Chapter 4
Chapter four
Offside - Entering the offensive zone before the puck crosses the blue line.
Cinder
I’d assumed “traveling with the team” meant the players, a couple of coaches, and maybe medical.
I was wrong.
I stood just inside the hangar doors, my duffel slung over my shoulder, and stared as bodies kept appearing from everywhere—rolling garment bags, equipment trunks, laptops tucked under arms, coffee cups balanced precariously on clipboards.
It felt less like a hockey team and more like a small, well-organized migration.
They just… kept coming.
Players first, loud and loose, already half in game mode. Coaches clustered together, heads bent, talking systems and matchups like they couldn’t help themselves. Then the rest of them—the people you never saw on TV but without whom none of it worked.
Video staff. PR. Operations. Equipment.
So many people. All moving with purpose.
“First big trip?” a voice asked.
I turned to find Mark, one of the equipment managers—the kind of man who looked permanently built out of shoulders and calm. He’d helped me find my locker the first week.
“Is it that obvious?” I asked.
Traveling medic, apparently, was a promotion. I still wasn’t trusted to make a medical call, but I was trusted enough to sit on the bench.
Go me.
He grinned. “You’re standing still. Nobody does that once they know better.”
I laughed, a little embarrassed, and followed as he started walking again. “I didn’t realize how many of you traveled.”
“All of us,” he said easily. “If it touches a player, we’re here. Bodies, skates, tape, cameras, paperwork.” He jerked his chin toward a man struggling with a Pelican case. “That’s Alex. Video. He’s the reason coaches sleep at night.”
As if summoned, Alex looked up and waved. “Hey, Doc—uh—Medic,” he corrected quickly, then winced. “Sorry. Still learning.”
“It’s fine,” I said, surprised by how much it mattered that he’d tried. “Cinder’s good.”
“Cinder,” he repeated, testing it like he wanted to get it right. “You’re with us now. You’ll get used to the chaos.” I wasn’t sure I would. Alex did share that this was an upgrade. After the recent wins and a few new sponsors moving in, the team now got its own plane.
We climbed the stairs into the plane, and I paused again—unable to help it this time.
Rows of wide seats. Team logos stitched into headrests.
Players already sprawled out like this was their living room.
Staff greeting each other by first name, trading snacks, plugging things in.
I felt my shoulders ease slightly. "Thanks. "
"Medical usually grabs the back left seats. Quiet. Easy exit to the galley."
I nodded, knowing that was a polite way of telling me only the stars sat up front, and made my way down the aisle, keeping my head down, trying not to look like I was gawking even though I absolutely was.
Players called out greetings as I passed. Max waved enthusiastically from his seat. Cole nodded.
And then—
"Cinder."
I looked up before I could stop myself.
Taranis sat three rows back, already settled in with a book open on his lap. He looked up at me with those steady eyes, expression carefully neutral, and I felt something twist uncomfortably in my chest. But then I’d been carefully neutral with him all week.
"Taranis," I said, matching his tone. Professional. Friendly. The way I'd greeted everyone else.
His mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, just a fraction, but I caught it. Hurt flickered across his face before he smoothed it away, dropping his gaze back to his book.
I kept walking. It was the right thing to do. The professional thing. The safe thing. So why did it feel like I'd just kicked a puppy?
I found the seat Mark had mentioned—back left, window, blessedly empty beside me—and pushed my bag into the overhead compartment with more force than necessary. My hands were shaking slightly as I buckled in.
This was fine. I was fine.
I'd done what I needed to do. Set a boundary. Kept things professional. Exactly what I'd promised myself when I took this job. The fact that Taranis looked like I'd physically hurt him was not my problem.
Except it felt like my problem.
I pulled out my phone and stared at it without seeing anything, trying very hard not to replay the way his expression had shuttered when I'd walked past. Trying not to think about the fact that he'd crossed an entire club just to thank me.
That he'd given me his jacket without hesitation.
That when he'd asked if he could buy me a drink, his voice had been so careful, so hopeful, like he was bracing for rejection but asking anyway.
And I'd given him exactly what he'd been bracing for.
My phone buzzed. Amy. How's the fancy plane?
I typed back: Fancier than my apartment.
That's not saying much. You surviving?
I glanced up without meaning to, my gaze finding the back of Taranis's head seven rows ahead.
Yeah, I typed. I'm surviving.
The plane's engines started, a low rumble that built into something powerful. Around me, conversations continued, easy and familiar. Someone laughed. Someone else complained about the coffee. The team settled into the rhythm of travel like they'd done this a thousand times.
Because they had.
And I was the new variable. The unknown. The guy who'd been fired from his last job, someone who had his entire professional failure documented online for anyone to google.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the seat. Grateful for Nancy, because if she hadn't recommended me I would probably be working on a checkout line.
Mark nudged my shoulder gently as he sat down. “Don’t worry. First trip does this to everyone.”
“Does what?” I asked. Makes you realize how small you are, I thought. How replaceable.
But that wasn’t what he said. “Makes you realize how many people are holding this thing together,” he said. “You included.”
I swallowed, the hum of the plane settling around us. For the first time since I’d taken the job, the weight in my chest wasn’t just pressure.
It was awe.
This wasn’t just a team.
It was an ecosystem.
We landed in Vancouver just over three hours later, the plane touching down with barely a jolt.
I'd spent most of the flight pretending to sleep, which meant I'd actually spent most of the flight listening to the team exist around me—laughter, trash talk, the occasional thud of something being thrown.
Normal. Easy. A world I didn't quite fit into yet.
The hotel was nice in that sterile, expensive way hotels always were—marble floors, too-bright lights, staff who smiled without meaning it. We checked in as a unit, the team moving through the lobby like a small army.
I got my key card and my room assignment and tried not to feel relieved that I was rooming alone. Medical staff apparently rated their own space. Small mercies.
My room was on the eighth floor, tucked at the end of a hallway that smelled like industrial carpet cleaner. I dropped my bag on the bed and stood there for a moment, staring at generic hotel art and wondering what the hell I was doing.
My phone buzzed.
Team dinner at 7. Ballroom downstairs. Don't skip it.
The text was from Mark, which surprised me. I hadn't realized equipment managers kept track of medical staff social obligations, but Mark had a lot of experience, and I was grateful.
I typed back: I'll be there. And then, because I couldn't help myself, I added: Is it mandatory?
His response came immediately: Technically no. Realistically yes. Trust me.
I sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, scrubbing both hands over my face.
Team dinner meant people. Conversation. Pretending I belonged when I very clearly didn't. It meant sitting at a table surrounded by men who'd known each other for years while I tried to figure out which fork to use and whether it was acceptable to leave early.
It also meant Taranis would be there.
My stomach twisted.
I'd been avoiding thinking about him all flight, which was impressive considering I'd been acutely aware of his presence the entire time. Heard him laugh once at something Max said. Noticed when he got up to use the bathroom and when he came back.
I stood abruptly and headed for the shower, turning the water as hot as it would go.
Steam filled the small bathroom, fogging the mirror until I couldn't see my own reflection. Good. I didn't want to look at myself right now. Didn't want to see the exhaustion or the doubt or whatever pathetic expression I was wearing that made people like Mark feel the need to check on me.
The water burned against my skin, but I stayed under it anyway, letting it scald away the tension that had been building since the club. Since I'd walked away from Taranis on that balcony and felt something splinter inside my chest.
He'd looked so hopeful when he'd asked if he could buy me a drink.
I pressed my forehead against the tile, eyes closed, and tried to convince myself I'd done the right thing. The safe thing. The only thing that made sense given my track record with trust and relationships and literally everything else in my life.
It didn't work.
Because the truth was, I hadn't walked away because I wasn't interested.
I'd walked away because I was too interested.
I'd noticed him on my third day. He was hard to miss given his size, but it wasn't that.
Or not just. It was those soft blue-gray eyes and his gentle manner that had attracted me.
Because when Taranis had looked at me with those steady eyes and offered me his jacket without hesitation, something in me had wanted to lean into it.
Into him. Into the possibility of something good.
And I couldn't afford that.
Not again.
I stayed in the shower until I couldn't avoid getting out or I'd be late, drying off with a towel that was somehow both too scratchy and too soft. Hotel towels were always wrong.