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“I will.”

A sound at the door made me look up.

Brashe stood in the doorway, glaring at me. At Veskar. At the short distance between us.

I held his gaze before turning back to Veskar. “You’re all set. Remember, ice.”

“Got it. Thanks, Doc.”

Veskar limped out of the room.

And Brashe was already gone.

I stared at the empty doorway, my pulse wild in my throat.

He’d looked at me like I was doing something wrong by standing a foot away from Veskar. I clenched my teeth. He appeared to think he had a right to an opinion on who I treated or how close I got to the person while doing it. A moment at a picnic hadn’t earned him any kind of claim.

I washed my hands, and with a shake of my head, got back to work.

Once my assignments were done, I went to the observation area to watch practice. This part of the arena held a narrow walkway above the rink, separated from the ice by glass. Patty had told me this was the best place to watch practice without getting in the way, so I claimed a spot in the corner with my tablet and a cup of coffee.

The playoffs started next week. Every drill mattered.

I took notes on movement patterns. Who favored one side or the other. Who was overcompensating. Mikael’s shoulder was bothering him. He kept rolling it between drills. Fedor’s knee looked good, but I made a note to check in with him later.

I couldn’t avoid watching Brashe in the net.

I’d watched plenty of games, of course. Plus clips on sports channels and GIFs on social media. The saves that made commentators lose their minds.

Watching it live was completely different.

He moved like violence contained in skin. Brutal and precise, dropping into splits that should’ve been impossible for someone his size. Crim came in fast, stick slashing, shooting on goal. Brashe’s glove snapped out, catching the puck mid-air.

Another drill. Mikael this time, trying a wrist shot from the slot. Brashe stopped it with his blocker, the sound echoing through the rink.

Again and again and again.

He was terrifying.

Beautiful.

This made it clear why opposing teams hated playing against him.

Then Crim made another great shot. Brashe dropped into a butterfly, but the angle felt wrong. His right leg extended a fraction too far, and when he pushed back up, I noted a hitch in his movement, small and almost imperceptible, but there.

He shook it off and stayed in the net.

I made a note on my tablet. Kedish—possible groin/hip strain. Monitor closely.

I stared at the words on my screen, annoyed at myself for how quickly I’d spotted it. For how my belly had dipped when I saw that change in his movement. This was my job. I’d do this for any player on the team. It didn’t mean anything that I’d been watching him more closely than the others.

After practice, I did more treatments and returned to the office, finding Patty already there. When she looked up, strain creased her face.

“Kedish got hurt.”

My belly dropped. “What?”

“A groin injury. I need you to take on his treatment.” Rising from her chair, she turned and leaned against her desk, facing me.