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LENA

"This is what matters," I tell my reflection as I brush my teeth. "This job. This career. This life you built for yourself."

I've never been the type to make impulsive decisions. My relationship with Brad developed due to my mother’s plans and meddling. Every step of my education and career has been carefully planned and meticulously executed—until Alder, when I let my heart override my head.

The manila envelope from Sarah sits beside the loan statement, and the photos inside serve as a tangible reminder of what I walked away from.

However, that was the right choice. The professional choice.

The only choice that ensures I can pay off my mountain of debt and build the career I sacrificed so much to create.

I brew a single cup of coffee in my cheap machine, and as I sip this mediocre brew, I reaffirm my decision: I need to secure my position as team dentist. No distractions. No complications. No Alder Stag.

No matter how much my chest aches at the thought.

When I arrive, the Fury training facility is buzzing with activity. The summer youth hockey camp is gearing up for its second session, and coaches are assessing which players show promise for hockey academies.

I pause to watch as a young boy, perhaps ten years old, struggles to insert his mouthguard. He grimaces at the generic shape, trying to make it fit comfortably. The coach calls him to attention, and he reluctantly puts it in, his expression clearly uncomfortable.

Something clicks in my mind.

In my office, I pull up research I've collected on innovations in protective equipment.

Several universities have been experimenting with impact-sensing technology in football helmets and lacrosse gear, but application in hockey has been limited.

Half the cases I saw at the emergency room were gruesome sports accidents gone awry, and at least half of those could have been prevented with proper mouth protection.

I sketch rapidly on my tablet, envisioning custom-fitted mouthguards created with advanced 3D printing technology and embedded sensors. The sensors could measure impact forces, tracking potentially dangerous hits and providing real-time data on player safety.

The concept isn't entirely new, but its implementation throughout an organization, beginning with youth programs, could revolutionize how we understand and prevent concussions and dental trauma.

"If I can't fix my personal life right now, at least I can excel professionally," I mutter, already drafting an implementation plan .

By mid-morning, I've outlined a comprehensive proposal: digital scans of each player's mouth, an advanced 3D printing of perfectly fitted mouthguards produced in-house rather than sent from a lab, and embedded sensors to collect impact data.

Additionally, a partnership with Carnegie Mellon's biostatistics department to analyze the results.

The youth camp provides the perfect testing ground—a controlled environment, consistent supervision, and players at a crucial developmental stage when protecting their growing bodies is essential.

I sent a brief email to the facility manager asking about the leadership meeting schedule. The response came quickly: Fury's leadership team meets daily at three. Today, they'll discuss youth programs and community outreach.

Perfect timing.

I refine my proposal, add preliminary cost projections, and compile research supporting the technology's potential impact. By lunchtime, I've crafted a concise presentation that emphasizes both player safety and the organization's opportunity to pioneer cutting-edge protective technology.

As I review my notes, my phone buzzes with a text. For a heartbeat, I hope it's Alder. Instead, it's my mother, another thinly veiled criticism about my life choices. I silence the notification without responding.

Focus, Lena. This is what matters.

At precisely 2:55, I arrive outside the conference room. Through the glass, I can see Coach Thompson, Charles Sutton, and several other members of the Fury leadership team reviewing documents. My pulse quickens as I knock on the door.

Coach Sarah looks up, surprise flashing across her face before she gestures to me.

"Dr. Sinclair," she says. "We weren't expecting you. "

"I apologize for the interruption," I say, keeping my voice steady despite my racing heart. "I have a player safety initiative I'd like to present if you can spare five minutes."

Sutton checks his watch, then nods. "You have the floor, Doctor."

I connect my tablet to the room's display and launch into my presentation. The nervousness in my stomach transforms into professional confidence as I outline the mouthguard innovation.

"Each player would receive a custom-fitted mouthguard created using advanced 3D printing technology," I explain, showing the mock-ups I've created. "But the embedded sensor technology is what makes this program truly innovative."

I advance to the next slide, displaying diagrams of the impact sensors.

"These sensors would measure force vectors, frequency, and intensity of impacts. The data would be collected and analyzed in partnership with Carnegie Mellon researchers, helping us identify patterns that could lead to injury."

The athletic trainer leans forward, visibly interested. "We've been looking at similar technology for helmets."

"Exactly," I nod. "The mouthguard application is particularly valuable because the jaw is so dynamic. And since mouthguards are already mandatory equipment for youth, we're not adding anything new to the player's gear."

Sutton, who I expected to focus on costs, asks, "Implementation timeline?"

"We could begin with the youth summer program as soon as we get a printer in,” I say, relieved by his interest. "It's a perfect testing ground—controlled environment, consistent supervision, developing players who would benefit most from the protective technology and long-term data collection."

Coach Thompson shares a look with Sutton, then says, " We're actually starting a community service initiative with the youth program. Alder Stag will be working with those kids as part of his... disciplinary action."

The sound of Alder's name sends a shock through my system, but I maintain my professional expression. "That timing works well. We could coordinate efforts."

Sutton taps his pen against the table thoughtfully. "We're holding a press conference tomorrow about Stag's community service. Would this be ready to announce by then? Show the organization's commitment to player safety alongside our disciplinary actions?"

My mouth goes dry at the thought of standing beside Alder at a press conference, but this is exactly the opportunity I need professionally.

"Absolutely," I hear myself say. "I can prepare all the necessary materials."

"Excellent." Sutton stands, signaling the end of the meeting. "Thompson, make sure Dr. Sinclair has whatever resources she needs for this. I want Pittsburgh leading the conversation on player safety."

As the room clears, Coach Thompson hangs back.

"Good initiative, Doctor," he says. The press conference is tomorrow at 11. The communications team will prep you beforehand."

"Thank you for the support," I say, gathering my tablet.

He studies me for a moment longer than feels comfortable. "Interesting timing."

"I'm not sure what you mean," I say, though I suspect I do.

"Nothing." He shrugs. "Just nice to see everyone focused on their professional contributions to this organization."

The emphasis on "professional" is subtle but unmistakable. Message received, Coach .

Back in my office, I close the door and lean against it, exhaling slowly. Professional success and personal turmoil are all tangled in a knot I can't seem to unravel.

Tomorrow, I'll stand alongside Alder before cameras and reporters. I'll need to maintain composure while ignoring the memory of his body against mine, his voice in the dark, and the way my body stretched to accommodate him.

I sink into my chair and start drafting emails to the equipment suppliers I'll need to contact.

Focus on the work. Not on Alder's bruised jaw or how it felt to trace my fingers along it at the gala.

Not on the way his eyes would crinkle when he laughed at something I said.

Not on Gordie's excited greeting when we'd return home together.

Home. It felt like home in a way no place ever has.

I shake the thought away and continue working, losing myself in specifications and price quotes. By the time I finish, the facility has grown quieter, most of the staff having left for the day.

As I gather my things to leave, my phone buzzes with an email from the communications director: details for tomorrow's press conference, including a brief outline of what I should expect and what points to emphasize about the mouthguard program.

The reality sinks in. In less than twenty-four hours, I'll be face to face with Alder again, in front of cameras, reporters, and the entire Fury organization.

As I drive home through the evening traffic, my mind splits between rehearsing my talking points for tomorrow and wondering how I'll manage to look at Alder without revealing everything I feel.

The mouthguard program is a solid professional accomplishment—precisely what I need to secure my position. I should be celebrating this win. Instead, I'm dreading the moment I'll have to stand beside the man I walked away from and pretend he means nothing to me.

Tomorrow will be a test of everything I've worked for—my professionalism, my composure, my commitment to my career. I can't fail.

When I return, my apartment feels emptier than usual. I set my laptop on the kitchen counter and stare at the sparse furnishings and blank walls I haven't bothered to decorate. Despite my best efforts to make it home, the place still feels temporary.

I reheat leftover takeout and eat, standing at the counter and scrolling through my presentation notes one more time. The information blurs before my eyes, and my mind drifts to tomorrow's press conference—to Alder.

Will he look as tired as I feel? Has he been sleeping any better than I have? Will there be an opportunity to speak privately, or will we maintain this painful distance?

In bed, I stare at the ceiling, sleep eluding me despite my exhaustion. The apartment creaks and settles around me, the sounds still unfamiliar. I miss the soft snoring of Gordie at the foot of the bed, the steady breathing of Alder beside me.

Without fully thinking it through, I reach for my phone and type a message to Sarah:

How do you handle seeing her every day? This is so much harder than I expected.

My thumb hovers over the send button, a moment of doubt. Sarah and I aren't friends, not really. We've had one meaningful conversation. This text is unprofessional, inappropriate even.

I send it anyway.

I immediately regretted it. Sarah reports directly to Coach Thompson. What if she shares this with management? What if this undermines everything I've worked for ?

The three dots appear almost immediately. Sarah is typing. My heart pounds as I wait.

Her reply comes through:

Being a woman in pro hockey is not for the weak. Neither is loving someone you shouldn't.

Loving.

The word jumps out at me, sending a shock through my system. Is that what this is? Love? The possibility has been hovering at the edges of my consciousness, but seeing it spelled out so plainly makes it impossible to ignore.

Before I can process this, another message appears:

We'll talk after the press conference. Get some sleep. Your career and your heart both matter.

I reread the messages, then a third time. Sarah understands. Not just the professional constraints but also the emotional reality. And she hasn't dismissed either as unimportant.

Finding balance is the hard part.

I set my phone on the nightstand and curl onto my side, Sarah's words echoing in my mind—especially that one word: loving.

I've been operating under the assumption that I had to choose—career or Alder. Professional success or personal happiness. That achieving both was impossible under the circumstances.

But what if it's not? And if so, what am I willing to risk for it?

The answer follows me into dreams of blue eyes and strong arms.