappointment reflected back at me.

Would he ask someone else? I don’t like that idea, even if I’m not sure why.

I want to help him, even if I’m not sure I know how.

I’m hoping he’ll read between the lines. Hear what I’m trying to say without me having to say it. Even if I know, it’s not fair. The man learned English as a second language. The least I can do is pull up my big girl panties and say what I actually mean.

“It i-is b-b-because of my c-crush.”

If I could blush, I’d be as neon red as he is.

Like the bucket of lobsters my father got for us last time we summered in Maine.

My parents still tell everyone about that meal.

How delicious it was—fresh lobster caught that morning—how we tossed the leftovers down onto the rocks by the house’s private beach.

I remember the seagulls descending on their orange feast, squawking with pent-up rage as they fought for the best pieces.

That was the summer I told my parents I wasn’t cut out for medical school.

A few shifts to my next semester’s schedule and voila.

I was majoring in sports medicine instead.

With a fancy upcoming job as an assistant trainer for our local NHL team.

I want to deny, to say it has nothing to do with that. A crush? Him? On me? Never crossed my mind. Except every syllable would be a lie. That’s exactly what I’m worried about.

“I-I-I am n-not intending to t-trap you into a r-relationship. Y-you are one of m-my… f-f-friends.”

Shame floods me like an oil spill. I blink up at him from under my lashes, trying to get a read on his thoughts without giving mine away.

“That’s not—” what I meant. Truly. I wasn’t worried he’d try to trick me, I don’t think. I’m worried I will hurt him. And okay, I appreciate the steady paycheck, but I’m worried about losing my job because of optics. Not because I don’t trust this man to respect my boundaries.

I glance at the phone in my hand. He can text me. We don’t have to do it like this. In person. Full of misunderstandings and cringe-worthy gaffs.He really just needs to ask someone—anyone—else because I am not cut out for this kind of coaching. I can’t even have a conversation about—

“M-my f-feelings are a n-n-non-issue.”

Is he stuttering more than normal? My stomach might tumble out of my ass and land on the sticky linoleum floor.If he is, it’s one-hundred and eleven percent my fault.

“It’s okay.” I try to smooth over the situation. Make this marginally less cringe-worthy. It’s not working.

His cheeks are still pink, mouth open, chest moving like he’s just gone through a tense shoot out.

One that went more than the standard three skaters.

I remember seeing something online—back when hockey romances were sweeping the book world and the sport was literally hiding around every corner planning a jump scare—about adding extra pucks in multiple play-off overtime periods.

I remember laughing at the number of people who seemed to fall for it.

Ragnar looks like he just played an eighth-round overtime period. With an extra puck on the ice.

“I didn’t mean—”

His phone is in his hand before I finish my sentence. And I watch my own screen, willing the message to come through faster than is physically possible. How long does it take a message to ping off a cell-tower or satellite, anyway?

ólaffson:

We will not be dating. Not pretending to date. Not acting sly and secretive.If someone sees a romantic relationship there, that’s on them.

I have no problem explaining the situation to anyone who asks. We are coworkers. Friends.

That is all.

I set my phone down and scrub my hands down the front of my face, digging my palms into my eye sockets.

Yes, I know it’s bad for me. I don’t particularly care.

Not with the mother of all headaches squeezing my temples in a vise.

The phone buzzes again and I snatch it up like a lifeline.

Sending mixed messages? Maybe. My brain feels like it’s leaking out of my ears.

ólaffson:

It wouldn’t even have to be in person. May I text you when I have questions?

Idon’t know how to ask what I want to without sounding conceited. Self-absorbed. He told me not to worry about it. I should just take him at his word. The problem is that I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I don’t want to upset him.

Not because he’s one of those men who lose the plot when they don’t like what they’re told, but because he’s a good guy.

Genuinely. To the core. As far as I can tell.

He’s the one who shuts down the commentary if the guys—and let’s be real, some of them are young, aka stupid—say anything inappropriate.

Vic and Robbie do too, but the level of respect the young ones have for Ragnar?

When he quietly says, “I do not understand the joke,” daring them to repeat it?

It’s like getting caught sneaking into an R-rated movie and having your parents hit you with the “I’m disappointed” speech.

Yeah, we might talk a big game about how that’s better than actual punishment, but it’s not. The disappointment cuts deep.

But he’s looking at me, honest, earnest, still blushing… I bite into my lower lip, I go for it.

“I’m not worried about what other people think.” And okay, that’s not exactly truthful. I care very much what people think, but this time is different. “I’m worried that I—that I won’t—that you—”

His hand covers mine, the touch so fleeting that I barely register the callouses or the heat of his skin.

“Th-that I’ll f-f-fall d-desperately in l-love w-with you?”

The denial is already flooding my mouth.

Even as ‘ yes, that’s exactly what I’m worried about’ slams through my frontal cortex.

That extra time together, extra intimacy, will strengthen the threads of his crush and when I can’t reciprocate them, it will break his darling heart.

Or something like that. And I don’t know if it makes it better or worse that it’s not that I’m incapable of reciprocating feelings for this man, it’s that I refuse to let myself have feelings for any man ever. Again.

“It’s a b-bit late to worry a-about that, d-don’t you think?”

Panic blanks my brain. A hard reboot, like pulling the plug on an ancient desktop computer stuck on the blue screen of death.

It takes precious moments for me to register that Ragnar is kidding, his grin wide and his eyes practically glittering across the table.

I smile back and roll my eyes as he winks.

“I am r-responsible for…for m-my own e-emotions. And I was j-just kidding.”

“Careful there, big guy.” I point a French fry at him, ketchup dripping off the end. “Don’t mess with the bitch in charge of your training. What if I decide to tell you that the best way to dispel awkward silence in a crowd is to moon someone?”

He frowns for a moment, brows tipped together, lips scrunched, as if he’s flipping through the dictionary in his mind.

“M-moon?”

“Jack Spaeglin,” I say with a smile, “first practice of his rookie season. Someone—I’m not saying who—told him to—”

“Ah. W-with the—” he gestures behind him and I laugh.

“Yes.”

It had been my first day, too, on my official tour of the Stand Arena.

I remember rubbing my hands along my bare arms, feeling the goosebumps on my bare skin.

I learned quickly to have layers. The ice can get cold.

It also gets wet. Kneel to check a player’s pupils after a hard hit and end up with frozen-solid kneecaps.

On that day, I’d stepped up next to Greg as a strange hush went around the rink.

In my memory, all the warning signs were there.

I had time to avert my eyes. Jack’s stick hit the ice and his hands shook as he grinned at my boss.

“Good morning, sir.” He’d had the stilted formality of a kid, still unsure how he ended up on NHL practice ice. “I’m Jack Spaeglin.” And then he’d dropped his pants, his shorts, his jock. And showed his ass to the team's head trainer.

“I would never ask you to moon someone, Rags,” I try to hide my laugh in another French fry. Spags might not mind dropping trou in front of authority figures, but I bet Ragnar would.

A shame , my brain supplies. He has the better glutes.

I beat that part back and slam the door. Hard. Boundaries. I basically just defended a fucking doctoral thesis on why I need to be careful about this man’s feelings. Lusting after him now, even if he doesn’t know, feels like leading him on.

Our waitress wanders by, making brief eye contact with me.

Her jaw almost hit the floor when we walked in.

Now she raises her eyebrows and tilts her head, asking if we need something.

I mime for the check, but Ragnar already has his wallet in his hand.

He tosses a handful of bills on the table before standing up.

When he stretches, his shirt pulls tight across his chest and I see the tiniest, palest sliver of skin along his abdomen.

There’s the finest layer of copper-red hair dipping below the waistband of his pants.

I’m a pervert.

Boundaries, Sadie.

“I-I h-have to get b-back.” Ragnar holds my gaze, steady. Sure. “I’m s-sorry for l-leaving before you’re d-done.”

There are approximately two point five fries left on my plate, drowning in an ocean of ketchup in this tiny little diner I dragged us to.

I wave off the apology. “I’m leaving in a minute. Thank you for paying.”

His ears turn pink and this time he drops his gaze.

“I hope I didn’t keep you too late.”

“Y-you d-didn’t.” He slaps his oversized hand to the back of his neck, copper hair falling into his eyes. “I h-have to go finish m-my w-w-workout.”

Wait. What? Why the fuck did he let me kidnap him if he had more to do?

He even let me take him to a secondary location.

And okay, it’s just the little diner across the street from the rink, but still!

Doesn’t the man watch true crime? Listen to podcasts?

Scroll social media mindlessly for hours? Something?

I can’t believe I didn’t think. Of course he wasn’t done with his workout.

I was on the treadmill long before he showed up.

Why on earth would I assume he finished just because I was?

If I’d been thinking, I wouldn’t have asked him to come to the diner with me.

I would have told him I’d think about it, and I could have sent him an email.

I want to apologize, but I don’t.

“Hey,” I call as he turns for the door. “You’re off on Thursday, right?” He nods once. “Keep the day open for me. I’ll text you plans for our first lesson.”

He pauses, looking at me over the bulk of his shoulder. Wary, like a bunny backed into a corner by a hungry predator. Adorable.

“You d-don’t have t-to do th-at.”

“Hey,” I pop the last fries into my mouth and wipe my greasy fingers on the edge of my bike shorts. “You asked for my help and we’re going to do this right. I’m a high achiever like that.”

Or I want to be. I used to be. Lately, it just feels like it’s harder and harder to meet expectations. And I hate feeling like a failure.

I’m not sure if he looks scared or intrigued, but a get a hint of a smile and another nod.

“Th-Thursday, Sadie.”

I smile back.