Page 20

LENA

My drive to work is fraught this morning. Part of me wants to clear the air after last night, but another part is grateful for the breathing room. Our conversation on the porch settled some things but left others deliberately vague.

Partners. That's what we'd agreed to be. But partners in what, exactly? We aren’t even really doing anything to get revenge on our exes. And I’ve made absolutely zero progress freeing myself from my lease.

My phone rings in the distinctive tone I've assigned to my mother. For a moment, I consider putting it to voicemail, but that would only delay the inevitable.

"Hello, Mom."

"Lena! I was beginning to think you were avoiding me." Her voice has the artificial brightness she uses when building up to criticism.

"Just busy with the new job." I cradle the phone between ear and shoulder, taking a swig of my coffee.

"Yes, the new job." A pause. "And the new boyfriend."

My stomach drops. "What?"

"Don't play innocent, Lena-bear. You're all over the internet. 'Hockey Star and New Team Dentist: Hockey's Hottest New Couple.' There's a picture of you at some game. "

I close my eyes. Of course, she's seen it. "It's not what it looks like."

"Oh?" The skepticism drips from her voice. "What is it, then?"

"It's complicated."

"Mmm." She makes that little hum of disapproval I know so well. "Well, at least they got your good side in the photo. Though that shirt wasn't doing you any favors."

And there it is—the inevitable comment about my appearance.

"The shirt was fine, Mom."

"If you say so, dear." Another pause. "So you've moved on from Brad already? To a professional athlete?"

The edge in her voice makes me bristle. "Yes, I have. Alder is hotter and nicer than Brad ever was."

The words fly out before I can stop them. On the other end, my mother makes a sound of surprised delight.

"Well, well! So it is serious. Do tell me, what does a hockey player see in a dentist? Besides the obvious financial benefits."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, nothing." Her tone suggests the opposite. "It's just that these athletes often look for... stability. A comfortable place to land. A sugar daddy arrangement, but with the genders reversed."

"That's—that's not—" I sputter, outraged. "Alder makes more money in a month than I'll make in a year!"

"Then he must really like you." She says it with such disbelief that it feels like a slap. "Just be careful, Lena. I don't want to see you sad and alone. Or worse, unemployed. These kinds of workplace romances can get complicated."

She's right about that, at least. "My job is fine, Mom."

"I should hope so. With those student loans of yours..." She trails off meaningfully. "How much is it now? Three hundred thousand?"

"Three twenty-five," I mutter. The number that haunts my dreams. At least I wasn’t duped into paying for Brad’s degree. How pathetic that that feels like a silver lining right now.

"Well. Good thing you have that fancy new job."

The rest of the call is mercifully brief, just updates about her garden and complaints about the neighbors. I feel emotionally wrung out when I finally hang up like I've run a marathon.

In my office, I pull up my student loan account on my phone, staring at the numbers as if they might have magically decreased.

They haven't. The balance is $325,742.16, with interest accruing daily.

My emergency room dentistry job barely covered the minimum payments.

The Fury position is a lifeline, offering enough income actually to make progress on the principal.

If I lose this job...

I can't lose this job.

Which means I need to be more careful about this thing with Alder. Whatever it is—partnership, fake relationship, summer fling—it doesn't matter what we call it. I can't afford to pursue it if it threatens my professional standing.

The Fury facility is quieter than usual this morning. My first appointment isn't until ten, which gives me time to organize patient files and prepare for the day.

Just as I'm settling in, a knock sounds at my door. Ryan Banks—Banksy, as the team calls him—stands in the doorway with an easy smile.

"Morning, Doc. I hear you're the person to see about a new mouthguard?"

"That's me," I confirm, gesturing to him. "And I believe you're scheduled for a scan too. "

"Unfortunately." He grimaces as he sits in the examination chair. "No offense, but I hate these things."

"Most people do," I assure him, preparing the scanning equipment. "But it's quick and painless."

As I work, Banksy makes casual conversation. He's charismatic and friendly, lacking the apprehension that Tucker displayed during his appointment.

"So," he says while I adjust the scanner, "you and Alder, huh?"

I keep my face carefully neutral. "We're friends."

"Right." His tone is knowing but not unkind. "How's he doing with all this? The Adam thing, I mean."

The question catches me off guard. I hadn't considered that as one of the few openly LGBTQ+ players, Banksy might feel a certain solidarity with Alder.

"He's... coping," I say carefully. "It's been a tough week."

Banksy nods. "I bet. The media can be brutal, especially with this kind of thing. When I came out, they dissected every aspect of my life for months."

"How did you handle it?" I ask, genuinely curious.

He shrugs. "Kept my head down. Played hockey. Let my game speak for itself." He grins. "And I had a great support system. Sounds like Alder does, too."

Something pointed in his gaze that makes me wonder if he's trying to tell me something.

"Open wide," I say instead of responding, and he complies, effectively ending that line of conversation.

After finishing Banksy's scan for his new mouthguard, I walk him to the door. He pauses before leaving.

"Tell Alder the guys have his back, would you? Whatever's going on with you two—" he holds up a hand when I start to protest, "—is your business. But he should know the team supports him. And we should get the dogs together soon.” He grins.

"I'll tell him," I promise, touched by his concern .

After Banksy leaves, my office phone rings. The receptionist informs me that Charles Sutton, the team owner, and Coach Thompson would like to see me in the conference room.

My stomach drops. This can't be good.

The conference room feels overly spacious for just three people. Mr. Sutton occupies the head of the table, with Coach Thompson seated to his right. They both rise when I enter, a courtesy that fails to alleviate my nerves.

"Dr. Sinclair," Sutton says, extending his hand. "Thank you for joining us. Please, have a seat."

I settle into a chair, keeping my back straight and my hands folded on the table. I project a calm professionalism while internally screaming.

Sutton asks, "How are you finding your position with the Fury so far?"

"Very well, thank you," I reply. "Everyone has been extremely welcoming."

"Good, good." He nods, glancing at Coach Thompson. "We pride ourselves on being a family organization."

Something about the way he says "family" makes my skin prickle.

"Now," Sutton continues, "we wanted to touch base about a few organizational matters. As you know, the off-season is a critical time for planning and preparation."

What follows is a seemingly innocuous discussion about facility protocols, player treatment schedules, and equipment needs. My contract is probationary for 90 days, which is all things I knew already. But threaded through it all is an undercurrent I can't quite name.

Until Coach Thompson clears his throat and says, "We also wanted to discuss team culture . "

There it is.

"Of course," I say, keeping my voice steady.

"The Fury organization has certain... expectations regarding staff-player interactions," Sutton explains. "While we encourage a collaborative environment, we also believe in maintaining appropriate professional distance."

My cheeks burn, but I nod as if this is a perfectly normal conversation to be having.

"I completely agree," I say. "Professional boundaries are essential in medical practice."

"Excellent." Sutton smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "We've had some... unfortunate media attention recently. Nothing directly concerning your department, of course, but it's important that all staff understand our policies regarding public representation of the team."

Coach Thompson slides a folder across the table. "Our media guidelines and fraternization policies. Standard for all staff. But you probably know we spent the first half of last season tied up in media nonsense with our goalie. We want to get ahead of anything if you take my meaning.”

I take the folder, fingers numb. "Thank you."

"We have high hopes for you, Dr. Sinclair," Sutton says, his tone warmer now that the message has been delivered. "Dr. Bowman spoke very highly of your skills, and the players already seem comfortable with you."

"That's very kind," I manage. “How is he feeling?”

Sutton shakes his head. “Hates forced retirement. His wife and mine are friends. He’ll probably stop by sometime to check in on you.”

Thompson nods. “We just want to ensure nothing... complicates your ability to do your job effectively."

The meeting wraps up shortly after, with reassurances that this was just a routine check-in, the same one all new staff receive. But as I walk back to my office, folder clutched to my chest, I know better .

They're warning me about Alder.

Back in my office, I close the door and sink into my chair, finally allowing the mask of professionalism to slip. My hands shake as I open the folder, scanning the fraternization policy.

"Personal relationships between team medical staff and players are strongly discouraged due to potential conflicts of interest and impacts on team dynamics. Staff found to be in violation of this policy may be subject to disciplinary action, up to and including termination."

Termination. The word seems to pulse on the page.

I think about my student loans. About my mother's voice, dripping with doubt. About the apartment, I need to find. About the career I've worked so hard to build.

My phone buzzes with a text from Alder:

Any preferences for dinner tonight? Also, had a revenge idea that wanted to run by you.

Our plan. Our "summer fling" plan. The plan that might cost me everything.

I type a quick response:

Can't tonight. Swamped with patient files. Will catch up later.

It's not entirely a lie. I do have files to review. And I need space to think and figure out how to navigate this impossible situation.

Because the truth is becoming painfully clear: What began as a petty revenge scheme has evolved into something I can't afford—professionally or emotionally .

I need to find my own place and establish clear boundaries with Alder. I need to protect my job.

What I don't need is to fall for a patient, even one with kind eyes, a gentle touch, and a weird dog I've grown far too attached to.

I pull up apartment listings on my computer, determined to take control of at least one aspect of my increasingly complicated life. Ditching the idea of revenge against Brad, I come up with a new plan—one that’s just for me.

Step one: Find a place of my own.

Step two: Establish professional boundaries with Alder.

Step three: Somehow ignore the fact that I'm already halfway to falling for him.