Chapter 3
Chapter three
Insurance covers everything but a bruised ego
Reid
The ice pack slips for the third fucking time, and I hiss through my teeth as the cold shifts from numbing to stabbing. I adjust the angle, prop my leg higher on the pillow, and settle back against the couch with a sigh.
Across the room, gloomy daylight filters in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind that never quite warms anything.
The house sits high, nestled in the trees along the foothills bordering Denver.
My neighbors aren’t within hearing distance, and that’s exactly how I like it.
Quiet, with nothing else for miles. That’s the point.
Except for the view.
At the very edge of my backyard, the lawn drops away into nothing, a sheer fall that opens the world wide and gives way to a spectacular, sprawling view of Denver city in the distance.
The tips of the city’s skyline glitter almost as though they’ve been dusted with frost, and maybe they have. It’s December, after all.
My cat, who is loyal only when it suits her, chooses that exact moment to launch herself onto my lap like it’s a fucking trampoline. Her paws land on my thigh, and her slightly extended claws graze the edge of my brace.
“Gremlin,” I warn, as she circles once, then curls up right against the wrap. “Get your furry ass off the bad leg.”
She ignores me and instead chooses to purr like a chainsaw. I consider moving her, but I don’t. Not until I have to, when my phone buzzes on the coffee table. It’s just out of reach, and I could stretch for it, but Gremlin lets out a threatening squeak when I shift.
One leg’s fucked. The other’s supporting all my weight. My core strength’s fine, but between the cat and the ice and the general simmer of rage beneath my skin, I let the phone buzz once more before giving in.
Gremlin bites my thumb as I stretch to grab it.
“Jesus, you’re lucky I like you,” I mutter, jostling her off. She launches herself toward the hallway, disappearing into one of the spare rooms she’s claimed as her own.
The missed call is from my Grandpa Harry. I tap at the voicemail notification and put him on speaker as I shift the ice again.
“Hi, son. Got your message… You sound like shit.” He laughs. “Which means you must be laid up and not doing much. Good. Call me back if you’re not dead.”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. Classic Harry. Man’s got all the tenderness of a brick through a window, but it’s his signature way of checking in.
The condensation from the ice starts leaking down my thigh, and I swipe at it with a towel, resisting the urge to check the rehab app on my phone again. I’ve already reread the discharge summary, cross-checked Moreno’s protocols, and gone over the Olympic timeline twice.
Everything should be fine. Textbook, Moreno said. Clean tear, clean repair.
Dr. Park had agreed, her voice smooth and unshakable when she’d reviewed the post-op dressing.
She hadn’t smiled, but she’d hovered just long enough to make me think about it after.
Her hands had been steady again. Long fingers, gentle touch.
Definitely not goalie hands, but for some reason, those hands keep calming me more than anything else has in the last week.
Maybe because she doesn’t flinch. Maybe because she doesn’t smile and sugarcoat shit she knows hurts.
Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that the Olympics are ten weeks away, and I won’t be on the ice for at least sixteen. That’s playoffs territory, if I’m lucky. Sometimes it takes the unluckiest bastards nine months for a full return, which is a season-ender injury. A career-ender, even.
But mine won’t be one of them.
The knock at the door cuts through the quiet, and I hear Gremlin hiss from down the hall.
I mutter a curse, push myself upright with a grimace, and grab my crutches. The knock comes again.
“Hold your fucking horses.”
I open the front door to find Viktor Karlsson, a second-line defenseman for the Storm, leaning against the frame in his signature leather jacket, his blond hair knotted at the crown of his head.
Tattoos creep up his neck from beneath his collar, stark against his skin tone.
His expression is as neutral as always, though one brow lifts as he takes me in.
“You look like something I found at the bottom of my freezer,” he says.
His voice is deep and low-accented, clipped with his Swedish twang.
“And you look like Biker Ken,” I mutter, hobbling aside to let him through.
He steps inside, whistling low as he moves into the dining room.
“I forgot how big this place was,” he says, glancing around the open-plan layout. High ceilings with concrete walls, exposed steel, and warm timber beams. It’s modern. Clean. It’s mine. “Do you have all the lights turned off on purpose?”
“I’m recovering.”
“You’re brooding. You are grumpy like a winter cow. Not dangerous, but not pleasant to look at.”
“I just had a fucking meniscus repair done.”
He hums, then wanders over to the glass doors that open onto the back patio. Beyond it, the lawn stretches to the edge of the property, just past the beehives, then drops off sharply into the view.
“You do not get lonely up here?”
“No.”
Viktor turns to face me, his head tilting. “You say it too fast.”
“It’s peaceful.”
“It’s silent.”
“Same thing.”
“In Sweden, we only go this quiet if someone is dead.” He lets out a deep chuckle. “Moreno’s expecting us,” he adds, already gesturing back toward the front door. “And I was told to not let you drive.”
I glare at him as I grab my hoodie and shuffle toward the door, following him out to his black SUV. “Why is he expecting you?”
“Grade one MCL. I am cleared for light activity only.” He gestures to his own knee. “Which means I am babysitter today. And you are the baby.”
I settle into the passenger seat as he starts the car. “If you call me a baby again, I’m putting you through a window.”
“No babies,” he agrees solemnly. “Only toddlers.”
The drive isn’t too far from Moreno’s clinic, even though my place feels like it’s on the edge of the city.
Viktor keeps the commentary mostly factual—updates on the team, the lines, the drills.
Coach Benson’s tweaking rotations, trying to make room for the younger guys.
Our alternate goalie, Ethan Lee, has been stepping up. He has a good glove, but he’s not me.
“Storm is still holding,” Viktor says finally, his eyes on the road. “But it is not the same.”
I say nothing because I already know. Staring out the window, I let the ache in my leg hum alongside the silence.
When we pull into the lot outside the clinic, Viktor puts the car in park and turns to me.
“I will walk in with you.”
“I can manage.”
“Of course you can, but I am charming. The physio knows me, too. You may need that. She is… an interesting character.”
I let out a loud sigh. “Fine.”
He sidles around to the passenger door and pulls it open for me, and I gingerly slide out of the seat, situating myself with the crutches.
As we head toward the clinic entrance, Viktor’s eyes flick down at me.
“You got dressed in the dark?”
“Didn’t realize I needed fashion approval to get my knee fixed.”
“The hoodie doesn’t match the sweatpants.”
“Want me to knee you in the balls with my good leg?”
He chuckles. “You are a good flirt, Hutchison.”
As we approach, I notice my reflection in the glass doors, and I don’t like what I see. I look down at the pavement instead and wait for Viktor to open the door for me.
“Let’s go, Mr. Baby.”
My eyes roll back, but the corner of my mouth twitches as we make our way to the entrance. Because yeah, I’m grumpy as hell right now. But I’m also grateful, even if I’d rather eat glass than admit it.
The Moreno Clinic is trying too hard to be impressive. Glass walls, matte black railings, furniture that looks like it belongs in an art gallery instead of a medical office.
It’s the kind of place built for elite athletes with Olympic dreams and insurance that covers everything but their bruised ego.
A couple of the Colorado Mustangs are sprawled across the waiting room couches, one of the Miners’ rookies has ice strapped to both knees, and someone in a Team USA jacket walks out from the physio with a gait I don’t want to end up copying.
I adjust my crutch under one arm and limp forward toward reception, while Viktor sits down next to a Miners player and starts chatting.
Jenny, Moreno’s receptionist, who I’ve only met a couple times, is at the front desk. She’s focused on her typing, but the second she spots me, her posture straightens, and the smile she flashes is pure performance.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Hutchison,” she coos, her smile all teeth. “The clinic’s missed you limping through the halls.”
“Missed my cheerful demeanor?”
She gives a brittle laugh, as though it’s the funniest joke she’s heard all morning. “Of course. Dr. Moreno was hoping to be here for your follow-up today, but he was called into a last-minute consult. National gymnast. Achilles rupture during dismount. Tragic.”
I grunt, my eyes sweeping to the hallway. “Brutal.”
“So you’ll be with Dr. Park today instead,” she adds, flipping to another tab on her screen as her tone cools a few degrees. “I’m sure you remember her.”
My jaw tightens, but I nod once. Whatever. I just want this done.
Right on cue, she appears behind the frosted glass partition, pushing the door open with the side of her hip, her eyes trained on the tablet she’s holding.
She’s not in scrubs today, but not in her off-duty clothing either. The white lab coat is back, but she’s in a pencil skirt, with a tucked-in blouse underneath. My eyes trail down to her bare calves, lingering on the slender slope of her ankle.
“Jenny.” Dr. Park's voice cuts in, and my eyes jump back up to hers.
“Doctor,” Jenny replies, not looking up from her screen. “Mr. Hutchison is here.”
She doesn’t break stride as she makes her way over to me, a perfectly polite smile in place. “Hello again, Mr. Hutchison. You look…”