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Dr. Lauren Mackenzie was having one of those shifts.

The kind where the coffee ran out at midnight, the backup tech called in sick, and every pet owner in New Haven seemed to have a night time emergency. Now, at almost one a.m., she was finally catching her breath and refilling her coffee mug when the television in the waiting room caught her attention.

"—brutal hit that has the league offices reviewing their policies on fighting once again. The Charm City Chill's enforcer, Jackson Thompson, is no stranger to controversy, but this latest altercation with the Philadelphia Phantoms' Brady Wilson has many questioning if there's still room for the traditional enforcer role in today's game."

Lauren paused, mug halfway to her lips, as the sports anchor's voice gave way to footage of what could only be described as a beating. A massive player in a Chill jersey launching himself at another player, fists flying with terrifying force. The camera zoomed in on his face—a mask of controlled rage, eyes cold and focused as he punished his opponent.

"And this isn't the first time Thompson has come under scrutiny," the anchor continued as social media comments flashed across the screen. "#73 is a DISGRACE to hockey" and "Thompson belongs in UFC not NHL" scrolled by, followed by counter arguments from fans: "Real hockey needs enforcers like Jax!" and "That's why they call him the Butcher!"

Lauren shuddered and turned away. Men and their violence. Always the same story, different uniform. She'd seen his type before, both professionally and personally. Hockey's glorified thugs, idolized for the very behavior that would get them arrested off the ice.

The soft chime of the front door interrupted her thoughts.

"We're closed," she called automatically, not looking up from where she was updating charts. "Emergency services only."

"This is an emergency." A deep voice, resonant and oddly gentle despite its power.

Lauren turned and felt her heart skip a beat—and not in the romantic way. Standing in her clinic doorway was the very man she'd just watched assault someone on television. Jackson Thompson was even more imposing in person, filling the doorframe with his broad shoulders. The overhead lights cast shadows across the planes of his face, highlighting the bruising already forming along his jaw. Dark eyes that seemed to take in everything at once fixed on her with an intensity that made her instinctively step back. The air in the room seemed to contract around his presence, as if even the space itself responded to him.

And he was holding... a bundle of fabric?

"I found this kitten by the arena," he said, those massive hands cradling what she now saw was a T-shirt wrapped around a tiny form. "Something's wrong with it. Maybe hit by a car or..." He trailed off, and for the first time, Lauren noticed the blood on his knuckles, the swelling already setting in.

Her professional instincts kicked in, overriding her personal distaste. "Follow me," she directed, already moving to the exam room. "Did you check for a collar?"

"No collar," he said. "And it's definitely a stray. Too thin, fur matted."

Lauren raised an eyebrow at his assessment but said nothing as she held the door open to the exam room. She stepped aside to let him through, and as he passed, the scent of cold night air, faint sweat, and something distinctly masculine brushed over her. His shoulder nearly grazed hers, and she noted the heat radiating from him even from that slight distance. Her body registered his physical presence before her mind could process it—a primal awareness of a much larger predator in close proximity.

"Put it on the table, please. Gently."

Those enormous hands—hands she'd just watched pummel another human being—delicately unwrapped the shirt to reveal a tiny gray kitten, no more than eight weeks old, its breathing shallow and rapid.

"He was by the dumpster. He wasn't moving much, didn't even try to run when I approached."

Lauren carefully examined the kitten, noting the dehydration, the possible trauma to the hind legs. "How long ago did you find him?"

"Twenty minutes? I came straight here. The other emergency clinic across town was closed."

She nodded, already reaching for an IV catheter kit. "He's severely dehydrated, possibly internal injuries. I'll need to get fluids started and run some tests."

As she worked, she was acutely aware of the man hovering nearby, his size making the small exam room feel like a closet. Up close, she could see the bruising starting along his jawline, the split knuckles, the careful way he held himself that suggested ribs that were probably at least bruised, if not cracked. Every movement she made felt magnified under his watchful gaze, as if he were cataloging her every breath.

"You're staring, Doc." His voice wasn't accusing, merely observant.

"Professional hazard," she replied crisply, focusing back on the kitten. "I assess injuries. You appear to have several."

A short, humorless laugh escaped him. "Hazard of my profession too."

The kitten mewled weakly as she inserted the tiny IV, and Thompson flinched as if he were the one being stuck.

"Thank you for taking the time to bring this little one in." Most people—especially most men like him—would have walked past that dumpster without a second thought.

"He needed help and I was there." He looked down at his battered hands. "Sometimes that's all it comes down to."

Before Lauren could respond, the door to the clinic burst open, and a voice with a thick Russian accent called out, "Jax? Are you are here? Kane told me to find you."

Lauren peeked out of the exam room to see a compact blonde man, his gap-toothed smile faltering as he spotted her.

"Oh! Sorry, miss. I look for friend. Big scary guy, probably scowling." He demonstrated with his own face, pulling his features into an exaggerated frown.

Lauren's lips twitched upward. "This way," she directed. "And please lower your voice. We have patients trying to rest."

"Da, of course. Sorry." The man immediately dropped his volume, though his energy remained undiminished as he bounded toward the room. "Jax! Why you disappear after game? Kane thinks maybe you kill Wilson and hide body, but I say no, Jax too smart to get caught—" He stopped abruptly upon seeing the kitten. "What is this?"

Thompson—Jax, apparently—sighed deeply. "It's a kitten."

"I see that and that it's hurt," Dmitri moved closer to inspect the animal. "But why you are here with it?"

"Found him outside the arena," Jax explained, his patience evident. "Dr. Mackenzie is treating him."

Lauren felt Dmitri's curious gaze turn to her. She kept her focus on the IV catheter she was securing to the kitten's tiny leg, but could feel his eyes tracking her movements. The weight of his attention made her shoulders tense. Hockey players. Always taking up more space than they needed.

"You are doctor for animals? This is good. Jax loves animals. Always at shelter, playing with dogs nobody wants."

She glanced up involuntarily at that, catching the flash of embarrassment that crossed Jax Thompson's face. Not the reaction she'd expected from a man who had just been broadcasting his violence on national television. The muscle in his jaw tightened, like he'd been caught in something private.

"He volunteers at Parkside Animal Rescue," the Russian continued, oblivious to his teammate's discomfort. "Every Tuesday and Thursday. The big scary dogs that growl at everyone else? They follow him like puppies."

"Dmitri," Jax warned, his deep voice somehow both gentle and full of authority. It was the voice of a man used to being obeyed.

But Lauren couldn't unhear the information. An enforcer who spent his off-days at an animal shelter? The mental image refused to form—like trying to fit together puzzle pieces from different boxes.

She studied him more closely now. The bruising along his jaw was already darkening, a nasty one that would be deep purple by morning. His knuckles were split in multiple places, the kind of wounds that should have been cleaned and bandaged hours ago. The way he held himself, rigid and slightly tilted to one side, spoke of rib pain that he was trying to hide.

But it was his eyes that kept drawing her attention—dark and watchful, incongruously gentle as they followed her movements with the kitten. Not at all the cold, rage-filled eyes she'd seen on the television moments before.

Something shifted in Lauren's perception, subtle but undeniable. The image of the enforcer on the ice didn't align with the man standing in her exam room, watching anxiously as she treated a stray kitten. And that dissonance bothered her far more than it should have. It would be easier if he were just the thug she'd seen on television—another violent man to file neatly in the mental box labeled "avoid at all costs."

The kitten mewled weakly as she adjusted the fluid rate, and their hands brushed accidentally. The brief contact sent an unexpected jolt through her fingers, up her arm, straight to her core. His skin was warm, the texture of calluses a stark contrast to her smoother hands. Their eyes met over the kitten, and in that fleeting moment, a current passed between them—a recognition of something unnamed but undeniably present.

Lauren yanked her hand back as if burned, knocking over a tray of supplies. Jax reached out automatically to steady it, his reflexes surprisingly quick for such a large man. Their hands collided again, this time with his fingers curling briefly around her wrist to stabilize her. Five points of heat branded her skin where his fingertips made contact.

"Sorry," they said simultaneously, and Lauren stepped back, needing distance from whatever had just happened.

"The kitten is severely dehydrated, and I want to monitor him for internal injuries. You can call tomorrow to check on him," she said, directing her words to Jax and deliberately keeping her tone professional. Distance. She needed distance from whatever was happening here.

Jax nodded, then hesitated. His massive frame shifted, and Lauren tensed reflexively. Men that big made her nervous, a lesson learned the hard way. But he only rubbed the back of his neck, a surprisingly vulnerable gesture.

"And if he makes it? What happens to him then?"

The question caught her off guard. Most people who brought in strays didn't ask about the after. They did their good deed and moved on, conscience clear. But there was genuine concern in his voice.

"He'll go to the shelter, when he's healthy enough." She tried to keep her voice neutral, but even she could hear the resignation in it. The overcrowded municipal shelter was hardly a happy ending for a kitten this fragile.

Something darkened in his eyes. Not anger—she'd seen enough of that to recognize it—but a shadow of grief that seemed out of proportion to the situation. "Is it a kill shelter?"

The words were soft, but they held a weight that made her pause. Lauren felt her professional detachment waver. The municipal shelter's high euthanasia rate was an open wound for every vet in the city.

"That's not up to me, Mr. Thompson." She heard the defensive edge in her own voice and hated it. This wasn't her fault. She couldn't save them all.

"Jax," he corrected automatically, his eyes still on the kitten. "Call me Jax."

She squared her shoulders slightly, reinforcing the boundary. "Dr. Mackenzie," she returned pointedly. The title was her armor—hard-earned and necessary. Especially with men who made their living with their fists.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, softening the hard planes of his face in a way that stirred something in her belly. "Lauren?" he asked, clearly having read her name tag that was pinned to her scrub top, just above where her heart was beating a little too fast for her liking.

"Dr. Mackenzie will do." Her words came out crisper than intended, a reflex from years of male clients who thought a female vet should welcome the familiarity of first names and casual touches.

Dmitri glanced between them, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Oh, this is interesting," he stage-whispered, his accent making the words sound like a delighted discovery. "She is not impressed by you, Jax. This is new."

Heat crept up Lauren's neck. She turned away, busying herself with adjusting the kitten's warming blanket. The last thing she needed was to become part of some locker room gossip.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Jax shoot his teammate a look that would have made most men step back. The transformation was instantaneous—his face hardening into the mask she'd seen on television. For a split second, she glimpsed what opponents on the ice must see, and an instinctive chill ran through her. But Dmitri just grinned wider, apparently immune to the intimidation.

The moment passed as quickly as it had come, and Jax's features softened again as he turned back to her. The dichotomy was jarring. Which version was real? The enforcer or the gentle giant? Lauren had learned the hard way that men who could switch their anger on and off were the most dangerous kind.

"We'll get out of your way, Doc," Jax said. "But I'll call tomorrow about the kitten."

"Fine," she agreed, turning her attention back to her patient. The kitten's breathing had steadied, a good sign. She should be focusing on that, not on trying to reconcile the contradiction standing six-foot-four in her exam room. "You might want to get those knuckles looked at. And the ribs. You're favoring your left side."

The observation slipped out before she could stop it—her medical training overriding her resolution to keep this interaction strictly professional. She immediately regretted it when she saw the flash of surprise in his eyes.

"Hazard of the profession," he repeated softly, the words hanging between them with a weight that felt personal in a way she wasn't comfortable with.

She busied herself with the medical chart, deliberately not watching as Dmitri ushered his teammate toward the door. But she couldn't block out the Russian's excited chatter.

"Wait until I tell Kane. He find lost kitten, she find lost Jax. Is like movie, yes? The hockey player and the animal doctor. Very romantic."

Lauren winced.

As they reached the door, Jax turned back, catching her watching him. Their eyes locked again across the room, the distance doing nothing to diminish the intensity of his gaze. For one breathless moment, neither looked away. Then Jax nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of... something. And then he was gone.

The door closed behind them, leaving Lauren alone with the kitten and the unsettling feeling that Jackson Thompson wasn't what she'd expected. The adrenaline of the emergency was fading, leaving her with the uncomfortable awareness that she'd been quick to judge a man she didn't know based on thirty seconds of television footage and social media hot takes.

It had been easier to file him neatly away with her collection of men to avoid—the ones who solved problems with fists, who expressed themselves through violence. Men like her ex. Men like her father.

But the gentle way Thompson had cradled that kitten, the genuine concern in his eyes, the careful way he'd moved his large frame in her small exam room—none of it fit the box she wanted to put him in. And that was a complication she definitely didn't need.

She absently rubbed her wrist where his fingers had been, the ghost of his touch still lingering on her skin.

"Just you and me now, little one," she murmured to the kitten, checking the IV line. "Let's get you better so you can go home with someone nice and normal. Someone uncomplicated."

Not a man whose hands looked like they could crush watermelons but cradled a kitten like it was made of glass. Not someone who made her question judgments she'd spent years cementing into place. Not someone whose touch still burned on her skin even minutes after he'd gone.

The kitten's tiny paw stretched out, briefly touching her hand. And despite herself, Lauren wondered if Jax Thompson would really call tomorrow. And worse—she wondered if she wanted him to.