14. Katerina
Katerina
February (One month later)
Zurich was breathtaking, but I barely saw any of it.
My world had shrunk down to two locations: my temporary, cold apartment near the river, and the state-of-the-art training facility for the ZSC Lions. The work was intense, fast-paced, and demanding, exactly what I’d begged Mark for. But what Mark hadn't warned me about was Lars.
Lars was the senior European clinician who made sure to let me know that someone far more qualified had been passed over for the position that I now occupied.
He was forty-five, bitter, and made it his personal mission to make my transition a living nightmare.
Lars questioned my protocols in front of the players, dumped back-to-back late-night rehab schedules on my desk, doing anything he could to undermine me or make me look incompetent.
He would mutter snide remarks in Swiss German to the assistant trainers, smirking in my direction.
It wasn't until Miller, one of our veteran Canadian defensemen who’d played in Zurich for four seasons, pulled me aside after practice and translated it for me: Lars was telling anyone who’d listen that the front office had to "import a girl from Canada" because local clinicians weren't qualified.
By week three, I was running on four hours of sleep a night, living off cheap espresso, and fighting off a nasty cold that had settled deep into my lungs.
I was sitting at my desk late on a Tuesday night, the arena empty and dark, prepping for the morning skate while coughing into my elbow. My phone vibrated on the counter beside me.
Trent
I know it’s almost midnight over there and you’re probably still at the arena. Please tell me you’re heading home soon.
I stared at the screen, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of my lips.
This past month, Trent had been a constant presence in my life. True to his word, he didn't smother me or demand to know if I was coming back to him. Instead, he sent daily, deliberate pieces of himself.
Sometimes it was a simple text detailing a memory:
I loved watching you study on the porch last summer. You’d tuck your left foot under your leg and chew on the cap of your highlighter when you got stuck on a chapter. I used to sit at the kitchen table just watching you, pretending I was working on quotes.
That had made me pause because I realized that even before everything, Trent had taken care of me when I was working on a specialty course during the off-season. It wasn't as obvious as the past few months, but it was there.
Sometimes it was a short voice note late at night, his deep, gravelly voice filling my quiet apartment, telling me about his day running the family company while his dad took Cynthia to her specialist appointments.
He was always careful with those; he had explicitly asked my permission in week two before bringing up his mom's pregnancy.
"I want to share my life with you, Kat, but I know how much pain that situation caused you. If hearing about the baby or the appointments hurts, tell me and I’ll keep it to myself. No questions asked."
That level of consideration slowly chipped away at my armour. He was learning to communicate without hiding behind silence or assuming what I needed.
Two days ago, a large box arrived at my apartment.
Inside was a care package filled with small pieces of home: my favourite dark roast coffee beans from a local roaster, a box of Canadian Red Rose tea bags, a bottle of maple syrup, and an oversized flannel shirt that smelled distinctly like his cedar-and-bourbon cologne.
The sticky note on the flannel had read.
I miss you, Keep warm.
I picked up my phone now, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard as another harsh cough tore through my chest.
Just wrapping up. Lars left me the entire roster's intake logs to audit by tomorrow morning. I'm exhausted.
My phone instantly began ringing. Trent’s face flashed on the screen.
I hesitated for a second before sliding the green button. "Hey," I murmured, my voice raspy and thin, which ended in a wheezy cough.
"Kat?" Trent’s voice came through the speaker, tinted with concern. "You sound awful. Are you sick?"
"Just a cold," I lied, leaning back in my office chair and pulling his flannel tighter around my shoulders. I’d started wearing it over my uniform on late nights. "The arena is freezing, and Lars is keeping me on my feet twelve or more hours a day. I'm just run-down."
"That guy is still giving you hell?" Trent’s tone hardened, the protective edge in his voice slipping through. "Kat, you can't keep working like this while you're sick. Have you eaten anything today?"
"I had a croissant at noon," I admitted quietly, closing my eyes as a wave of dizziness hit me.
A heavy, frustrated sigh sounded over the line from thousands of miles away. "Kat... you're burning yourself out. You're taking care of an entire team of pro athletes, but who is taking care of you?"
"I take care of myself, Trent. I always have," I said, though there was no bite left in my voice, just bone-deep exhaustion.
"I know you do," Trent said softly, his voice dropping into that low, gentle tone that used to make my heart melt. "You're the strongest woman I know. But you shouldn't always have to do it alone."
I stayed silent, resting my forehead against my palm, too tired to argue.
"Go home, Kat," he pleaded gently. "Leave Lars's paperwork on the desk. Go home, take some medicine, and get into bed. Promise me."
"Okay," I whispered, the exhaustion finally winning. "I will."
"Text me when you get inside your apartment so I know you made it back safe," Trent said. "I love you, Kat. Goodnight."
He'd been saying those three words regularly, out in the open for anyone to hear.
"Goodnight, Trent," I murmured, and hung up.
I dragged myself out of the arena, took the train back to my apartment, and collapsed into bed without changing.
My skin was hot, my throat felt like broken glass, and as I drifted off into a restless, feverish sleep, the reality sank in: I was thousands of miles from home, sick, isolated, and completely alone.