Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Aleksi
It’s been thirty-six hours since the motel.
Thirty-six hours since I pretended to be asleep while she slipped out before dawn, leaving nothing but the imprint of her body on the sheets and the ghost of her apology hanging in the air.
Please don’t hate me.
I wanted to tell her not to go, but even half-awake, I knew fighting it would only make things worse. So I stayed still, eyes closed, and let her slip out into the morning air—let her think she’d made a clean getaway. Because for whatever it’s worth, I know she needed it that way.
But that doesn’t mean it’s over.
I’ve been here before. Not with her, but with life trying to tell me no.
I wasn’t the draft pick everyone bet on.
I bounced between farm teams, spent years on an international circuit, had a career injury and surgery, then made a comeback to the AHL before I got my first NHL call-up, and even then, I wasn’t supposed to last. Every season since has been a fight to prove I belong.
I know what it feels like to start at the bottom of the roster and claw your way back onto the ice.
I know what it feels like to be the underdog, and I wear it as a badge of pride like my father taught me to do.
So no… this thing between us isn’t over. Maybe she thinks walking away is the smart play. Maybe it is, but I’ve made a career out of turning long shots into breakaways.
I just need home-ice advantage again, and a better plan to make her see there’s more here than she’s willing to admit. Because I don’t believe we ended up on the same team by accident.
Some things don’t happen by chance. Even the stars follow a pattern if you look close enough.
Still, knowing that doesn’t make the silence any easier to sit with.
The motel emptied fast once the CDC cleared us. Passengers, flight staff—all accounted for and free to go.
Turns out the man they airlifted out on a medevac helicopter didn’t have Ebola after all. Something else entirely—and not contagious.
An hour later, when the lobby started to clear out and I still hadn’t seen her, I finally pulled out my phone and texted her. I had asked one of the agents about her and they said she was swabbed and put on the first bus headed for the airport.
Me: Are you safe?
She answered... a few hours later.
Kendall: Yes. Just made it back to Seattle. And you?
Me: Boarding my flight now.
That was it.
She didn't respond back. Like the rest of it, the fear, the laughter, the way she’d whispered my name when she came for me, hadn’t even happened.
Later, somewhere between the CDC clearance and boarding my flight, I sent a second text.
Me: Can I come by your apartment when I get home? Just to see you.
I wasn't looking to push. I just wanted to see for myself that she was okay.
Kendall: That’s not a good idea. I’ll see you at the stadium.
Now I’m back in Seattle, sitting under the fluorescent buzz of the Hawkeyes locker room, ready to battle it out with Colorado for a western championship, because that's the only thing I have any control over.
She wasn’t at practice yesterday. Coach said she needed a day to rest. Theo covered her rounds.
He would’ve offered me the same, but I told him I was fine.
And I was… Physically.
Mentally? Not even close.
But only because of her, not from the quarantine. I’ve been told enough times in my life that I’m lucky to be alive.
I need the game. The routine. The smell of the ice, the drag of tape between my fingers, the burn in my thighs on the first stride. It’s the only thing that still feels like solid ground.
We’re one game from elimination. Winning the Western Conference isn’t just a goal anymore–it’s oxygen. The one thing that keeps me from replaying every second of that night until it drives me insane.
Still, I keep checking my phone between drills.
Just once more, I tell myself. Maybe she changed her mind.
But the screen stays dark.
Just silence.
The arena buzzes with the dull echo of pucks against boards and players on the ice.
Colorado’s already lined up in the opposite tunnel, helmets gleaming, their captain laughing like he doesn’t know what elimination means. The crowd is still filtering in, a low roar growing louder by the second.
I should be stretching. Visualizing. Focused. But all I can think about is whether she’s here.
Theo’s at the bench, clipboard in hand, but there’s no Kendall.
Then, out of nowhere, she walks in sporting a black Hawkeyes jacket with turquoise lining, dark slacks, hair pulled up in that no-nonsense way that makes her look like she could command a room full of chaos.
My chest loosens a fraction.
The last time I saw her, she was lying naked in my arms in a motel in the middle of nowhere.
Now we’re back in the same city, breathing the same air, in the same stadium but my hands still feel empty without her in them.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to relive that night with her one more time.
I just need to break through to her that there’s something between us worth trying for.
I skate toward the boards, slow, casual, like I’m just doing another lap. She’s talking to Slade, checking his wrist brace. Theo catches my glance and smirks knowingly before walking away.
I glide to a stop in front of her. “Hey, Doc.”
She startles slightly but recovers fast. “Aleksi.”
That sound. My name on her lips. It always sounds different when she says it. Better in some way.
“Did you make it back from Nevada okay?” I ask. “No more passed out passengers on board with a heart condition that it turns out no one knew about?”
“I did.” Her voice is smooth, professional. She takes a quick look around as if to see who’s listening in. “And no, my flight home was boring at best. Thanks.”
“That's all I get? A thanks?” I try to grin, but it feels weak.
Her eyes soften briefly, and for a second, I see the woman from that night. The one who laughed in a motel room while chaos swirled outside. But then her expression shutters again. “You should be focusing on the game.”
“I am. I just wanted to make sure we are okay.”
We are. But we agreed it can't happen again. Remember?" she whispers. “I left a note.”
“I know, I got it.” I say, and that kiss you left on my lips before you snuck out.
Her eyes flicker. “You’re a player. I’m the team doctor. I already have a history with the board and if they even sniff impropriety–”
“I don’t care about the board.”
“Well, I do,” she says, voice steady but sad. “And you should too. You worked too hard to get here. The Hawkeyes could suffer sanctions for this too. It’s not just about us.”
I could argue. I could tell her that what we had meant something, that maybe it was worth the risk.
But before I can, Slade shouts across the ice. “Mak! Let’s go!”
Kendall glances down the rink, relieved for the distraction.
“Wish me luck?” I ask, forcing a grin.
“Always.”
That one word fills me enough to tide me over... for now.
If I thought I was the only one feeling this, I'd let her go.
But I know I'm not. That apology--that last kiss. She could have left without any of it but she didn't. She looked back before she walked out the door. I could feel the pause. She’s debating her decision. There’s hesitation.
It's enough to prove that there's part of her that's curious about us. And that's all I need.
I don't need a sure thing. I just need a chance.
The puck drops and everything else fades.
This—this I can control.
I push off hard, feeling the blade slice through the ice. First line, first shift. Colorado’s fast, vicious in transition, and we’re fighting uphill the entire game. I take hits that rattle teeth, trade checks with their winger, grind through every second.
For twenty minutes, it’s just the game. The roar of the crowd, the sting in my lungs, the taste of adrenaline.
But every time my attention gets a break, my eyes find her near the home bench.
She’s all calm precision, tracking players, noting impacts, trading comments back and forth with Theo, ready if someone drops.
I tell myself not to look, but I can’t stop.
The second period starts with us down 2–1. I score on a rebound in the crease, evening the game. For a moment, I can breathe again. She cheers softly from the bench, not full-throated but enough that I catch it.
Then Colorado answers. And answers again.
By the end of the second, it’s 4–2.
The third period is a blur of sweat, hits, and desperation. I throw myself in front of pucks, dig for every rebound. It’s not enough.
When the horn sounds, it’s like the air is sucked out of the building.
4–2, final.
Colorado moves on.
We’re done-- out of the playoffs.
Our season is over.
The ache in my chest isn’t just from the loss, it’s from the weight of everything I couldn’t save.
The game.
Our playoff season.
Her.
The locker room is quieter than a funeral.
No one talks. Sticks thud into bags. Helmets clatter against metal. Someone’s crying in the showers, maybe a rookie who can’t handle the sting of his first playoff loss.
Coach moves through the room, one hand heavy on each shoulder he passes. “Hell of a season, boys. We’ll rebuild over the season break. We’ll come back stronger and ready for a win.”
When he stops beside me, his voice drops. “Good work, M?kelin. You’ve got the heart of a veteran. Just make sure next year, you keep it on the ice.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He squeezes once and walks off.
I sit there for a while, staring at my hands, my ‘wedding ring’ still on my finger.
This isn’t how I wanted to end the season. Not the game. Not her. Not any of it.
When I finally drag myself out to the hallway, the noise from the press pool echoes from the far tunnel. And there she is, standing just outside the door, clipboard in hand, exhaustion softening her face.
She looks up when I stop beside her.
“Rough night,” I say.
She nods. “You played hard. You should be proud.”
“Doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It rarely does,” she says quietly.
For a moment, we just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, both staring at the floor like it might give us answers.
“Are you heading home?” she asks finally.
“Yeah. Helsinki. I promised my nephew I’d help coach his team this summer. Haven’t seen him in two years.”
“That’ll be good for you,” she says softly. “You deserve a break.”
Ask me to stay. I want to blurt out.
Tell me not to go.
But she doesn’t, and I know that my nephew is waiting for me.
“What about you?” I ask. “You seeing family?”
Her mouth tightens slightly. “No. Just work. The guys are staying here for rehab and off-season training.”
“Sounds like you. Dedicated to the cause.”
She actually smiles, small and rueful. “Someone has to keep you all alive.”
“Guess that’s your specialty.”
We stand there another beat. There’s so much I want to say, and no good way to say any of it.
Behind us, the new PR rep, Chelsea—finally someone who could survive the media storm after Tessa Powers left for Aspen with her husband, Lake—gives me the nod. The press is waiting. Always waiting.
“Guess this is it, huh?”
“Guess so.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, and for one suspended second, we’re right back where we started. Back in that motel two nights ago, in the dark, with nothing between us but skin and breath, wrapped up in sheets with the dangerous illusion that the world outside didn’t exist.
Then someone calls my name again, and the moment breaks.
“Aleksi,” she calls out as I start to walk away.
I turn.
“For what it’s worth,” she says softly. “I don’t think I would have survived that night without you.”
"You would have. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."
She hesitates. “It’s going to be quiet around here without you,” her voice soft, then adds, “Maybe some space, and a fresh start with the new season will be good. For both of us.”
The words sting. She’s putting an entire offseason between us.
I still manage a smile. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want.” My throat tightens around the next part. “See you soon, Doc.”
Her lips curve, polite and careful. “Safe travels, M?kelin.”
Then she turns, heels clicking down the corridor until the sound fades.
And just like that, the message is clear—She wants space.
So I’ll give it to her, but not for long.
By the time I make it out of the stadium, the night air is cool enough to bite. I sit in my car longer than I should, phone in hand, thumb hovering over her name before I finally lock the screen.
If she needs space, I’ll give her miles of it.
A whole ocean, even.
I pull up my travel app, search Helsinki, and book the first flight out in the morning.
The team won’t need me again until camp starts, and maybe distance is the only thing that’ll keep me from finding excuses to see her.
Who knows—maybe a summer apart will clear the air.
Maybe when I get back, she’ll see things differently. Or maybe she won’t.
Either way, I got one night with her.
And if that’s all I ever get, it’s still more than I ever thought I’d have.