Page 85 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

“No driving. No lifting. No skating. No resistance work. Sling protocol. Pendulums only as tolerated. Rib precautions.”

“Sounds like you already know him.”

A small laugh slips out before I can stop it. “I know the injury.”

“Not what I said.”

I look up. Elise smiles, then mercifully lets the subject go.

“Clinic tour?”

“Yes, please.”

For the next hour, I learn the rhythm of the department. The charting stations, the supply closet, private evaluation rooms, the gym schedule, and the coffee machine that no one trusts but everyone uses.

I meet therapists, aides, nurses, techs, and front-desk staff whose names I repeat silently after hearing them because names matter.

Jamie’s voice drifts through my memory. People deserve to be known.

I pause beside the therapy bands. My chest tightens in a way I refuse to examine too closely.

Professional boundaries exist for a reason. I know that. I respect that. Jamie Walker is a patient.

A memorable patient. A kind patient. A patient whose recovery I happen to understand better than most because I watched the first painful days of it.

That is all.

At 9:57, the front doors slide open. I know it before I look, not because of commotion. There isn’t any.

No cameras. No entourage. No jersey. Just a man in dark jeans, winter boots, and a gray sweatshirt, his left arm secured in a sling beneath a heavy coat.

Jamie pauses inside the entrance, and for a moment, he doesn’t see me.

He takes in the gym first.

The tables.

The equipment.

The patients.

The people working hard at movements most of the world takes for granted.

Without the helmet, the uniform, the arena lights, and the stitched C on his chest, he looks simply human. His hair is a little mussed from the winter wind. His face is still pale beneath the healing bruises. He stands like a man trying not to show how much the drive cost him.

When his gaze finds mine, he stops. A slow smile touches his mouth. Not the polite smile he gives staff. Not the public smile people expect from a professional athlete.

This one is quieter. Relieved. “Annette.”

My name in his voice should not feel familiar. It does anyway.

“Mr. Walker.”

His smile deepens. “Back to that?”

“We’re in a clinic.”

“So, we’re pretending you haven’t threatened me with paperwork?”