Chapter 1
ANNE
FALL SEMESTER - CORNELL UNIVERSITY
Iwas trying not to stare at his chest.
It was my first day in the training room, and I'd already broken about seventeen rules of professional conduct—staring being chief among them—as I watched Liam O'Connell peel off his practice jersey, revealing the kind of body that made pre-med physiology textbooks seem inadequate.
He dropped the jersey on the floor like he owned the place.
He probably did.
“Ankle,” he said, swinging his leg up onto the taping table with the kind of casual confidence that came from being the most important person in every room he walked into. “Make it good. Clarkson's defensemen are trying to murder me.”
I looked up from the medical tape, meeting his eyes for the first time, and felt something shift in my chest that had nothing to do with professional athletic training.
I was so fucked.
The team flooded into the training room like a tidal wave of muscle and testosterone. Twenty guys, all talking at once, arguing about last night's game film, razzing each other with the kind of casual cruelty that apparently passed for affection in hockey culture.
And then I saw him.
Liam O'Connell.
I knew who he was, of course. Everyone at Cornell knew who he was.
Star winger, first-team All-American, projected to go pro after graduation.
The guy who scored the game-winning goal in last year's NCAA championship game with a separated shoulder and didn't tell anyone until after the trophy ceremony.
BMOC—Big Man on Campus. Delta Upsilon brother. The kind of guy who walked through campus and everyone knew his name.
I was a Delta Gamma, pre-PT track, work-study in the training room. We ran in completely different circles.
He was taller than I expected. Broader. Dark hair still wet from the shower, blue eyes that were somehow both intense and playful. He moved with the kind of easy confidence that came from knowing exactly how good you were.
"New trainer?" he asked, dropping onto the bench in front of me.
"Assistant student trainer. Anne Mitchell."
"Liam O'Connell." He stuck out his hand, and when I shook it, his grip was firm, warm. "You know how to tape ankles?"
"I know seventeen different ankle taping techniques. Which one do you prefer?"
His eyebrows rose, impressed. "The one that'll keep me upright when Clarkson's defensemen are trying to murder me."
"That's all of them."
He grinned. "I like you already, Mitchell."
Something fluttered in my stomach that had nothing to do with pre-game nerves.
"Ankle," I said, gesturing to the taping table. "Let's see what we're working with."
He swung his leg up, and I started my assessment. His ankle was a roadmap of old injuries—scar tissue, limited dorsiflexion, compensatory tightness in his Achilles. This was an ankle that had been taped hundreds of times, that had taken hits that would sideline most people.
"You've sprained this badly," I said, prodding gently at the lateral ligament. "More than once."
"Twice. Sophomore year and last season."
"And you kept playing."
"Had to. We were in the tournament."
I looked up at him. "That's stupid."
The training room went quiet. Someone whistled. His teammates were staring at me like I just committed social suicide.
Liam just laughed. "You're not wrong. But Coach Davies cleared me."
"Coach Davies isn't the one who has to live with chronic ankle instability when you're thirty."
"Noted." His eyes met mine, and something passed between us—respect, maybe. Recognition. "Can you fix it?"
"I can tape it so it's supported. But you should be doing strengthening exercises. Proprioception training. I can show you after practice."
"You offering to give me private training sessions, Mitchell?"
The way he said it—half teasing, half serious—made my face heat.
"I'm offering to keep you from destroying your ankle before you graduate. What you do with that information is up to you."
"I'll take the private sessions."
I finished taping his ankle—tight, supportive, the way he'd need it—and watched him head out to the ice with his teammates.
Coach Davies appeared next to me. "Liam O'Connell just flirted with you."
"He did not."
"Honey, I've been doing this for thirty years. That was flirting. And you flirted back."
"I was being professional."
"You called him stupid."
"He played on a sprained ankle!"
She laughed. "Just remember: no dating the athletes. It's in your contract."
"I'm not going to date him."
"Sure you're not."
She was right, of course.
I was absolutely going to date him.
THREE MONTHS LATER - WINTER brEAK
"Make it tight, Mitchell," Liam said, propping his ankle on my lap in the empty training room. "I'm going to need all the support I can get tonight."
We were playing Harvard in two hours. Championship implications. The entire campus was buzzing with pre-game energy.
I was trying very hard not to think about the fact that I was falling for him…hard.
It had happened gradually, then all at once.
Extra training sessions that turned into coffee afterward.
Him waiting for me after my anatomy labs.
Late-night study sessions where he'd quiz me on muscle groups while I taped his ankles.
The way he'd find me in the stands after games, still sweaty and grinning, like I was the only person who mattered.
We hadn't kissed. Hadn't even talked about whatever this was between us. But it was there, crackling in the space between every conversation, every touch, every time his eyes lingered on mine a beat too long.
"There," I said, finishing the tape job. "That should hold."
"You're magic, you know that?"
"It's athletic tape, not magic."
"No, I mean you. Your hands. The way you can just... fix things."
He was looking at me with those blue eyes, and I forgot how to breathe.
"Liam—"
"Come to the after-party tonight," he said. "Win or lose. Come celebrate with us."
"I don't really do parties."
"Then come celebrate with me. Just me. Pizza and terrible reality TV at my place."
It wasn't a date. It was definitely not a date.
"Okay," I heard myself say.
His smile could have powered the entire arena.
They won 4-3. Liam scored two goals and an assist. When I met him outside the locker room two hours later, he was showered and changed, hair still damp, smiling like he just won the lottery.
"Pizza?" he asked.
"Pizza."
We ended up at his off-campus apartment—a place he shared with two other guys on the team who were conveniently out tonight. He ordered pizza with everything, the way I liked it, because of course he remembered.
We didn't watch reality TV.
We sat on his couch, pizza between us, and talked. About everything. About his dad teaching him to skate when he was four. About my mom being a nurse and inspiring me to go into medicine. About his dreams of the NHL. About my plans for physical therapy school.
"You're going to be amazing," he said. "Some NHL team is going to be lucky as hell to have you as their PT."
"You're going to be amazing too. First-round draft pick, guaranteed.
"Maybe." He set down his pizza, turning to face me fully. "Anne, I need to tell you something."
My heart stopped. "Okay."
"I like you. A lot. I have since that first day when you called me stupid for playing on a sprained ankle.
And I know there's a rule about trainers dating athletes, but I can't—I can't keep pretending I don't think about you every second I'm not on the ice.
Or on the ice. Pretty much all the time, actually. "
I knew what I should do.
Reference my contract.
Keep it professional.
Walk away.
Instead, I kissed him.
He froze for half a second, surprised, then his hands were in my hair and he was kissing me back like I was air and he'd been drowning. It was desperate and sweet and perfect, and when we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
"That was—" he started.
"Against the rules," I finished.
"Completely inappropriate."
"Totally unprofessional."
"Want to do it again?"
"God, yes."
We kissed until the pizza was cold and my lips were swollen and his hair was a complete mess from my fingers running through it. When he finally pulled back, we were both grinning like idiots.
"So," he said, still catching his breath. "Does this mean you'll go out with me?"
"I think we just did."
"I mean on an actual date. Dinner. Movie. The whole thing."
"That violates my contract."
"I know."
"I could lose my work-study position."
"I know."
"It's incredibly unprofessional."
"I know."
I kissed him again. "Pick me up tomorrow at seven."
SIX MONTHS LATER - SPRING SEMESTER
Cornell won the championship that year. Liam scored the winning goal in overtime, and I was there in the stands, screaming my lungs out like every other Cornell student, knowing that underneath my team colors, I was wearing the necklace he gave me for my birthday—a simple silver chain with a tiny hockey stick pendant.
After graduation, he'd go to the NHL. After my senior year, I'd apply to DPT programs. We'd figure it out. We'd make it work.
We always made it work.
I was twenty years old, in love with a future NHL star, and convinced that nothing could go wrong.
I was so na?ve.
ONE YEAR LATER - SENIOR YEAR
"I have news!" Liam burst into the campus coffee shop where I was studying for my anatomy final, practically vibrating with energy.
I looked up from my flashcards. "You're interrupting my study session. This better be good."
"It's good. Trust me." He slid into the booth across from me, grabbed my hands. "Anne Mitchell, you are looking at the future of the Chicago Storm."
"What?"
"Draft. June. They're taking me first round."
I threw my flashcards in the air and launched myself across the table, kissing him while a dozen other students stared. "Oh my God! Liam! That's incredible!"
"We're going to Chicago," he said, pulling back to look at me, eyes bright with excitement. "You and me. I'll play hockey. You'll do your DPT program. We're doing this."
"We're doing this," I agreed.
I believed him. I believed every word.
I believed we were forever.
As we drove back to his apartment that night to celebrate, the city lights blurred past the car window. Everything felt possible. Everything felt perfect.
Everything felt like it was going to last forever.
I had no idea how spectacularly wrong I was about to be.