Page 13

LENA

Morning brings the aroma of coffee again, but this time, it's my doing.

I've beaten Alder to the kitchen and taken the liberty of brewing a pot strong enough to cut through what I assume will be his substantial hangover.

I'm midway through making cinnamon toast—a comfort food I discovered he keeps ingredients for—when he stumbles in, looking like death warmed over.

"Morning, sunshine," I say, unable to suppress a grin at his disheveled state. His hair is sticking up at improbable angles, his eyes are bloodshot, and he's squinting against the morning light filtering through the kitchen windows.

"Is it necessary to be so cheerful?" he grumbles, accepting the coffee I push into his hands with obvious gratitude.

"Drink that. Then water. Then more coffee." I slide a plate of cinnamon toast toward him. "And eat something."

He raises an eyebrow. "Bossy."

"Doctor's orders."

"You're a dentist."

"Close enough."

He takes a bite of toast, closing his eyes in apparent appreciation. "This is good."

"It's just cinnamon toast. "

"Still good.” He takes another bite, then looks at me over the rim of his mug. “God, I miss bread. Where’d you get this?”

I shrug, oddly embarrassed. “Found a loaf in the freezer. I didn’t even think about diet restrictions.”

He chews and swallows, and I notice again the muscles in his throat. “Well, I don’t have any restrictions this summer.” He nods, then winces at the movement. "Sorry about last night. I don't usually drink like that."

"Don't apologize." I sit across from him with my coffee. "We've both had a rough couple of days."

"Still planning on going in today?" He looks dubious about his ability to function.

"Absolutely. And so are you." I stand, retrieving a bottle of ibuprofen from my purse. "Take two of these, shower, and you'll feel semi-human again."

He accepts the pills with a look of amused resignation. "You're not going to let me wallow, are you?"

"Nope. Wallowing is for tomorrow. Today, we're being productive adults."

"Why tomorrow?"

"Because I have a fitting scheduled for Tucker, I'll be too busy to stop you from feeling sorry for yourself."

This earns me a genuine laugh, followed by a grimace as the sound apparently reverberates through his aching head. "Fair enough."

I watch him shuffle off to shower, struck by how different this morning routine feels from any I shared with Brad. There's no tension, no walking on eggshells, no subtle digs about my appearance or habits—just easy companionship and mutual support.

It's nice. Dangerous, but nice .

The Pittsburgh Fury training facility is state-of-the-art, a gleaming testament to the city's dedication to its hockey team. Looking remarkably better after a shower and more coffee, Alder guides me through security with the effortless confidence of someone who belongs.

The facility buzzes with activity despite the season being over. Support staff, trainers, and a handful of players mill about, some nodding to Alder as we pass. I notice how he straightens slightly, his public persona slipping back into place—confident, easygoing, professional.

He glances at his watch. "I should head to my meeting. Text me when you're done for the day?"

"Will do. Thanks for the ride."

He flashes me a grin, already looking more like himself than he did at breakfast. "What are friends for?"

The morning flies by in a flurry of paperwork, equipment checks, and introductions to the staff.

By noon, I've established my clinic protocols, reviewed patient files, and scheduled several players for procedures during the off-season.

Experiencing this level of autonomy and resources after the emergency room's constant scramble is exhilarating.

I know that as soon as these guys are back to full contact, I’ll be looking at some gory situations. But this summer is all about temporary crowns, deep cleanings, and a few fillings.

I'm organizing supplies when a knock at my door interrupts my thoughts. I expect it to be one of the administrative staff, but instead, Alder stands there, holding a paper bag that smells tantalizingly of garlic.

"Lunch?" he offers. "I brought Italian."

I typically avoid smelly food if I’m going to be breathing near people’s faces, but I’m not seeing patients today… "You're a lifesaver, " I say as I clear space on my desk as he unpacks containers of pasta. "How was your meeting? "

"Boring. End-of-season review, preliminary plans for next year." He shrugs, handing me a fork. "The usual."

"Sounds thrilling."

"About as thrilling as cataloging dental supplies." He nods toward the cabinet I'd been organizing.

I laugh, acknowledging the point. "So this is the glamorous life of professional athletes. Meetings and medical check-ups."

"The parts they don't show in commercials." He twirls pasta on his fork. "How's your day going?"

"Good. Busy. Your brother is scheduled for his flipper fitting tomorrow."

Alder groans. "Great. He'll be whining all evening."

"Big baby about all dental work, huh?"

"The biggest. Mom had to bribe him with ice cream well into high school."

I laugh at the image of towering Tucker Stag being bribed like a child. "Speaking of your family... about Sunday dinner."

Alder's expression softens. "You don't have to go if you're not comfortable. I can make excuses."

"No, I want to." I'm surprised to realize I mean it. "I just... what should I expect? Are they going to interrogate me? Should I bring something?"

"Just yourself." He hesitates. "And maybe prepare for questions. They're nosy but well-meaning."

"How many people are we talking about?"

"Depends. Core family—my parents, brothers, probably Odin's girlfriend, Gunnar's fiancée.” He counts on his fingers. "Then there's the extended crew—trio of uncles, their kids, maybe some family friends."

"So, twenty people is a conservative estimate?"

He chuckles. "Pretty much. We're a big herd.”

"And they all play hockey?"

“And pro soccer. It's the family business." He says it lightly, but something in his tone catches my attention .

"Is that hard? The family legacy thing?"

He considers this, setting down his fork. "Sometimes. Dad played for the Fury, and now three of his kids play, too. Hockey's in our blood."

"But?"

"But sometimes I wonder..." He trails off, then shakes his head. "It's stupid."

"I doubt that."

He meets my eyes, and for a moment, I glimpse the vulnerability from last night. "Sometimes I wonder if anyone would notice if I just... stopped. Quit hockey. Did something else." He laughs self-consciously. "They'd still have Tucker and Gunnar carrying the torch."

"You don't enjoy playing anymore?" I ask carefully.

"I do. Most days." He sighs. "But it's like... it's so tied up with who I am to them. Alder Stag, defenseman. Take that away… What's left?"

The question hangs between us, heavy with meaning. Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He glances at it and then stands abruptly.

"Trainer's looking for me. I should go." He gathers the remnants of our lunch. "Thanks for listening to me whine."

"That wasn't whining," I say firmly. "That was being human."

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or gratitude. "I'll meet you in the lobby at five? For the ride home?"

Home. The word catches me off guard—his home, not ours. Yet, in less than a week, it already feels more like home than anywhere I've lived in years—such a contrast to my reaction to Brad’s message.

"Perfect," I say and watch him go, wondering what else there is to learn about Alder Stag beneath the surface he shows the world .

I'm mentally exhausted but satisfied with the day's progress by quitting time. As promised, Alder is waiting in the lobby, deep in conversation with the head coach. He spots me and waves me over.

Coach Thompson’s face shifts when Alder stoops to pick up my bag. Coach turns to Alder. “Been meaning to talk to you about all the hubbub, A-Stag.”

I wince, but Alder keeps a warm palm on my arm. He says, “My agent has a lot of wheels turning. Doc here is working with me to make lemonade from all this.”

Coach Thompson nods, staring, licking his teeth.

Eventually, he says, "You did a good job with T-Stag and his pretty face." Curiosity evident, he glances between Alder and me, but he’s professional enough not to pry. “A-Stag, we’ll talk soon.” Coach claps him on the shoulder.

“Keep feeling free to share your strategy ideas with me, with or without your brother.”

Alder looks genuinely startled by the suggestion. "Thanks, Coach."

As we head to the parking lot, I can't resist saying, "Just a dumb hockey player, huh?"

He rolls his eyes, but I catch the small smile tugging at his lips. "One good idea doesn't make me a genius."

"No, but it does prove my point from last night. Your kind of intelligence counts, too."

He's silent as we approach his car, but as he opens my door, he says quietly, "Thanks for that."