My Hockey Nemesis

May 1, 2023

LENA

The ring was still on my finger when everything shattered.

I remember staring at it under the harsh arena lights, twisting my hand just enough to watch the diamond catch the glare and scatter it across the glass. It didn't feel real yet. None of it did.

Ethan had proposed just that morning.

There was no grand gesture. No crowd. Just him standing in my cramped kitchen, his hair still messy from sleep, holding out a ring with hands so shaky you'd think he was facing a breakaway instead of just me. I'd said yes before he could even finish the question. Hours later, I was still saying it in my head, replaying the moment and smiling like an idiot.

That was the good part of the day. The part I wish I could freeze in time.

Because by nightfall, I was on my feet in a suffocating crowd, my heart lodged in my throat as I watched the man I loved lie motionless on the ice.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to him. Not like this.

The sound came first. A sharp, sickening crack that cut clean through the roar of ten thousand people. I felt the vibration in my chest before my brain could process it. Then came the silence-a heavy, unnatural quiet that didn't belong in a hockey arena.

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.

"No..." I whispered, already shaking my head before I even saw him. "No, no, no-"

But I knew. I knew before my eyes found his jersey. Before I saw the terrifying stillness of his body. Before the crimson started pooling on the white ice.

"Ethan!"

I don't remember hitting the stairs. One second, I was trapped in my seat, the next I was tearing through the crowd, shoving past hands that tried to grab me and ignoring the blurred voices calling my name.

All I could see was him. All I could hear was the frantic, breaking sound of my own voice screaming for him.

And then, I saw him.

Arthur Pearson.

He was standing just a few feet away, looking down as if he hadn't just destroyed my entire universe. His helmet was off. His chest rose and fell in slow, even measures. His eyes were locked on the body on the ground, but there was no panic in them. No shock.

He was just... watching. Like this was routine. Like a predator admiring a clean kill.

A violent chill slid down my spine. This wasn't an accident. Not really. Not when it came from Arthur and his team, the Redwoods greatest rival, a player who didn't just cross lines, but erased them. He hit like he had something to prove. Or something to punish. Someone who gets away with everything.

My hands trembled violently as I dropped to my knees on the ice beside Ethan, terrified to touch him, terrified not to.

"Stay with me," I choked out, pressing my hands to his cold jersey. "Ethan, please-just stay with me."

He didn't move. He didn't blink.

The transition from the blinding arena lights to the sterile, pulsing red of the ambulance was a blur of noise and motion.

The paramedic's hands were a flurry of movement, checking vitals, shouting over the wail of the siren. I sat in the corner, my knees pulled to my chest, staring at Ethan's pale face beneath the oxygen mask. My ring, the one he had slipped onto my finger just hours ago, pressed hard against my skin as I gripped my own hand to stop the shaking. The scent of sweat and ice was replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of blood and isopropyl alcohol.

"Stay with us, Ethan," the paramedic muttered, a tense rhythm to his movements that terrified me more than the siren ever could.

When the doors slammed open at the hospital, the world exploded into chaos.

A trauma team was already waiting, a wall of blue scrubs rushing forward to wheel the gurney through the sliding glass doors. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like angry hornets, flickering past in a dizzying sequence as we sprinted down the hallway. Nurses shouted vitals, words like intracranial pressure and unresponsive, bouncing off the walls. I tried to keep up, my sneakers skidding on the polished floor, my hand desperately reaching out to hold onto a piece of his jersey.

"Ma'am, you have to stay here!" A firm hand caught my shoulder, stopping me at a set of heavy double doors.

"No, please, I need to go with him!" I begged, my voice breaking.

"You can't go any further," the nurse said, her eyes filled with a practiced, heavy empathy. "We're taking him in now."

Through the small glass window of the double doors, I watched them wheel him into the operating theater.

Doctors moved with terrifying precision, scrubbing in, snapping on latex gloves, prepping the instruments that would try to piece his life back together. The heavy doors swung shut, cutting off the sound, leaving me alone in the quiet corridor.

Behind that glass, they were fighting for his survival. And all I could do was sit on the vinyl chairs, staring at the ring on my finger, wondering if the man who gave it to me would ever wake up to see it.

And behind me, I could still feel it. Arthur's eyes. Heavy. Unmoving. Utterly unapologetic.

That was the exact second my life split in two. There was the Before, and there was the After.

And no matter how many years have passed since that night, no matter how hard I've tried to rebuild the pieces, one truth remains absolute: If Arthur hadn't been on the ice that night, my world would still be whole.

Three years later

My alarm went off at five-thirty.

I was already awake as I stared at the ceiling for another minute before forcing myself out of bed. My body protested immediately, every muscle aching from another night spent waking up every few hours to check on Ethan.

Three years of living by medication schedules, physiotherapy appointments, insurance calls, and hospital visits.

Weeks and Months had past with me pretending I wasn't exhausted.

I tied my hair into a loose ponytail as I walked down the hallway, stopping outside Ethan's room long enough to compose myself.

I pushed the door open quietly.

The rhythmic beeping of the cardiac monitor filled the room.

Morning sunlight seeped through the curtains, landing across Ethan's face. He looked almost peaceful, if you ignored the hospital bed that had replaced the one we'd once shared and the ventilator tubing coiled neatly beside him for emergencies.

"Morning," I said softly.

His eyes shifted toward me.

That was all.

Three years ago, Ethan had filled every room with laughter.

Now, his eyes did all the talking.

I walked over and checked the monitor out of habit before looking over his overnight chart.

"Blood pressure stable.

Heart rate normal.

Oxygen saturation acceptable." I whispered to myself while I ticked the boxes.

A small victory.

"I'll take that."

Setting the clipboard aside, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

The first task was turning him.

No matter how expensive the mattress was, leaving him in one position for too long would eventually cause pressure injuries. I counted softly under my breath as I adjusted his body, supporting his shoulders and hips before placing fresh pillows behind his back.

"There we go."

His breathing remained steady.

Next came the passive range-of-motion exercises.

I carefully bent and straightened each joint, moving his arms and legs through motions he could no longer perform himself.

When I first started, I'd cried through every session. Now I just focused on making sure I didn't hurt him.

"I'm sorry," I whispered as I stretched his left shoulder.

His fingers twitched.

Barely.

Most people would've dismissed it as nothing. But it gave me Hope.

"I know."

Whether he actually understood me or not didn't matter anymore.

After helping him through the rest of his morning care, I administered his medications and adjusted the blanket over his legs.

"I'll be at the arena today," I told him while tidying the bedside table.

"Miss. Alvarez will stay with you until I get back."

His eyes stayed on mine.

"I won't be late."

At least, I hoped not.

---

By seven-thirty, I was driving towards the very same arena where it all happened. The building came into view long before I reached the parking lot. I hadn't realized I'd stopped breathing until my chest started hurting.

I parked in my usual spot and sat there for another minute.

"You can do this."

I wasn't sure whether I was convincing myself or lying.

The familiar scent of sharpened skate blades, rubber mats, and fresh ice greeted me the moment I stepped inside. It was strange how a place could remain exactly the same while reminding you that your own life never would.

For a brief moment, memories threatened to drag me back to that night, but I forced them away and kept walking.

I checked in with the head therapist before heading to the rehabilitation wing.

"Morning, Lena."

"Morning."

He gave me a sympathetic smile, the same one I'd been getting from everyone ever since I came back to work after Ethan's accident. I hated that look almost as much as I hated the pity behind it.

"Busy day?"

"When isn't it?" I replied, forcing a small smile.

He chuckled and handed me a clipboard.

"The guys are finishing practice. You'll be helping with post-session evaluations."

I nodded and made my way toward the treatment rooms.

The sound of pucks slamming against the boards echoed faintly through the hallway while coaches barked instructions from the ice. Life had moved on. I wasn't sure I had.

I busied myself preparing one of the treatment rooms, laying out fresh towels, disinfecting the examination table, and arranging the equipment exactly how I liked it.

The door opened behind me.

"You really came back."

My grip tightened around the bottle of disinfectant.

I'd know that voice anywhere.

Slowly, I turned.

Arthur Pearson stood in the doorway. He looked different than he had three years ago.

Older, maybe.

The sharp edges of his face had hardened, and a faint scar traced the line of his jaw. His practice jersey clung to his broad shoulders, damp with sweat after training.

But his eyes were exactly the same.

Steady and Unreadable.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

"I heard about Ethan," he said quietly.

Something inside me snapped. "You don't get to say his name."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue.

"You lost that right three years ago."

"Lena-"

"No."

The word came out sharper than I intended.

"I don't need explanations or apologies. Nothing you say is ever going to change what happened."

His gaze never left mine.

"I wasn't going to apologize."

A bitter laugh escaped me. Typical.

"Of course you weren't."

"I was going to ask how he's doing."

The question caught me off guard, but it only made me angrier.

"How do you think he's doing?" I asked. "He's still trapped in a hospital bed because of what happened on this ice."

Silence settled between us.

Arthur lowered his eyes for the briefest moment before looking back at me.

"I'm glad he has you."

The words weren't defensive or sarcastic.

If anything, they sounded sincere.

I hated that.

"Pearson."

Arthur looked over.

"Coach wants you in his office."

"I'll be there."

The trainer disappeared again. Arthur picked up his stick before looking at me one last time.

"I know you hate me."

I folded my arms across my chest.

"You have no idea."

For a second, it looked like he wanted to say something else.

Instead, he gave a small nod and walked away. I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until he disappeared around the corner.

My hands were shaking.

I held on to the edge of the treatment table until they finally steadied. Just hearing his voice was enough to reopen wounds that had never truly healed.

A knock on the open door pulled me back to the present.

The head therapist stepped inside with another clipboard.

"Lena, slight change to today's schedule."

I accepted it without looking.

"One of the therapists called in sick, so I'm moving a few assignments around."

"That's fine."

"You'll be taking over one of the rehabilitation cases."

I flipped open the file. Shoulder impingement. Rehabilitation after repeated impact injuries.

I scanned down to the patient's name.

Arthur Pearson.

"There has to be someone else."

"I'm afraid not."

He frowned, clearly confused by my reaction.

"You're our best sports rehabilitation specialist, and he specifically requested an experienced therapist."

I stared at the file in my hands.

"He... requested me?"

"Not by name," he clarified. "Just someone senior. You're the best fit." Before I could protest, a shadow appeared behind the frosted glass door.

Two steady knocks followed.

"Lena?" the receptionist called. "Mr. Pearson is ready for his appointment."

My fingers tightened around the file until the edges dug into my palm.

For three years, I'd managed to avoid being alone with the man I blamed for destroying my life.

Now, I was expected to spend the next hour with him.

Another knock echoed through the room.

Then Arthur's calm voice came from the other side of the door.

"I'm coming in."

The handle turned.

Before I could even close the chart, Arthur Pearson filled the doorway of the treatment room. He shut the door behind him with one hand, his hockey stick gripped in the other, and glanced around the space as if he were just checking into a hotel.

"So," he said, leaning the stick against the wall. "Am I early, or are you guys running behind?"

I didn't look up from my desk. "Get on the table."

A quiet chuckle escaped him. "Good to see you too, Lena."

He climbed onto the treatment table without another word. Even after a two-hour practice, there wasn't a hint of fatigue in how he moved. He looked entirely, infuriatingly at ease. I picked up his file, focusing hard on the print to avoid looking at the man sitting six feet away.

"Left shoulder," I read aloud. "Repeated impact injury. Pain with overhead movement, reduced range of motion. And according to the trainer, you've been playing through it for weeks."

"I've been busy."

I finally looked up, letting the file drop slightly. "Busy pretending you're indestructible?"

"Occupational hazard," he said, offering a small, easy smile.

"No. That's just stupid."

His lips twitched, but he didn't argue.

"Take the jersey off."

He pulled the heavy fabric over his head without complaint and tossed it onto the plastic chair nearby, leaving him in a black compression shirt.

"That too," I added.

Arthur paused, his eyes tracking mine. "You always this direct with your patients?"

"Just take the shirt off, Arthur."

"And here I thought I was getting special treatment."

I ignored the bait, keeping my eyes fixed on the chart. When I looked back, the thin, white lines across his shoulder and upper arm caught my attention before I could stop myself. Operative scars. The permanent receipts collected over a career in professional hockey.

Playing at this level always cost something. Some players paid with broken bones. Ethan had paid with his future. Our future.

I forced the thought down, hard. "Sit up straight."

He squared his shoulders.

"I'm going to examine the joint." I stepped closer, placing one hand lightly against the front of his shoulder. "Lift your arm to the side. Stop when it hurts."

He raised it slowly, but the movement ground to a halt before his arm was even parallel to the floor. His jaw tightened, a sharp knot forming at the muscle.

"Pain scale?" I asked. "One to ten."

"Six."

I stared at him. "Try again."

He let out a short, defeated sigh. "Seven. High seven."

"Let's stick with the truth." I took his wrist, guiding the arm through a passive rotation. "Don't help me. Let me take the weight."

"Trying."

"Try harder."

His eyes followed my hands, tracking every movement. It was unsettlingly intense. I rotated the joint a fraction more, and a sharp, quiet hitch in his breath cut through the room. I immediately eased the pressure.

"You've irritated the rotator cuff," I said, stepping back to grab the manual lotion. "Probably a partial tear, but we'll need the ultrasound to be sure."

"We had three games in five days," he muttered, looking defensive. "I didn't exactly have a choice."

"You always make terrible decisions with this much confidence?"

"Usually, I don't have an audience."

"You think playing through an injury makes you look tough."

"No," he said, the banter completely dropping from his voice. "I think it's my job."

"And when the joint finally blows out?"

"Then I'll deal with it."

"Right. Good luck with that."

A brief shadow crossed his face, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

"Lie back," I instructed. I rubbed a bit of lotion into my palms, stepped up beside him, and placed one hand beneath his scapula to stabilize the joint while my fingers worked into the tight tissue.

"Jesus, Arthur," I muttered, pressing into the upper trapezius. "This is like concrete."

"Hey, I've had worse reviews."

"From a medical professional?"

"No," he murmured, a hint of the smirk returning.

"Relax."

"I am."

"No, you're bracing. I can literally feel the muscle fighting me."

"You can tell, huh?"

His quiet laugh died instantly as my thumb caught a trigger point near the anterior deltoid. His entire body went rigid against the table. I stopped immediately.

"Too much?"

He swallowed hard. "No. I'm fine."

"Then let it go."

"I'm trying, Lena."

Something about the tone of his voice made me pause. I still had my fingers pressed lightly against the side of his neck to steady myself, and beneath my fingertips, his pulse was absolutely racing. It didn't add up. Nothing I was doing was painful enough to trigger a cardiac spike like that.

I forced myself to ignore it and moved my hands lower, working carefully just beneath the clavicle.

Arthur inhaled sharply, a sudden, ragged sound.

I frowned, pausing. "Does it radiate there?"

"No."

"Then why the reaction?"

"Reflex," he said quickly. Too quickly.

"You're a terrible patient."

"Yeah. So I've been told."

I reached for the roll of kinesiology tape on the counter. "Sit up."

He pushed himself up to a sitting position.

"I'm taping the joint to take some of the pressure off," I said, measuring a strip against his skin. "But it's only going to work if you stop acting like you're invincible."

"I'll take it under advisement."

"No, you'll actually do it." Not that I cared if his arm fell off mid-game.

He tilted his head, watching me work. "Bossy."

"I'm your physical therapist."

"For now," he murmured.

I froze, the second strip of tape hovering in the air. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He looked at me for a long beat, his expression unreadable, before he shook his head. "Nothing. Forget it."

The silence stretched between us, heavy and thick, as I secured the final anchor strips.

"You're skipping meals," Arthur said quietly.

I snapped my head up. "Excuse me?"

"You're living on coffee again."

"Since when is my diet any of your business?"

"It isn't." He met my gaze, refusing to look away. "Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

I looked away first, snapping the cap back onto the lotion bottle. "You're done. Get dressed."

He rolled his shoulder cautiously, testing the tension of the tape. "Actually feels a bit better."

"Good."

"I have a full-skate practice tomorrow."

"You also have common sense."

I started organizing the counter, keeping my back to him while he pulled his shirt and jersey back on.

"Lena."

Against my better judgment, I turned around.

"You're really good at this," he said. The tone wasn't arrogant, It was just honest.

The unexpected sincerity caught me off guard, sending a strange jolt through my chest. "I don't need your approval, Arthur."

"I know you don't."

"Then keep it to yourself."

He gave a single, slow nod, picked up his hockey stick, and opened the door.

The head therapist, James, was standing right outside in the hallway, clipboard in hand. "There you are. How does the shoulder look, Lena?"

"Recoverable," I said, stepping out into the hall. "Assuming he actually follows the protocol."

James let out a loud laugh. "Well, good luck getting him to do that."

Arthur just shrugged, leaning against the doorframe.

Turning his attention back to his clipboard, flipping a page. "Alright, Pearson is going to need manual therapy and rehab three times a week until he's cleared for full contact." He looked up at me. "You'll be handling his recovery track."

I froze. "I'm sorry?"

"You've already done the initial assessment and the taping," Marcus said briskly. "Continuity of care is the best option for the team right now."

"I really think someone else on staff would be a better fit for-"

"No." His voice wasn't harsh, but it carried the finality of a director. "We need our best hand on this, Lena. He's our starting defenseman."

The protest died in my throat. I couldn't push it further without risking my standing with the clinic.

Arthur gripped his stick, a faint, entirely unreadable expression crossing his face as he looked at me.

"See you Thursday, Doc," he said quietly.

Then he turned and walked down the corridor. Three sessions a week. With the exact man I had spent the last three years trying to forget. And after less than thirty minutes in a room with him, I had the terrifying realization that keeping my distance was going to be completely impossible.