Page 39

LENA

Night in the new apartment drags on for ages.

Every unfamiliar creak and hum keeps me from sleep, the strange shadows on unfamiliar walls playing tricks on my tired eyes.

The bed—a hastily purchased foam mattress from the internet so I didn’t have to sleep on something Brad touched—feels too firm, too empty.

At Alder's, I'd grown accustomed to sharing space with him and Gordie. The warmth of another body, the dog’s gentle snoring at our feet. Even the guest bed there was the perfect firmness. The sense of safety and comfort I never realized I was missing until I had it.

Now, I'm alone again in a studio that feels both too small and too vast.

When my alarm finally buzzes at six, I've gotten maybe three hours of fitful sleep. I heave myself into the shower—a lackluster trickle compared to Alder's luxurious rainfall showerhead and missing the warm company of his beautiful body—and try to wash away the memory of last night's gala.

Of Alder's face when I examined his jaw, the hurt in his eyes that had nothing to do with physical pain.

Of the quiet "I miss you" still echoing in my head. It’s even more painful knowing Alder is under attack for his sexuality.

My instincts scream at me to comfort him, defend him.

Part of me fears I contributed to that unfair treatment by participating in the schemes that led Adam to take such nasty actions.

My dress hangs on the back of the bathroom door, the fabric catching the morning light. It seems out of place in this stark, undecorated apartment.

Kind of like me at the gala, if I'm being honest. Dressed up and trying to belong.

My phone buzzes as I make coffee on the single-cup machine I salvaged from my apartment. The screen lights up with notification after notification—texts, news alerts, social media mentions. I'd silenced it last night after getting home, unwilling to deal with the aftermath of the gala fight.

But there's no avoiding it now.

I scroll through the messages, most from numbers I don't recognize. Journalists are probably hoping for a comment about the altercation between Alder and Adam. The news alerts are even more direct:

*"FURY STAR DECKS EX IN CHARITY GALA brAWL"*

*"STAG VS. LAWSON: LOVERS' QUARREL TURNS VIOLENT"*

I can't help but feel a wave of relief that I'm mentioned only in passing in most articles, if at all. A few notes that "team dentist Dr. Lena Sinclair was seen attending to Stag's injuries," but the focus is squarely on Alder and Adam.

Silver linings… I suppose. My career might survive this mess after all.

I hesitate for a moment, then open my messages and tap out a text to Alder:

How's the jaw this morning?

Professional concern. That's all it is.

His response comes quicker than I expected: a photo of Alder's face in profile, a spectacular bruise spreading along his jawline in mottled purple and blue. He's giving an exaggerated frown to the camera. Even injured and pouty, he's ridiculously handsome.

I shouldn't respond. I should maintain a professional distance. But my fingers are typing before I can stop them:

Impressive bruise. Ice and ibuprofen. And maybe don't punch anyone else for a while.

Three dots appear, then:

No promises. How's the new place?

The simple question carries more weight than it should. I stare at it for a long moment before replying:

Quiet. Getting used to it.

Another pause, then:

Gordie misses you.

What I want to write is I miss him too. I miss you. What I actually type is:

Give him a scratch behind the ears from me.

Will do

comes the reply, and then nothing more.

I set my phone down, determined to focus on work. The move to my place was the right decision, the necessary one. The fact that it feels wrong is irrelevant.

The drive to the Fury facility seems to take forever. When I arrive, the main space buzzes with youth hockey camps and frenzied talk between scouts and the coaching staff. I make my way to my office, nodding professionally to the staff I pass, relieved that Alder isn't here volunteering.

I throw myself into patient files and equipment inventory, grateful for the mundane tasks that require concentration without emotional investment. The morning passes in a blur of paperwork and consultations with the athletic trainers about face shield modifications.

Just before noon, there's a knock at my office door. I look up to find Sarah Collins, the assistant coach, leaning against the doorframe. Her dark hair is pulled back in her trademark sleek ponytail, and her Fury polo and slacks are impeccably wrinkle-free. I feel frumpy by comparison in my scrubs.

"Got a minute, Doc?" she asks.

"Of course." I gesture to the chair across from my desk. "What can I do for you?"

She closes the door before sitting down, which immediately puts me on alert. This isn't a casual visit.

"Quite a show last night," she says, her expression neutral. "How's A-Stag's jaw?"

"Bruised, but not broken." I keep my tone clinical. "He'll be fine."

"Good to hear." She studies me for a moment. "Just wanted to make sure. Can't have him taking more hits to the face while he's healing."

I nod. “He should be able to maintain his conditioning work."

Sarah taps her hands on my desk but makes no move to leave. "I’m Sorry I missed most of the excitement," she says after a moment. I was... held up."

Something in her tone makes me glance up. There's a knowing look in her eyes, almost a challenge.

"I noticed you arrived late," I say carefully. "Did you get caught in traffic? "

A small smile plays at her lips. "Something like that." She leans forward slightly. "Listen, not to pry, but?—"

A sharp knock interrupts whatever she was about to say. The door opens without waiting for a response, and Coach Thompson sticks his head in.

"Collins. Need you in the video room. Going over defensive strategies with the new rookie class.”

Sarah sighs but rises. "On my way." She turns back to me as she reaches the door. "Rain check on that conversation, Doc. Maybe coffee tomorrow?"

"Sure," I agree, curious despite myself.

She nods and follows Thompson out, but not before giving me a look that suggests she has more to say. I wonder what she was about to ask and why it required privacy.

My phone rings just as I'm gathering my things for lunch. My mother's name flashes on the screen, and I seriously consider letting it go to voicemail. But avoiding her will only lead to more persistent calls, so I answer with a resigned sigh.

"Hi, Mom."

“Lena Diane Sinclair." Her use of my full name immediately puts me on edge. "Would you care to explain why you're in the tabloids this morning?"

"The tabloids?" I repeat, confused. "I'm not?—"

"Pittsburgh Press-Gazette. Page six." I can hear the rustling of newsprint. "There's a photo of you crouched in front of that hockey player with your skirt hiked up. It's humiliating."

I pull up the newspaper's website on my computer and quickly find the article. Sure enough, there's a photo of me examining Alder's jaw in the museum hallway. The angle makes it look intimate rather than professional, my hand on his face, his eyes locked with mine.

What strikes me most about the image, though, isn't the suggestive framing—it's the tenderness in my expression, the care evident in every line of my body. I look like a woman in love, not a doctor treating a patient. The headline is all about his fight with Adam, but anyone with eyes should see that it’s me who is a goner for Alder Stag.

"It's not what it looks like," I say automatically. "I was checking his injury. It's my job."

"Well, you're certainly not dressed like you're doing your job," my mother sniffs. “We talked about plain black. That gown is far too revealing for someone of your size. Your chest is practically spilling out. What were you thinking, wearing something so inappropriate to a professional event?"

The familiar criticism stings, but instead of shrinking from it as I usually do, I feel a spark of anger ignite.

"What was I thinking?" I repeat, my voice rising. "I was thinking I wanted to wear something that made me feel beautiful. Something that celebrated my body."

"Lena, be realistic. Women like you need to?—"

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended, but I don't soften it. "I'm done with that kind of thinking, Mom. I'm done letting you make me feel bad about my body and my choices."

"I'm only trying to help you?—"

"By criticizing everything about me? By teaching me to hate myself? That's not help, Mom. That's cruelty."

My outburst is followed by a shocked silence. I've never spoken to her this way before, never challenged her constant stream of "helpful" criticism.

"I'll call back when you're less emotional," she says finally, her voice tight.

"Don't bother unless you're ready to actually support me," I reply. "I'm done with the negativity. I deserve better." I end the call before she can respond, my hand shaking slightly, but my resolve is firm.

I stare at my phone for a long moment, stunned by my assertiveness. Standing up to my mother has been a dream scenario for years, one I've played out in my head but never had the courage to enact .

Until today.

Before I can process this shift, my phone rings again. I expect it to be my mother calling back to scold me for my "attitude," but instead, Brad's name flashes on the screen.

My instinct is, again, to ignore it, but something—perhaps the lingering adrenaline from standing up to my mother—makes me accept the call.

"What do you want, Brad?" I ask without preamble.

"Well, hello to you, too," he says, the familiar condescension in his voice instantly putting my teeth on edge. "I'm calling about the furniture."

"What furniture?"

"Our furniture. From the apartment. You took everything."

I blink, momentarily confused. Where has he been the past few days that he’s just calling me about this now? "I took my stuff, Brad. Things I bought."

"The couch was ours. So was the dining table."

"No, Brad. They were mine. I paid for them."

"We were living together," he says as if explaining something to a child. "What was yours was ours."

"That's not how it works when only one person pays for everything." I can feel my patience thinning. "I bought that couch. And the dishes. And the dining table. Check your bank statements if you don't believe me."

"You're being unreasonable," he says. "Adam has a chipped orbital bone thanks to your hockey player's tantrum, and now I'm stuck taking care of him in an empty apartment."

The image of Adam and Brad playing house in what was once my home is so absurd I almost laugh.

"First of all, he's not 'my' hockey player.

Second, I give exactly zero shits about anything related to Adam.

And third, if you need furniture, go buy some.

You can use all the money you saved by living off me for four years. "

"I can't believe you're being so petty about this," Brad says. "It's just stuff. "

"Exactly. It's just stuff. Stuff that I bought with my money while you were freeloading."

"I was working on my dissertation!"

"And how's that going?" I ask sweetly. "Making progress now that you have to pay your own bills?"

His silence is answer enough.

"I have to get back to work," I say, a surge of satisfaction flowing through me.

I've carried the crushing weight of my dental school loans alone for years while Brad contributed nothing—not even emotional support.

Just endless critiques and expectations while I worked to exhaustion to keep us afloat.

"Don't call me again unless it's to apologize for cheating on me and abusing me financially for years.

And even then, I probably won't answer."

I hang up, a current of joy flowing through me. First, my mother, now Brad, and I'm on a roll today.

Maybe moving out of Alder's was exactly what I needed to find my backbone.

By the time I return to my apartment that evening, I'm exhausted but strangely energized.

Standing up for myself has left me feeling stronger and more centered.

I look around the sparse space with new eyes.

It's not much, but it's mine. A blank canvas I can fill however I choose, without compromise.

I unpack a few more boxes, arrange my books on a shelf, and hang some framed prints I've had since dental school—small touches that begin to transform the studio from an anonymous space into my home.

My phone buzzes with a text from Sarah:

Coffee tomorrow? Some things you should know .

I stare at the message, intrigued. What could the assistant coach possibly want to tell me? Something about Alder? About the team's reaction to last night's fight?

I'll be there

I reply, curiosity getting the better of me, telling her a place named Jitters is convenient to my apartment.

I sit on my bed, scrolling through the evening's news coverage of the gala fight. Most outlets seem to be treating it as typical sports drama, emphasizing Alder’s broken heart. I cringe at the sensationalism.

My thumb hovers over Alder's contact information. It would be so easy to call him, to hear his voice, to ask how Gordie's doing. To admit that I miss them both more than I expected.

But that would undo everything I'm trying to accomplish by moving out. The distance is necessary for both our careers and our sanity—a clean break, like ripping off a bandage.

Except it doesn't feel clean at all. It feels raw, painful, and unfinished.