Hooked on the NHL Star: He Came Back for Me

The departures hall of Milan Malpensa hummed with the electric energy of departures. Mia Conti watched the flickering screens, her fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the counter. "The arnica cream is in the outer pocket," her mother, Alice Conti, says for the third time, glasses pushed up on her head. "Toronto gets damp in the fall. Don't strain your wrists. And I packed the supplements Dr. Ferrara prescribed—the real ones, not that pharmacy brand rubbish." "Momma." Mia's voice is steady even though her chest isn't. "I know." Her father, Ethan Conti, returns with the boarding pass. He rests a hand on Alice's shoulder, calm and composed as always. "Everything's confirmed," he says. "Someone will be waiting for you at arrivals. Watch your things on the plane, and don't rush." Mia takes the pass, her gaze catching on the scar tissue between her father's thumb and forefinger. That hand rebuilt her wrist after the fracture at fifteen. That same hand, three years later, had left a medical school application on her desk without a word. "Go on," she says softly. "I've got it." At security, Alice grabs her with both arms and holds on for a beat too long. "Video call at least three times a week. And eat, Mia. Real food. Not whatever they call food there." "She's going to the University of Toronto on a research exchange," Ethan says quietly, a hand still on Alice's shoulder. "Not a remote field station." "She's going to another country for a year," Alice snaps back, then turns to Mia again, gripping her hands one last time. "Make friends." Mia nods, then walks through security and turns back once. Her parents are still there, smaller now in the crowded terminal. She breathes in, turns, and keeps going. She has made her choice already. Years of dance have extracted their price from her body—her wrists will never survive another decade on stage, and she stopped pretending otherwise at nineteen. But medicine can hold what dance has taught her. She can specialize in what she knows from the inside and turn damage into direction. The nine hour flight passes in a blur of cabin air, mediocre food, and sports medicine chapters. By the time the plane begins to descend over Lake Ontario, she watches the sprawl of the city emerge below, nothing like the terracotta rooftops she grew up with, nothing like anything she knows. Then the wheels hit the runway, and something shifts inside her—quiet, sharp, and unsettling, like the first note of a piece of music she hasn't heard yet but somehow already recognizes. *** Toronto Pearson's arrivals hall is all glass and pale light, afternoon sun slanting in long gold bars across the floor. Mia navigates toward the escalators hauling two 28 inch suitcases—filled with her mother's care packages, herbal supplements, textbooks, and four different jacket weights. Her wrists are protesting the weight by the time she reaches the escalator. The navy dress she'd chosen this morning—fitted, clean lines—has drawn more than a few second glances from passing travelers, but Mia is focused entirely on maneuvering both suitcases onto the moving steps without catastrophe. She almost manages it. "Excusez-moi."(Excuse me) The voice comes from behind her—low, French-accented, the Quebec inflection unmistakable even to her limited ear. She shifts automatically to make room, and a figure steps past. Or tries to. Because in the same instant, the wheel of her larger suitcase drops into the gap where two escalator steps meet and locks there, completely stuck. Mia pulls. Nothing. The bag is easily fifty-five pounds loaded with textbooks and it is going nowhere. "Permettez-moi." (Let me) She doesn't have a chance to answer. A hand appears at her shoulder. A large hand, knuckles prominent, fingers wrapping the handle with easy authority—and with one controlled pull, the wheel comes free with a clean clack. The whole thing takes maybe three seconds. Mia turns. Blue-gray eyes look back at her from under the brim of a dark cap. He's tall, easily six-three, and built in a way that makes the T-shirt he's wearing work considerably harder than intended, the fabric pulling across his shoulders and chest. A silver stud catches the light at his left ear. There's a faint scar along his jaw, thin and precise, like the edge of something sharp. She realizes, a beat too late, that she's staring at his jaw. "Grazie mille," she manages, then, mortifyingly, the Italian slips out first. She catches herself and switches. "Merci beaucoup."(Thank you) One dark brow lifts. Something shifts in those gray-blue eyes—not warmth, exactly, but something adjacent to it. Amusement, maybe. "Vous parlez français?" (Do you speak French) "Just a little." She smiles. Switches to English like a life raft. "Thank you. Really." He's quiet for a moment. The escalator continues its descent. He is, objectively, blocking her entire view of what's ahead—a wall of broad shoulders with the Raiders logo on the equipment bag slung across one of them. "You're welcome," he says finally, his voice dropping half a register, and then he's sliding the noise-canceling headphones back over his ears and looking away toward the bottom of the escalator. Mia follows his gaze. A black team bus idles at the curb below. Several equally large men are waving from the doors—one of them, dark curly hair, waving with the particular enthusiasm of someone who witnessed everything and plans to discuss it at length. The crowd around them has already noticed. Phones are out. The whispers are spreading in ripples. The escalator deposits them at the bottom and he walks—unhurried, slightly loose in the shoulders, no performance in it—toward the team entrance. Mia watches him go for exactly as long as it takes to remember she has a broken suitcase wheel and a pickup contact waiting somewhere to her left. She pulls out her phone. Her calendar notification blinks up at her. September 15—U of T Medical School orientation. October 2—Raiders Medical Center placement begins. She looks back toward the bus. It's already pulling away. "Huh," she says quietly, to no one. Then she straightens, adjusts her bag strap, and drags the protesting suitcase toward the exit. *** On the team bus, Elias Weston stares out the window and says nothing. Beside him, Lucas Moreno leans in with a grin that says he's been waiting for exactly this opportunity. "T'as vu la belle fille là-bas?" (Did you see that beautiful girl over there?) "Shut up." Elias doesn't look at him. "Stop being so mysterious," Lucas presses, delighted. "You literally never help anyone with luggage. You walked past a woman dropping her coffee last week—" "Drop it." Two words. Lucas raises both hands and falls mercifully silent. Elias leans his temple against the cool glass as the airport slides past. He's not thinking about the girl. He's not thinking about the way she'd tilted her chin up to look at him—steady, unbothered, the kind of composure he doesn't usually see from people who've just recognized the team logo. He's not thinking about the brief glimpse of the lean muscle in her forearm when she'd fought with that suitcase, or the way she'd caught herself mid-language and pivoted to French without missing a beat. "Weston." Coach Danny's voice carries from the front. "7 AM fitness assessment tomorrow. Don't be late." He raises one hand without turning around. Heard. His phone screen lights up with a schedule notification. Pre-season roster review. New training staff rotation. A name he doesn't recognize yet under the column marked Incoming Medical Team Liaison. The bus merges onto the highway. Elias closes his eyes. Whatever that was—it's already behind him. It has to be.