Chasing The Goal (Blades & Hearts: The Chicago HellBlades #2)

1. Jaymie

Jaymie

The chair in Coach Tucker’s office was less a seat and more a medieval torture device.

I shifted for the third time in two minutes, the edge of my quad burning against the cracked vinyl, my injured leg stretched awkwardly in front of me.

Across from me, the office was a strange mix of minimal and cozy—framed game pucks from her assistant coaching days in the minors lined one shelf, a beat-up Stanley Cup playoff cap hung off the corner of a whiteboard, and there was a small potted cactus on her desk that looked half-dead but stubbornly alive.

A metaphor for the team after last season.

"Prescott," Tucker said, her voice less icy drill sergeant and more big sister who didn’t have time for your crap but still cared, "you’re looking at a six-week rehab minimum. Partial tear in your left hamstring. Good news is, it’s clean. No fraying, no retraction."

"Great," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "So just six weeks of sitting on my ass?"

She grinned, not smug, but knowing. “Six weeks of retraining it to do what you need it to do on the ice. And knowing you, I’ll be prying you off the treadmill by week two.”

I snorted. “I stick to plans. I’m great at plans.”

She raised one brow. “Mmhmm. That’s why I’m assigning you someone new. Someone smart. Someone who won’t fall for your puppy dog eyes.”

“I don’t have puppy dog eyes,” I muttered, then added checking myself, “Do I?”

"Down, boy," she said, pushing out of her chair with a chuckle.

“Your new trainer is just down the hall.

Starting this week. They'll be taking lead on your case." I nodded, bracing for some guy with thick calves and a clipboard. Instead, when Eliza opened the door, in stepped someone I definitely didn’t recognize. She was all strong lines and subtle curves, lean muscle wrapped in warmth. Her brown hair spilled over her shoulders in effortless waves, and her eyes, fuck, her eyes, were the exact shade of burnt caramel you couldn’t look away from.

There was something calm about her face, composed, but not cold.

And those burnt carmel orbs? They landed on me like I was something worth looking at.

“Jaymie Prescott,” Eliza said, casually waving a hand between us. “Meet Mallory Quince. She’ll be heading your treatment and rehab.”

Mallory stepped forward and extended her hand.

And I… short-circuited.

I tried to stand, completely forgetting how tight my hamstring felt.

My leg locked halfway up and I let out a sound that definitely wasn’t human.

My glasses, already traitorously sliding down my nose, picked that exact moment to drop.

I pushed them back up and managed to jab myself directly between the eyes.

“Hi—uh, ow—hi,” I said, blinking like I’d just been tasered. “Jaymie. That’s me. I mean—yeah, Jaymie Prescott. Obviously. Sorry. Standing is clearly a challenge.”

God. Shut up, Prescott.

Mallory’s lips curved into a small, bemused smile. She looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

“I figured. With the limp and all.” Her voice was low and smooth, a little scratchy in a way that made me feel like she could probably narrate my dreams.

“Nice to meet you, Jaymie. ”

I took her hand. It was warm. Steady. Strong in that way that said she could fold me like a towel if she needed to.

“Mallory,” I said, holding her gaze for half a second too long. “That’s… uh… that’s a really nice name.”

“Thanks,” she said, raising one brow. “Yours is very... hockey.”

Tucker coughed once loudly.

I snapped back to reality, releasing her hand and dropping into the chair like I’d just survived a wind tunnel.

She was going to be in charge of my recovery.

And I already needed CPR.

Eliza glanced at the clock on her wall and then nodded toward the hallway. “Mallory, why don’t you show Jaymie which room you’ll be using for his recovery? Training Room Three’s yours for now, should be quiet this time of day.”

“Sure thing, Coach,” Mallory said, already moving toward the door.

I stood, slower this time, trying not to grunt like a grandpa, and followed her out. The hallway was lined with framed team photos and that faint scent of eucalyptus and Tiger Balm that clung to every training facility I’d ever known.

Mallory walked a step ahead, her sneakers nearly silent, her long, powerful legs setting a pace that made my limp more obvious. She moved with that unbothered grace athletes have—confident in her body, in control without needing to show it off.

“You new-new to the team?” I asked, trying not to sound like I was gasping just to keep up.

“Started this week,” she said, glancing at me over her shoulder with a smile that curled the edge of her lips. “You’re technically my first official assignment.”

“Lucky me,” I muttered, then louder, “I thought I caught a little something in your voice. Accent-wise.”

“Good ear,” she said, slowing slightly. “Vermont. Montpelier, born and raised. My family’s still up there, not far from Sugarbush.”

“Never been,” I admitted.

She stopped outside a closed door and, for the first time since we left Tucker’s office, really looked at me.

Her gaze steadied, something softer curling at the corners of her mouth.

“You should,” she said. “Winter up there isn’t like it is here.

It’s... gentler. Like the cold knows how to hold you without biting. ”

She leaned against the wall, her eyes drifting upward like she could see it, all of it, beyond the concrete and fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“Snow doesn’t just fall in Vermont. It settles.

Like it’s tucking the world in for a long, quiet sleep.

The trees don’t rattle in the wind like they do here; they whisper.

And the rooftops—god, they look like something out of a fairy tale.

Heavy with powder, icicles catching the light like glass daggers.

Even the air feels... different. Cleaner.

Slower. Like breathing through a snow globe, everything suspended and glittering. ”

She paused, a faraway smile flickering. “I used to snowboard, back before kinesiology took over my life. Sugarbush was my favorite. The trails there snake through the woods, long and wide and patient. After a fresh storm, when the powder’s untouched and it’s just you and the mountain?

You push off and it’s like the world forgets how to make noise.

No crowds. No ticking clocks. Just the soft crunch under your board, the cold brushing your cheeks, and the steady glide of motion that feels more like floating than falling. ”

Her voice dropped, quiet with memory. “It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty. It feels earned. Like the mountain is letting you in on a secret, just for a little while.

I probably should’ve been listening better, she talks about Vermont like its a winter wonderland.

Instead, I was looking at her mouth. Small, a little pink, and the kind of mouth that made words sound like secrets.

She was dressed in the standard team polo and black leggings, but they clung to her with military precision.

She wasn’t just strong, she was carved, but somehow still soft in the places that made my brain stutter.

She turned back to the door, opened it, and stepped inside. “This is where we’ll be working. Starting Wednesday. ”

I nodded, mostly to stop myself from staring. “Nice setup,” I said, eyes landing on the neat row of resistance bands and foam rollers stacked like a rainbow of torture.

“What about you?” she asked, casual as she leaned against the counter. “Where’s home?”

I blinked. “Uh… here. Chicago, I mean. Born and bred.”

I could feel myself fumbling. “Italian family. Big. Loud. Food everywhere. My nonna still thinks I should be a dentist or a priest. Hockey was always it for me, though.”

She nodded, still looking at me like she was collecting puzzle pieces.

I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I’ll see you Wednesday. For the actual, uh, session.”

“Looking forward to it,” she said.

I turned and limped out before I could say something else stupid.

And maybe next time I’d remember to breathe when she looked at me.

***

I didn’t mean to end up at Logan’s. I was supposed to go home, ice my leg, and pretend I hadn’t just made a complete jackass of myself in front of the most beautiful woman I’d seen in…

maybe ever. But instead of taking the exit for my place, my SUV kind of…

drif ted. Like my subconscious decided I needed a witness to my humiliation with added analytics from my best friend, and his wife.

Logan’s building wasn’t far, tucked on the quieter side of West Town, the kind of loft space that had brick walls, a coffee grinder that probably cost more than my couch, and a surprisingly domestic vibe thanks to Ava.

I buzzed up and by the time I hobbled to the door, he was already holding it open with a beer in one hand and a brow lifted like he’d been expecting me.

“Shouldn’t you be at home with your leg elevated?” he asked as I limped inside.

“I needed to see a friendly face. Also, your fridge.”

He handed me the beer. “You’re pathetic.”

“And yet, still better looking than you.”

“Debatable.” He dropped onto the couch, and I eased down beside him with a dramatic groan. My hamstring throbbed, a dull, pissed-off ache.

“So? You saw the doc?”

“Yep. Coach Tucker gave me the breakdown. Six weeks off the ice . Rehab starts Wednesday.”

He nodded, already flipping on the TV. “You’ll be back way before playoffs.”

“Yeah. Thank god. I would go crazy if I wasn't. This is our comeback season.”

Logan groaned, putting his head in his hands, "Don't call it a comeback, that's a death sentence. "

We sat in silence for a beat, the opening lines of some old action movie playing in the background.

I stared at the bottle in my hands. Logan didn’t push—he never did.

That was the thing about us. We played hard, hit harder, but when it came down to it, we talked like old men at a bar who’d seen some shit.

“She introduced me to my trainer,” I said eventually.

“Oh yeah?” He glanced at me. “Some dude who yells at you in Russian?”

“Her name’s Mallory.”

“Wait—Mallory Quince? The new girl that's been following doc around all week??”

I nodded, "You noticed her?

His smirk was immediate. “She’s hot. But Darren pointed her out first,”

“She’s—” I blew out a breath. “Yeah. She’s hot.”

“Define hot.”

I gestured vaguely in the air. “Like... strong. But soft. Like if an Olympic snowboarder and a poet had a baby. She talks about Vermont like it’s heaven. And her voice? I’d let her read me grocery lists.”

Logan choked on his beer. “You’re gone already.”

“I’m not gone,” I muttered. “I just noticed… things. Like her mouth. And her arms. And how she smells like eucalyptus and competence.”

“You asked if she smelled like competence?”

“No. I just—” I waved my hands. “It’s a vibe. ”

“Uh huh.”

I flopped back against the couch, exhaling hard. “I made a total fool of myself. Tried to stand up to shake her hand, nearly passed out. Pushed my glasses into my own face.”

“Classic Prescott,” Logan said, laughing now. “You gonna survive PT?”

“That depends,” I said, dragging a hand down my face. “You ever try focusing on hamstring curls while a goddess with a yoga ass tells you to engage your core?”

He grinned. “Sounds like you're in for a long six weeks.”

“Pray for me.”

Mallory

I walked back to my desk trying not to grin like an idiot.

It wasn’t that Jaymie Prescott was charming—though, to be fair, he kind of was.

It was more that he looked like he didn’t know he was.

Big, broad, clearly used to being the toughest guy in the room…

and yet he’d pushed his glasses up and nearly poked himself in the forehead while trying to say hi.

I’d seen injured players act cocky, grumpy, even flat-out hostile, but not flustered.

He’d been flustered.

And cute .

I dropped into my desk chair, letting out a breath as I glanced around.

My little setup wasn’t glamorous—a slim desk, a dual monitor setup, shelves for files and kits—but it felt like mine.

The best part? Everything in this place was connected.

The rehab rooms fed straight into the main rink tunnel.

You could chart a player’s recovery from ice bath to first line shift without ever stepping outside.

That kind of integration? It didn’t just make my job easier, it made it smarter .

God, I loved this facility. I loved that I’d earned a place in it.

My phone buzzed, and I smiled before I even looked. Only one person texted me with this kind of timing.

Dakota

How’s the week so far, Dr. Muscles?

Miss Vermont yet or nah?

I laughed softly, typing back as I swiveled in my chair to face the window that faced the practice rink.

me

Week’s good. Facilities are insane. I have a desk! A real one!

Miss Vermont always. But not the -15° wind chill.

She replied immediately.

Dakota

LIAR. You miss Sugarbush.

Admit it.

I smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

me

Okay, yeah. I miss the mountains.

And you.

But mostly the mountains.

Dakota

Rude. Hope the boys aren't gross.

I thought of Jaymie again. The way he’d stared at me like I’d walked out of a daydream and landed in his injury report.

me

Only met a few so far. Definitely not gross.

Not subtle either.

Dakota

Oh?

I didn’t answer that one right away. I just leaned back and let myself enjoy the stillness of the moment—the quiet hum of the building, the distant echo of a puck hitting boards, the knowledge that I was exactly where I wanted to be.

Here. Doing the work. Making it count.

And maybe, just maybe, watching a certain player try not to pass out every time I smiled at him.