Romance on ice

CHAPTER TWO

Serena’s POV

The medical director’s office smelled of menthol and burnt coffee.

Dr. Harlan Reyes was a tall man with silver hair and that permanent squint of a doctor who had seen far too many injuries. He wasn't one for small talk.

“Ms. Blake. Your résumé says you’re good.”

“I am.”

“Then you’ll need to be.” He slid a tablet across the desk. “Twenty-three players. Four are hurt and lying about it. One of them is Volkov.”

My pulse quickened in a way I didn't like. “The captain.”

“He took a hit to the head this morning and a blade to the eyebrow. He hasn’t been cleared, and he hasn't even been seen.” Reyes rubbed his eyes. “He’s refused the last two therapists. Both quit.”

“He drove them out?”

“No shouting. No threats. He just looks at you until you leave.” A dry smile. “You were the only candidate who didn’t ask about his stats during the interview. Concussion screening, wound care, range of motion. Today. Before he leaves the building.”

I took the tablet and walked out, my shoulders squared.

I found him ten minutes later in the corridor outside the locker room, a gym bag slung over one shoulder and a towel pressed to his eyebrow. Four teammates walked beside him like an honor guard.

He was heading for the exit.

I stepped directly into his path.

“Captain Volkov. I’m Serena Blake, the new physical therapist. You need a concussion screening and that cut cleaned.”

He didn't even slow down. “No.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

The corridor went silent. Someone behind him let out a low whistle.

Damien stopped.

Up close, he was taller than he looked on the ice, and a lot more dangerous. He pulled the towel away from his face. Dried blood streaked his temple, and his eyes were a pale, steady gray that gave nothing away.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked quietly.

“A man with a possible head injury who is refusing treatment,” I said. “Which makes you a patient.”

“Oh, she’s dead,” one of the players muttered.

Damien didn’t look away from me. “Move.”

“Not until I check your pupils.”

“I’ve played through worse.”

“I’m sure you have. That’s not toughness, Captain. It’s a delayed ambulance ride.”

His jaw flexed. “You’ve been in this building for forty minutes.”

“And in forty minutes, I’ve watched you ignore every rule in the book. You bled for twenty minutes before you even left the ice, and when you came off, you squinted at the overhead lights like they were an insult. That’s photophobia. Textbook.”

No one spoke. A flicker crossed his face, too fast to name. It might have been surprise.

“Careful, Ms. Blake,” he said, his voice very low.

“Serena. And I’m always careful. It’s the whole job.” My heart was pounding, but my voice remained steady. “Sit down, or I walk straight to Dr. Reyes and tell him the captain is hiding a concussion before the season opener. Your choice.”

A long beat passed. Behind him, his teammates stared at me as I had just walked up to a lion and told it to sit.

Then, to everyone’s shock, Damien dropped his bag, crossed to the bench along the wall, and sat.

“Five minutes,” he said.

“Fifteen.”

“Ten.”

“Done.”

The others drifted away, whispering. I pulled a penlight from my bag and stepped between his knees. Up close, I could see a faint tremor in the hand he rested on his thigh. He was more tired than he wanted anyone to know.

“Look at the light.”

He did. His pupils reacted evenly, which was a relief I kept to myself. I cleaned the cut, closed it with butterfly strips, and tested his balance and memory with the same steady questions I used for every patient.

He answered all of them without a single flaw. He watched me the entire time.

When I reached for his collar to check his neck, his gray jersey slipped, and I saw it: a long surgical scar curving over his left shoulder, pale and old. The kind of scar that comes from a hit that should never have happened.

I paused for half a second.

He noticed.

“Old injury,” he said flatly, before I could even ask.

“It healed badly.”

“It healed.”

I let it go. For now.

“You don’t like hockey, Ms. Blake,” he said.

My hands went still. “What makes you say that?”

“Your fingers tighten every time a puck hits the boards.” His voice was almost gentle, and that frightened me more than anger would have. “So why are you here?”

“Because someone here needs a competent therapist,” I said, snapping my bag shut. “You’re cleared for light training only. Come back tomorrow at seven.”

He stood up. The corridor suddenly felt smaller.

“I don’t take orders.”

“Then you’ll be the first patient I ever lost to stubbornness,” I said. “Seven a.m., Captain.”

I didn’t wait for an answer.

Back in the staff room, my hands finally began to shake. I sank into a chair and opened his file on the tablet, telling myself I was only checking his history.

Injuries. Surgeries. Treatments, year after year.

Then, three years back, a gap.

One entry, locked behind a gray banner: Records sealed. Authorized personnel only.

I stared at the date.

It was the same season my brother’s career had ended.