Page 5

LENA

The case snaps shut with a satisfying click. Every instrument was in its place, every tool properly sterilized, and every emergency medication was measured and ready. If nothing else in my life is predictable, at least I have this—the beautiful order of my profession.

I run my fingers over the embroidered logo above my pocket: DR. SINCLAIR, PITTSBURGH FURY. The branded scrubs actually fit my plus-sized frame, a luxury I hadn't expected when I took this job. It’s a real treat to just grab work clothes that fit comfortably.

"Everybody in this organization is king-sized," Coach Thompson commented during my orientation, gesturing to the equipment room stocked with gear for every possible body type.

I hadn't been sure if that was a compliment, an observation, or something else entirely, but the following wardrobe allowance made me too grateful to question it.

Plus, now my salary is nearly double what I made at the hospital, enough to actually make progress on my mountain of student loans instead of just treading water with minimum payments. Thompson can say whatever he wants.

Through the open door of my office, which is attached to the locker room, I can see the players gearing up, stern and quiet beneath heavy padding. It’s playoff game seven. The culmination of a season's worth of work, hope, and sacrifice.

My mind drifts back to the last game when Anton declined pain medication during an emergency extraction after taking a puck to the mouth.

"No drugs," he'd insisted through a mouthful of blood. "Need head clear for third period."

I'd done it—removed the shattered pieces of his lateral incisor while he gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles white, eyes watering but determined. Afterward, he'd thanked me with a nod and returned to the ice to score the game-winning goal.

These men are formidable.

And Sutton was right so far. To my knowledge, I haven’t appeared on television, and my name hasn’t surfaced in any kind of internet search. I get to be incognito while working dental magic on the gnarliest mouths in the business.

As the team warms up, my gaze lands on number 14, Alder Stag, as he sends a puck flying toward his twin at the blue line.

My stomach does an unwelcome flip that has nothing to do with pre-game nerves.

I mentally scold myself for my attraction to his athletic competence.

Unprofessional, Lena. Completely unprofessional.

Additionally, he has Adam, and I have Brad—theoretically, at least.

I recheck my phone. Again, there is no message from my long-term boyfriend confirming he's using the ticket I arranged. When I asked him to come to tonight's game, he sighed heavily as if I'd suggested he endure root canal surgery without anesthetic.

"Another sports game?" he'd said, not looking up from his dissertation notes. "I have actual work to do, Lena. "

I pressed the issue, explaining that this was different—a playoff elimination game, a chance to see what I actually do in my new role. Finally, he agreed, but only after I promised to get him a seat away from the "sports fanatics" in the Partners and Wives section.

Just like Alder had done for Adam…I overheard him saying so in the locker room.

I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but our conversation at the barbecue stuck with me—the recognition of our parallel situations.

Alder Stag and I have an understanding…or some sort of shared relationship strife.

It's not that I'm thinking about Alder often, exactly.

It's just that certain moments replay in my mind when I least expect them.

The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of warm-ups—time to focus.

I join the medical team at our station near the bench as the players take the ice for introductions. Dr. Martinez, the team physician, nods in greeting.

"Ready for whatever dental disasters await, Sinclair?"

"Always," I reply, adjusting my stash of purple nitrile gloves. "Though I'm hoping for a quiet night."

"Playoff hockey?" He laughs. "Good luck with that."

The arena erupts as the starting lineup is announced, the noise rising to a physical force when the Stag brothers' names boom through the speakers.

I scan the crowd absently, wondering if Brad actually showed up when I spot him—miraculously—in the section I'd arranged.

He's looking at his phone, completely detached from the excitement around him, but he's here.

I wish things had improved between us since I got this new job, but if anything, we’re growing even further apart. I no longer feel like we’re connecting, and I also have no idea how to start a conversation about it.

The game begins with the controlled violence unique to hockey—bodies colliding, sticks clashing, and skates carving sharp patterns in the ice.

I watch with the clinical detachment I’ve been practicing, assessing each hit for potential injury and mentally cataloging the force and angle of every check into the boards.

Montreal plays aggressively from the first drop of the puck, targeting the Fury's top scorers. I find myself holding my breath when Alder shoulders a particularly nasty opponent into the boards, stealing the puck, and sending it to his brother without even looking. This happens 100 times a game; I should be used to it. But I’ve seen enough hockey this month to know that the telepathic connection between the twins is something to behold.

The first and second periods pass without incident—a minor miracle in playoff hockey, according to Doc, since the stakes are so high.

I fiddle with my kit out of habit during the intermission, though nothing has been disturbed.

I briefly glance at Brad, wondering if he's texting his advisor, perhaps one of his study group members, or just playing Candy Crush instead of watching the game.

The third period begins with heightened intensity, the desperation of both teams evident in their play.

Five minutes in, I see it happen—Tucker Stag takes the top of a stick to the face as he battles for the puck.

He drops immediately, a spray of red on the white ice.

The whistle blows, and the ref starts waving his arms frantically.

"A-Stag is down," one of the assistants says, already gathering supplies.

My heart lurches before I can stop it. "T-Stag," I correct automatically.

The assistant gives me a curious look, but there's no time to explain how I can distinguish the brothers apart from a distance. We move quickly onto the ice, adrenaline sharpening my thoughts to a fine point.

Tucker is sitting up by the time we reach him, blood dripping freely from his mouth onto the ice. I kneel beside him, snapping into complete professional mode.

"Let me see, Tucker," I say, keeping my voice calm and authoritative tone.

He opens his mouth, revealing a partially fractured incisor, the jagged edge already cut into his lower lip, causing the bleeding. His eyes seem to calm when he recognizes me.

"Doc Thinclair?" he manages through the blood.

"Exactly so. Hold still."

I work efficiently, applying gauze to control the bleeding while examining the broken tooth. Thankfully, it's a clean break,—no root exposure, although the edges are sharp enough to cause further tissue damage if left untreated.

"I'm going to file down the sharp edges," I explain, reaching for my hand tool. "It'll be temporary until we get you properly treated off-ice."

Tucker nods, his eyes darting to something—someone—behind me. I sense Alder's presence before I see him, and the shift in Tucker's expression tells me his twin has arrived.

"He okay?" Alder asks, his voice tight and edged with concern.

"Broken tooth, but nothing that can't be fixed," I reply without looking up, focusing on my work. "He'll be ready to go in a minute."

I feel Alder hovering, watching as I smooth the jagged edge of his brother's tooth just enough to prevent further injury.

Our shoulders nearly touch as he leans in to check on Tucker, and I force myself to maintain absolute professional focus despite the proximity.

Then, I sense when Alder skates away from the scene.

"All set," I say, backing away as Tucker spits one last time and accepts his mouthguard from an assistant. "We'll do a proper fix tomorrow."

Tucker nods, and I’m aware of the crowd yelling and the cameras flashing, a low hum traveling through the arena, but I’m assuming it’s due to the injury.

I glance up into the ice-blue eyes of Alder Stag, who tips his chin toward the giant screens above the ice.

I expect to see a replay of Tucker’s injury.

Instead, I see … Brad. Brad is on the kiss cam, but he's not alone and certainly not uncomfortable.

He's enthusiastically kissing another man, their hands clutching at each other's faces with unmistakable familiarity.

It takes my brain a moment to process what I see, to reconcile the image on the screen with what I know to be reality.

The man Brad is kissing is Adam… Alder's boyfriend.

My lungs stop working. The sounds of the arena fade to a distant whine as I stare at the frozen image on the screen: eighteen thousand people watching my boyfriend kiss someone else—someone I know.

I feel myself sway slightly, grabbing the arm of the ref for support.

There's commotion throughout the arena. I look away from the screen to see Alder standing motionless, staring up at the same image, his gloves and helmet discarded on the ice.

His face contorts in what might be rage, anguish, or both.

Our eyes meet across the distance, a silent exchange of shock and betrayal that needs no words. In that horrible moment, we're connected by the same wound inflicted by the same hands.

The crowd's reaction shifts from excitement to confusion, and murmurs grow as people realize something is wrong. Cameras flash, capturing Alder's reaction while I stand frozen in relative anonymity.

I watch as Tucker approaches his twin, blood-stained gauze still visible in his mouth, as he drapes an arm around Alder's shoulders. The medical staff around me are talking, asking questions I can't process.

"Dr. Sinclair? You okay?"

I nod mechanically, forcing myself back into professional mode through sheer will. "Fine. Just—worried about Tucker's follow-up care."

They accept this explanation, turning their attention back to the ice where the referees are preparing to restart play. I stand there, somehow both present and absent, my body going through the motions while my mind replays the kiss in an endless, excruciating loop.

The whistle blows. The puck drops. The game continues as if the world hasn't just shattered.

I watch Alder attempt to resume play; his movements suddenly seem wooden and unfocused.

A Montreal player blows past him, then Tucker, then scores on Gunnar.

The buzzer sounds, and just like that, the game is over.

The season is over. And somewhere in the arena, Brad is with Adam, unaware or uncaring of the devastation they have just caused.