Chapter 23 First Circle
FIRST CIRCLE
JACE
The training facility felt different when it was just me and Tess. The rest of the team was on the ice for practice, and I could hear the distant sound of skates and whistles echoing through the walls. I should've been out there with them.
Instead, I was here.
Tess looked up from her computer when I walked in. “Hartley. Right on time.”
“Yeah. Figured I should start things off right.”
“Good call.” She stood, already moving toward the treatment area. “Today we're starting with shoulder mobility and stability work, then we'll move to leg strengthening.” She paused. “It's going to hurt. A lot. You good with that?”
“Yeah.”
“Then let's go.”
She started me on resistance band work—external rotations that made my shoulder burn after the first set. I kept my breathing steady, focused on form, didn't complain when she added more resistance.
“Good. Ten more.” Tess stood beside me, watching my mechanics. “Keep your elbow tight to your side. I want controlled movement, not momentum.”
I adjusted, feeling the difference immediately. The burn intensified.
“That's it. Five more.”
I finished the set and lowered the band, shoulder trembling slightly.
“How's the pain?” she asked.
“Manageable.”
“On a scale.”
“Six.”
She made a note on her tablet. “Better. You're learning.” She switched out the band for a heavier resistance. “Same thing. Three sets of fifteen.”
The second set was harder. The third had me gritting my teeth. But I got through it without stopping, without asking for a break.
Tess moved me to the treatment table next. “Shoulder press. Light weight. I want to see your range of motion under load.”
She handed me a five-pound dumbbell that felt like fifty when I tried to press it overhead. My shoulder protested immediately, muscles shaking with the effort.
“Slow and controlled,” Tess said. “Full extension, then back down. Twelve reps.”
I pushed through it. The weight felt unstable, like my shoulder couldn't quite figure out how to support it properly. But I finished the set.
“Again. Three more sets.”
By the fourth set, my shoulder was on fire. But I didn't stop. Didn't complain. Just kept moving.
“You're compensating with your trap,” Tess noted. “Reset your shoulder blade. Down and back.”
I adjusted, felt the difference, kept going.
When she finally called time on the shoulder work, I was shaking. She handed me a water bottle and I drank half of it in one go.
“Good work. Now the leg.”
She had me do single-leg deadlifts—bodyweight only—and my hamstring screamed in protest. The scar tissue was tight, pulling with every rep, but I focused on balance, on form, on not falling over.
“Ten more. Keep your hips square.”
I finished the set, switched legs, did it again.
Then step-ups. Then lateral band walks that made my hip flexor burn. Then single-leg squats that had me wobbling but staying upright.
Tess pushed me through it all without mercy. Every time I finished a set, she had another one ready. Every time I thought we were done, she added more.
An hour in, my entire body was trembling with fatigue.
“Last exercise,” Tess said. “Plank position. I want you holding for sixty seconds. Core engagement is crucial for protecting that shoulder when you're getting hit.”
I dropped into plank position, already feeling the strain.
“Sixty seconds. Starting now.”
The first thirty seconds were fine. The next twenty were hell. The last ten had my arms shaking so badly I thought I might collapse.
“Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Down.”
I dropped to my knees, breathing hard, sweat dripping onto the mat beneath me.
Tess handed me the water bottle again. “Good. You didn't quit on me.”
“Didn't want to.”
“I noticed.” She made notes on her tablet. “Pain levels?”
“Shoulder's an eight. Leg's a six.”
“Honest answer?”
“Yeah.”
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “You showed up today, That matters.”
I took another drink of water, trying to catch my breath. “Coach said I needed to do this right.”
“He's correct.” She set the tablet down.
“But here's the thing—I need you to understand that hiding injuries or lying about pain levels puts both of us at risk.
You already know what happened with Dr. Warren.
He could've reported me for keeping that hamstring injury off your record.
The only reason I'm still here is because I promised it would never happen again.”
“I know. And I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking about—”
“About who else you were putting in the line of fire. I know.” Her voice was firm but not unkind.
“So here's how this works going forward. You show up. You do the work. You tell me the truth about how your body feels. No shortcuts. No hero bullshit. And if something feels wrong, you tell me immediately.”
“And if I don't?”
“Then I pull you from the prelim roster myself and tell Coach exactly why.” She met my eyes. “I can't protect you from consequences if you keep choosing secrets. So you need to decide what matters more—your pride or your career.”
I thought about Grant's words at the cabin. About Owen's advice. About all the times I'd chosen to hide instead of ask for help.
“My career,” I said. “My career matters more.”
“Good.” She picked up her tablet. “Then we do this by the book. You miss a session without a valid reason, we have a problem. You lie about pain, we have a bigger problem. But if you're honest with me, if you trust the process—we'll get you ready.”
“I can do that.”
“I know you can.” She made a final note. “Same time tomorrow. Bring that same energy.”
I nodded, grabbed my water bottle, and headed for the showers. My shoulder throbbed. My leg ached. Every muscle in my body was screaming.
But I'd done it. Showed up. Did the work. Told the truth.
It was a start.
I went to the rink afterward.
Not to skate but just to be near the team. To remind myself I still belonged even when I wasn't playing. The locker room was empty when I got there, guys still out on the ice for afternoon practice, and I sat down in my stall and just breathed.
“Hartley.”
I looked up to find Rook standing in the doorway, helmet in hand, sweaty and flushed from drills. He walked over and dropped into the stall beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched, and started unlacing his skates like he'd planned to be there all along.
“Practice go well?”
“Mercer took a puck to the ass in the third drill. So yeah, pretty good.” He pulled one skate off and dropped it. “Hallowell's been doing your drills.”
“How's he looking?”
“Terrible. It's been great for morale.” He glanced at me sideways. “You're welcome.”
I almost smiled. “Glad my injury's working out for everyone.”
“Silver linings.” He started on the second skate. “You eaten today?”
“...I had coffee.”
“Unbelievable.” He shook his head like I'd personally offended him. “You're a professional athlete.”
“I'm an injured professional athlete. Different category.”
“Same stomach.” He leaned back against the stall, stretching his legs out. “Coach doesn't drive hours into the woods for a player he doesn't care about, you know.”
I looked at him, trying to read his expression, but Rook's face gave nothing away. “What are you saying?”
“I'm saying whatever happened up at that cabin, it wasn't just about hockey.” He met my eyes. “And before you panic—I don't care. You're allowed to have a life outside of this rink.”
My heart was pounding too fast. “Rook—”
“Look, I'm not asking for details about your feelings or whatever.” He made a face like the word feelings physically pained him.
“I'm just saying you don't have to act like everything's fine when it's clearly not.
And if there's something you want to tell me, now's the time. I'm trapped here anyway.”
The opening was there. I could take it or leave it.
Fuck it.
I looked at him. “You know I'm not going to end up with anyone's sister.”
Rook didn't even blink. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
“That's it?” I said.
“What did you want, a parade?” He picked at a piece of tape on his shin pad. “You're my guy, Hart. That's not conditional.”
“So you're... okay with it?”
“Why wouldn't I be?”
“I don't know. Hockey culture? Locker room talk? The fact that we share a shower?”
“Hart, I've seen you naked approximately a thousand times. If you were going to make a move, you would've done it by now.” He paused. “Also, I'm not your type.”
“How would you know what my type is?”
“Because I've seen the way you look at Coach.”
My stomach dropped. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.” Rook's expression turned more serious. “Look, I'm not blind. And I'm not going to pretend I don't see what's happening. But that's your business, not mine.”
“Rook, if anyone finds out—”
“Then they find out. And they can deal with it or get the fuck off my team.” He shrugged. “But I'm not going to tell anyone. That's your call.”
I stared at him. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He stood up, grabbed his water bottle. “You're still my winger. Still the guy I trust to bury the puck when I set you up. Still someone who shows up when it matters. The rest of it? Doesn't change a damn thing.”
“You're being weirdly cool about this.”
“What did you expect? That I'd freak out and request a trade?” He snorted. “Give me some credit, Hart. I went to college. I know gay people exist.”
“That's a low bar, Cap.”
“Yeah, well. I'm working with what I've got.” He paused, grin spreading. “So. Coach, huh?”
My face heated. “Don't—”
“No, no, I'm genuinely curious. How does that even work? Like, does he yell at you during sex? 'Hartley, your positioning is shit, adjust your hips'?”
“Fuck off.”
“I'm just saying, the man's entire vocabulary is hockey terminology. Must make dirty talk interesting.” Rook was enjoying this way too much. “'Good work on that finish'? 'Keep your stick on the ice'?”
“I hate you.”
“Does he make you do bag skates if you—”
“I will end you, Rook.”