Twins For My Pucking Grump

Chapter 1

Chapter One

CHARLOTTE

Irun my fingers along the edge of the training table as my eyes drink in the Ice Foxes’ logo. It’s everywhere—from the towels to the wall to the rolling cart.

I snap a photo with the crest in the background and text it to Dad.

First day as the physical therapist for the Ice Foxes. Can you believe it?

My phone buzzes almost immediately.

Proud of you, kid.

Then another: Your mom would’ve been proud too.

It’s only six words, but they land deep. I swallow hard, letting the moment sink in.

It’s no surprise I’m back in Colorado, where I grew up. Dad coached high school hockey until last year, when he retired.

My brother David played ten NHL seasons until a torn hip labrum cost him his first-step burst. Even after surgery, he couldn’t get that jump back, so he traded his stick for a whistle. Now he’s the Ice Foxes’ assistant coach.

As I line the tape in straight rows, I hum the chorus of an ’80s power ballad Dad used to blast on Saturday morning skates. I used to ride shotgun with a thermos and a sack of orange cones because I begged to help him set drills.

After college, I spent several tough years in Minnesota at a performance clinic, dialing in lower-extremity work—knees, hips, adductors. I also covered road assignments with the local minor-league affiliate, the level below the NHL where injured vets rehab and prospects get ready for call-ups.

Long nights. Clean plans. No shortcuts.

All worth it.

I pull my hair into a tighter ponytail and smooth the collar of my team jacket. It’s a little big, but that somehow makes it better, like the role itself is still settling on me, and I’m ready for it.

I’m covering the training room tonight, watching the in-house monitors, staging braces, and listening for radio calls while our head athletic trainer, Vic Morales, handles the bench. I twirl my neon highlighter once—a ritual that always settles me.

First day or not, I can’t afford to miss anything.

The noise of the crowd slips through the vents, a low roar under the fluorescent hum. The air smells sharp and clean.

Dan, our head physical therapist, and Dr. Patel, our team doctor, hired me because my plans are clear, safe, and they work—clean return-to-play tests, no surprise setbacks. David stayed out of my interviews so it was fair.

I earned this.

“Okay, Charlotte,” I murmur. “You’ve got this.”

Pride sits in my chest, bright and a little nauseous. Good nerves.

It helps that my best friend still lives here.

Kristy and I grew up two blocks apart—years of sleepovers, summer skates, and rink-side vending machine raids.

After college, I headed off for grad programs and travel clinics, and she built her life here, opened her own wellness practice, and now works with everyone from teachers to triathletes.

We kept in touch, but being back in the same zip code again feels like fate—a reminder that coming home isn’t just about hockey.

The only catch is I’ll be working with my brother’s best friend. Declan Tremayne is the Ice Foxes’ captain, and growing up he was a permanent storm cloud.

He might be David’s best friend, but he and I were never close.

The last time we really crossed paths was at my parents’ backyard ribs night the summer I left for college.

He swung by with David between development camp and preseason, shoulder taped from offseason maintenance, his baby daughter asleep in a carrier. I think he said maybe five words to me.

That was eleven years ago.

My mouth tightens as another memory surfaces.

When I was twelve, I practically lived at the rink where my dad coached.

It was a Saturday high school game, and Declan was seventeen, the star forward on Dad’s team.

I wedged myself onto the bench to hand out cups, bumped the cooler, and sent red sports drink everywhere.

“I can fix it,” I chirped, refilled a cup, and tried again with a grin. Declan blocked me with his stick, frown locked in. “Off the bench, Charlie. This isn’t a playground.”

I shake my head and bring my focus back to the wall-mounted screen as the feed zooms in on him.

He taps his stick twice; his shoulders settle as if the ice belongs to him.

His edgework is ruthless—no wasted motion.

I catch myself following the broad, muscular line of his back, admiring how his stride has that quiet authority you can feel through glass.

Nerves flare up in my chest at the thought of facing him now.

David describes him as controlled and disciplined, but I can’t help but wonder…

Has he changed, or is he still the same grump?

It’s early April, six games left in the regular season, and if they keep this up they’ll lock a Playoff spot.

I’m restocking scissors when the whistle knives through the speakers. I look up at the wall-mounted screen just as Declan chips a puck past their defenseman and takes a hard finish through the ribs. His left skate stays planted while the rest of him turns. His knee buckles the wrong way.

My stomach drops.

“Oh no,” I whisper, heart lurching. “That’s not good. Come on, Declan...”

He guts out another few seconds of dead-eyed efficiency, dumps the puck, and takes a change. On the bench, he folds over his left knee, shoulders rigid.

My radio crackles. “Charlotte, stand by. Tremayne, left knee. We’re bringing him back to the training room. Have a hinge ready.”

I grab an adjustable hinged knee brace, bumping the drawer shut with my hip. My badge taps my chest like it’s saying, You asked for this—so show them you’re ready.

“I’m on it,” I answer.

Growing up, he was all scowls, grumpiness, and rules—and I’m about to find out if anything’s changed.

I set the hinged knee brace on the counter and pull the curtain on the nearest table. Ice bin within reach.

Footsteps slap concrete in the tunnel. The training room door swings open.

Vic pushes through the doorway, Declan’s arm slung across his shoulders. Declan keeps most of his weight off his left leg; his steps are short and careful. That guarded walk pings my PT radar immediately.

“In here,” I say, steady, gesturing to the table. I grab the brace from the counter and set it beside the towels, where it lands with a soft click.

Vic braces the table as Declan lowers himself, careful with his left side. Up close, he’s bigger than I remember—broad shoulders, solid chest, the kind of strength you don’t need to announce.

Stubble shadows his jaw, dark hair damp from the ice, sweat beading at his temple. There’s a small scar by his right brow I don’t remember.

His blue eyes sweep the room and land on me. His jaw tightens; he draws a slow, measured breath.

Does he recognize me?

My pulse won’t settle. It’s ridiculous.

Great. I clock “hot” on day one. Fantastic professionalism, Charlotte.

I remind myself I’ve seen plenty of injured knees and plenty of famous faces and switch to work mode.

“Charlotte Blake,” I say, snapping on gloves. “New physical therapist for the Ice Foxes.”

His gaze stays on my face. He blinks once, twice. Then his eyes narrow.

“Charlie?”

That’s the nickname he gave me growing up. He’d call me that at Dad’s rink, voice flat, and I’d chirp back even when he didn’t smile.

“Hi, Declan.”

His voice goes even flatter. “You’re with us now?”

“As of today.”

He scowls.

“Figures,” he mutters. “I get hurt the night you start.”

“Let’s not make it a habit,” I say, tone upbeat. “You’ve got better things to do than stress-test our equipment.”

Still a grump. Good to know.

I continue, “I’m going to check the inside ligament and the cushion in your knee—slow and gentle. Tell me if anything spikes.”

I cradle his heel and calf and ease his lower leg a few degrees outward, testing the ligament on the inside.

He doesn’t make a sound, but a muscle jumps in his cheek.

The knee’s already starting to swell. When I trace the joint line, he flinches at one spot—right where the cushioning in his knee is irritated.

“Pain, one to ten?”

“Six.” His knuckles whiten, and he lets out a sharp breath.

I’m guessing that would be an eight for most people.

I lightly press along the inner band, then slide to the joint line. “Here?”

His breath flares once. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Here’s what I’m seeing so far: that inside ligament’s irritated, and the joint cushion feels off. Nothing we can’t handle.”

The curtain shifts and Dr. Patel steps in, rink jacket still on. “Let me take a closer look, Declan.”

He feels along the inside of the knee, then gently moves the lower leg outward. Declan’s breath hitches.

“No return tonight,” Dr. Patel says, decisive. “Hinged brace, ice, and compression. I’m scheduling an eight a.m. MRI. No driving. I’ll re-check you after the final horn.”

He gives me a quick nod and slips back out toward the bench.

Declan stares at the ceiling like it owes him. “Tape it. Two shifts. I can protect it.”

“I don’t doubt your grit,” I say, fitting the hinged knee brace around his leg, “but that would just extend your recovery time. We’ll get your MRI done, then we’ll build your plan.”

His eyes lock on mine. “Timeline?”

“Right now, I can’t say. We need the MRI to know which structures are involved and how severe. Once Dr. Patel reviews it, we’ll map out your progression from there.”

His jaw clenches.

I tighten the straps until his breathing eases a notch. “Dr. Patel will re-check you postgame and read the MRI in the morning. He makes the final call on return-to-play.”

Vic jots the time on the whiteboard. “Crutches?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, keeping one hand steady under Declan’s calf while Vic slips out. “Ice twenty minutes on, twenty off. Feet up at home. Sleep if you can. And—”

The horn blares for intermission. David appears in the doorway, headset askew.

“Status?”

“Out. Brace and ice. MRI at eight.”

He nods once, eyes on Declan. “Focus on recovery. Don’t be stupid.”

Declan’s mouth ticks. “Relax. I’m out. Go coach.”

“Good.” David taps his shoulder pad once and disappears back to the room.

I fasten the last strap and step back. “Team Services will have a car for you after the game. No driving on this. In the morning, a driver will pick you up at 7:15 for your MRI. I’ll meet you there to handle intake and make sure Dr. Patel gets the images right away.”

His gaze flicks to my name badge like it might be wrong, then back to my face. He gives one short nod.

“Good.” I strip my gloves. “I’ll check your wrap in half an hour.”

He grunts. “Save it for someone who needs hand-holding.”

His phone buzzes on the table, Sophie’s name flashing across the screen.

Declan’s twelve-year-old daughter. David’s mentioned her off and on. She’s Maya’s best friend—David’s daughter—and the center of Declan’s universe.

I angle toward the door. “Do you want a minute? I can give you some space.”

He nods, already answering.

Right before I step out, I hear his voice soften—“Hey, sweetheart”—and something in my chest shifts, inconvenient and impossible to ignore.

Out in the tunnel, the temperature drops.

The crowd swells through the vents. The organ pops a five-note sting, a radio crackles somewhere, and skate guards tick across the rubber mat.

It smells like Zamboni soap and tape adhesive, but none of it can distract me from the questions spinning through my head about what working with him will be like.

Grump confirmed. Still unfairly hot. Deeply inconvenient.

A few months in a room with Declan Tremayne?

That’s either a rehab plan… or a dare.

Luckily, I don’t mind a challenge.