Chapter 3 #2
“Like hell. Yes, I’m aware.”
Her mouth curves, but she doesn’t argue. “Well, let’s see if we can change that. Follow me.”
She turns and leads the way down a hallway, her heels clicking against the polished concrete floors.
The place is littered with framed jerseys and gold-trimmed certificates.
The NHL’s Colorado Storm, the NFL’s Denver Mustangs, the NBA’s Denver Miners, and a handful of European club banners.
There are even Olympic rings in brushed metal on one plaque, which I scowl at as we turn.
The Moreno Clinic clearly wants to make sure everyone knows they treat the athletic elite.
She casts me a sideways glance, but doesn’t speak again until we reach her consult room.
“You gonna make it through the door, or do I need to roll out the red carpet?”
I grunt. “You always this warm and fuzzy, or is that just for me?”
“It’s mostly for you.”
She holds the door open, and I pass through, my shoulder brushing hers on the way in.
I sink down onto the examination bed she gestures to, and wait for her to finish rustling with the notes on her desk. Finally, she straightens, places a hand on her hip, and observes me.
“What?”
“Attitude’s still intact, I see.”
“Nice to see you too, Doc.”
“Please, call me Carina. Or at least address me by my full name you’re so fond of—Doctor Doom.”
“Only if you stop calling me Mr. Hutchison. Way too formal.”
“Okay, fine. Reid it is.”
I cross my arms because I don’t have a retort for that.
And I want her to call me Reid.
“Leg elevated like you’re supposed to?”
“Religiously.”
Her eyebrow lifts as she glances down at the screen in her hand. “You missed two log entries on the rehab app.”
“Because your app kept logging me out.”
She frowns. “That sounds like user error.”
“No, it sounds like a shit app.”
Her mouth twitches as she tosses her tablet back onto the desk, then rounds toward me, gesturing to my knee. “Come on. Let’s get this over with before you threaten the Wi-Fi, Reid.”
I snort, just as Jenny clears her throat from the doorway, a manila folder tucked in her arms.
“Apologies, Dr. Park,” she says sweetly, eyes flicking to mine and back again. “I just thought you might need Mr. Hutchison’s updated insurance file.”
Her smile is pleasant, her tone is not.
Carina doesn’t blink. “Thanks, Jenny. You can leave it on the desk.”
Jenny doesn’t move right away. She lingers for a beat, her gaze bouncing between us before she finally places the folder down with a little more force than necessary.
“I’ll let you get back to it,” she says, and disappears without waiting for a reply.
After the door clicks shut, Carina exhales slowly, as though she’s counting to ten.
“She always that fake?” I mutter.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t, Doc.”
She busies herself with prep, and I sneak glances as she twists her hair back off her face with a claw clip, while I take off my socks and roll up my sweatpants. Then she pulls on a pair of gloves, snapping one into place with a little more force than necessary, before stepping up close to my leg.
Her hands hover near my knee before settling lightly on either side of it, the exam table creaking beneath my weight as I adjust.
I’ve had a lot of hands on me in my career. Trainers, players, physios. It’s never been a thing. But this, even with the gloves, lands different.
It feels focused, but personal. Like I’m not just a number or another athlete to be paraded down the Moreno Clinic hallway. She’s not treating a goalie, she’s treating me.
Her fingers press gently along the line of the bandage.
“Incision looks good,” she murmurs. “No signs of inflammation.”
“Because I’ve been following instructions.”
She arches a brow. “Except for the ones about rest, which you forgot to log because the app’s shit, right?”
I don’t reply. She knows she’s right.
While she works, I let my eyes drift around the room.
A clipboard sits in its cradle near the wall. A couple of anatomy diagrams are pinned up, along with a printed rehab schedule in color-coded boxes. But some touches don’t match her no-nonsense vibe.
A small, spiky plant in a coral-pink pot that looks suspiciously fake. A crooked ceramic dish shaped like a cat, half full of paperclips. A misshapen pen-holder that looks like a kid made it.
My eyes land on a drink bottle perched on her desk. A giant fluorescent green monstrosity with glitter trapped in the sides. The kind of thing you’d see in a teenage girl’s gym bag. Doesn’t match the Dr. Doom vibe at all.
Lastly, I catch a photo tucked behind the computer monitor of three people. A blonde woman, a balding guy with a beer gut, and a teenage girl with braces and streaky blonde hair. They’re posed in front of some kind of amusement park, all smiles.
The woman looks most like Carina—same sharp cheekbones, same don’t-fuck-with-me mouth. But clearly not the same coloring. Carina carries a warm olive undertone, and she’s got straight and shiny dark hair, which dust her shoulders. She often has it clipped out of her face like it is now.
My eyes dart to another small frame angled beside it. A different man. With dark hair and a composed expression much closer in resemblance to hers.
Carina leans in, peeling back the bandage.
“Any pain today?”
“Nothing major.”
Her hands pause. “Twinges, soreness?”
I shrug. “Feels like someone took a scalpel to my knee and carved it open.”
“Mm. Good. That means we did it right.”
I huff, but then she presses her thumbs into the muscle above the incision, and I flinch.
“Jesus! You trying to kill me?”
“If I wanted to kill you, Hutchison, I would’ve knicked an artery, not your knee.”
I glance down at her, but she’s all business. She adjusts the position of my knee, then lifts the tablet and scrolls with one hand.
“Okay. Sutures are intact, and there’s no swelling or discharge. Range of motion?”
I tense. “Fine.”
She gives me a look.
“Moderate,” I amend.
She nods. “I’ll get Heidi to bring the low-intensity stretches in. Nothing more than fifteen minutes at a time. If you so much as think about a leg press before week three—”
“Noted.”
“You’d better mean that.”
She peels off her gloves with a practiced flick and drops them in the bin. I’m about to open my mouth to retort when there’s a knock on the door, and a blur of pink appears.
“Sorry!” a voice calls cheerfully. “Left my emotional support hydration in here!”
A woman about Carina’s age breezes in, her athletic wear a bright, floral pink pattern that definitely isn’t clinic-issued. She snatches up the green glitter bottle and gives me a quick once-over before grinning.
“Hi. You must be the goalie who’s been logging into my rehab app at all hours of the day and night.”
“Who the hell are you?”
She doesn’t seem offended. In fact, she grins wider. “Heidi Grant. We’re gonna be physio buddies.”
“I’m thrilled,” I reply dryly, reaching for my socks.
Carina bites her lip to stifle a grin, then gestures to the drink bottle now in Heidi’s hands.
“You left your bottle in here again.”
“I left it by accident when I came in looking for you earlier. You skipped lunch, so I thought you’d be hiding in here.”
“I’m sorry, are you the food police?”
“When it comes to ensuring your sustenance levels, absolutely.”
Heidi drops into the chair beside Carina’s desk and turns her attention on me again.
“That log entry at 2:14 a.m.?” she says, eyeing me like she already knows the answer. “That a goalie thing, or just a you thing?”
I tug my sock the rest of the way. “It was 2:09.”
She hums, entirely unimpressed. “You know there’s no leaderboard for compulsive data logging, right?”
“Tell that to my quad.”
She snorts. “Obsessive and defensive. Excellent rehab traits. Can’t wait to start.”
Carina barely reacts, instead opening a drawer and prepping paperwork as though she’s used to Heidi’s antics.
“Compulsive athletes,” she mutters. “We’ll have to form a support group.”
“Only if you bake for it,” Heidi says with a grin, before her tone shifts again. “Vitals all clear?”
“Wound’s healing well, range is ahead of protocol.”
“Of course it is.” Heidi stands with a sigh and grabs a folder from the desk to read through the notes, then tosses me a look over her shoulder.
“You’re a week out and already acting like the Olympics are tomorrow.
I’ll grab a print-out of the extended low-load protocol for you. You might as well use it.”
I nod curtly. “Thanks.”
“You can wait in the front lounge,” she says, already walking out the door. “I’ll bring it out.”
I stand carefully, reaching for my crutch to steady myself.
“She’s quirky, but she’ll put you through your paces,” Carina says, stepping around her desk with a sheet of paper in hand.
“That’s to be confirmed,” I mutter.
“Your dressing change schedule,” she says, offering me the sheet.
I reach for it, but her hand doesn’t drop away the second I touch it. Our hands brush lightly—warm and dry, just a touch. Not long enough to be anything, but enough to feel the texture of her skin. The press of her thumb as she releases the page.
She glances up at the same time as I do, but neither of us says a thing. The contact is brief and probably accidental, but something coils in the space between us, and fuck if I don’t feel it all the way down my spine.
“Thanks.”
“And make sure you’re icing properly.”
Her voice is clinical again, but her tone’s different. Less detached.
“I am.”
“Good.” She turns back to her desk and busies herself with paperwork. “Don’t skip it, Reid. Even if you’re super busy logging everything like a maniac.”
I glance back, just long enough to catch the edge of her profile, watching as she takes her hair claw back out, and her hair tumbles out onto her shoulders.
My mouth twitches. “Bye, Doc.”
Jenny’s back behind the desk when I limp out. Still cool, still polite, but not overly impressed by my existence. I confirm my next session, mutter something about waiting for a print-out from Heidi, and drop into a chair by the window next to Viktor.
He’s flipping through a magazine. “All good?”
“Yeah.” I scroll through my phone, but don’t see the screen. I’m still thinking about the way Carina’s skin felt against mine. “Met your physio friend.”
He looks up at that. “Heidi?”
I nod, but before I can say more, there’s a sharp laugh followed by footsteps.
Carina and Heidi emerge from the hallway, both mid-conversation.
Carina’s clipped her hair back again, and Heidi’s grasping that stupid green glitter bottle and a fresh stack of print-outs.
She’s talking at a volume loud enough to overhear.
“She said his pain was at a nine, but then casually mentioned taking a yoga class that afternoon,” Heidi’s saying. “Like, babe, be fucking serious.”
“I’m still not over the guy you said faked fainting to avoid core work.” Carina laughs.
Heidi cackles. “To be fair, he did almost break his tailbone on the glute roller. I nearly passed out laughing.”
She’s bright, relaxed. Laughing with a friend. It’s both strange and exhilarating to see such a different side of her. As they reach the reception desk, Jenny calls out.
“Dr. Park, that email about the fundraising gala just came through. The slideshow for the tribute portion’s been moved forward. They want it played before the auction starts.”
Carina freezes, just for a second. Then her hand tightens around the clipboard she’s holding. It’s barely a shift, but I see it.
Heidi pauses, too, her tone softening. “That’s for your osteosarcoma patient, right? The eight-year-old?” She shakes her head. “Poor kid. Hope the fundraiser brings in enough for the trial enrollment.”
Carina just nods, and I watch as her throat works. She holds her expression neutral, then takes one smooth and deep inhale, before turning back to a folder on the reception desk.
Heidi watches her for a beat, sighing as she taps the print-out against her hand, then glances over to where Viktor and I are seated. She crosses towards us and holds it out.
“Here. Custom-modified protocol. Don’t make me regret giving you an inch.”
I grunt and take it. “No promises.”
But I’m not looking at her. Carina’s moving back to the corridor now, standing by the corner and pausing before the hallway splits off. Her posture’s straight, but her hands shift like she’s not sure where to put them.
She turns just enough to look back, and her eyes catch mine. Neither of us smiles, but she lifts her chin slightly. Her version of a nod.
I match it back, and then she’s gone.
Viktor stands and stretches beside me, gesturing to Heidi.
“Still making grown men cry?”
She grins. “Only the ones who deserve it.”
“So. All of us.”
Heidi hands him a separate print-out. “Saw you were out here, so got this for you, too. Try doing your exercises this time, Karlsson.”
“I did them.”
“Once. Badly.”
He studies the sheet. “I do not remember it that way.”
“You don’t remember limping out and calling me a tyrant?”
“No. I said you were a mild authoritarian. That is different. Someone else must have called you a tyrant.”
“Sure,” she deadpans. “Another six-foot-five Swede with a man bun and a death wish.”
Viktor chuckles low like she’s made a reasonable point, then jerks his chin toward the door. “Come on, Hutchy. Before this woman assigns us partner yoga.”
I follow him out, both the protocol packet and the ghost of Carina’s touch in hand.