Melting ice

*Ava* The ice shimmers under the arena's bright lights, a pristine white sheet waiting to be torn apart. The roar of the crowd is a physical thing, a vibration that travels up through the soles of my sneakers and settles deep in my bones. It’s game night, and the atmosphere crackles with electric anticipation. My blood hums with it, a wild rhythm that resonates with the pulse of the arena. From my position just behind the bench as the team doctor on duty tonight, I have a perfect view of the impending mayhem. The Charleston Pelicans are taking their positions on the ice, a blur of black, teal, and silver, their jerseys glistening in the harsh lights. I can almost feel the weight of their collective energy, a potent mix of nerves and adrenaline. My gaze instinctively finds number 29, Rasmus Dahlin. He's all long limbs and effortless grace as he skates a few lazy circles, warming up. Even at a glance, the raw talent is undeniable. At twenty-three, he’s already being whispered about as one of the future greats, the kind of player who makes you believe in magic. He is also graces with a face like a Swedish top model. Today he is in the starting lineup Caleb Mackinnon, number 44, a rock of a defenseman despite him only being four years older than Rasmus. He exudes a quiet confidence, the kind that comes from years of experience, there is a reason he is nicknamed ‘Iron wall’. A classic old-guard, new-blood setup, the coach believes that Caleb's steady presence will anchor Rasmus's sometimes reckless brilliance, apparently forgetting that Caleb has a reputation for being a hot head. I hope he’s right though; my job is infinitely easier when the players stay in one piece. As the final horn blows for the national anthem, a wave of solemnity washes over the arena. The teams line up, and I watch Rasmus glide over to the bench, an embodiment of focused energy. He leans over the boards, and I can’t help but notice the way his blond hair is damp with sweat, a few stray strands clinging to his forehead. The blue of his eyes, the color of a deep winter lake, finds mine. A slow smile spreads across his face, charming and utterly disarming. He does this often… the lingering looks, the easy smiles. It’s just Rasmus being Rasmus, the effortless charisma that draws everyone in… the guy is charm on skates. “Ready to patch me up, Doc?” he asks after spitting out the mouth gard, his voice a low rumble that somehow manages to cut through the cacophony of the crowd. The accent is still there, a melodic Swedish lilt that softens the edges of his English, making even the simplest sentence sound like a flirt. I keep my expression neutral, professional. It’s a mask I’ve perfected over years of working with alpha-male athletes. “Try to stay out of trouble, Dahlin. I’d like a quiet night.” He chuckles, a warm, genuine sound that wraps around me like a comforting blanket. “No promises. But if I do get into trouble, I hope you’re the one who puts me back together.” “Go play hockey,” I say, turning my attention to the contents of my med kit. I can feel his eyes on me for a moment longer, the warmth of his gaze lingering as he pushes off, joining the fray as the puck drops. The game explodes into motion, a chaotic ballet of speed, skill, and violence that captivates every soul in the arena. I track Rasmus, my professional eye assessing his every move, there is no strains or wear to be seen. He glides, fluid and powerful, making plays that leave commentators scrambling for adjectives. He and Caleb move in sync, a well-oiled machine, each anticipating the other's moves. Caleb reads Rasmus's instinctive offense, covering for him when he pushes too far, a silent agreement forged through countless hours of practice. And then it happens. Rasmus has the puck, streaking down the left wing with a fierce determination. He dekes past one defenseman, then another, a flash of teal and silver heading toward the net. He’s completely focused, a predator locked onto its prey. But I can see it coming… a forward from the opposing team, a bruiser named O'Malley, is closing in. O'Malley isn’t going for the puck; he’s going for Rasmus. The hit is brutal. Late and high. O'Malley drives his shoulder into Rasmus’s back, right between the shoulder blades. Time seems to freeze as Rasmus crumples, going down hard. The sound of him hitting the ice is a wet smack that echoes in my ears, even over the roar of the crowd. Gasps ripple through the stands, a collective intake of breath that hangs in the air like a bad omen. The whistle shrieks, a piercing sound that cuts through the chaos. Players from both teams swarm the ice, tension crackling as emotions flare… Caleb looks ready to punch someone and our team captain Connor McDavid, is holding him back. I'm already moving, adrenaline propelling me forward as I push past the other trainers, my kit clutched tightly in my hand. The crowd's boos are a deafening wave, a cacophony of disapproval directed at the perpetrator of the hit. Rasmus is on his stomach, not moving. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat that fills my ears. I drop to my knees beside him, the cold ice seeping through my pants, a stark contrast to the heat of panic surging through me. “Rasmus,” I say, my voice calm despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. “Can you hear me?” His face is turned away from me, pressed against the ice. I can see the tension in his neck, the way his muscles are locked up as if bracing against the pain. “Ava,” he groans, the sound laced with discomfort. He uses my first name. He never does that on the bench, where the lines between professional and personal remain carefully drawn. In moments like these, however, the distinction blurs, and the vulnerability of the situation pulls us closer. “My back.” “Okay,” I say, my hands already moving, gently probing the area to assess the damage. “Don’t move. Just breathe. It will be okay.”