Chapter 19
KATE
The arena buzzed with a frenetic energy I'd never experienced before—a heady cocktail of anticipation, beer, and collective hope that made my skin tingle. The temperature dropped noticeably as we approached the players' family section, where Dennis's girlfriend Sarah waved me over.
"Kate! Over here!" She patted the empty seat beside her. "I saved you a spot with the best view."
I navigated through the row of glamorous women who seemed far too put-together for what was essentially watching sweaty men chase a rubber disc.
I'd dressed carefully in Austin's team colors, though my attempt at "sporty casual" had resulted in what could best be described as "confused academic tries athleisure. "
"First hockey game?" Sarah asked as I settled in, smoothing my oversized Blizzard jersey—Austin's, from last season.
"That obvious?"
"You've got that wide-eyed 'please don't let me embarrass myself' look." She handed me a beer. "Don't worry. I was the same when Dennis and I were first dating. Now I can explain the offside rule better than the refs."
I took a grateful sip. "Austin explained the basics. Plus, I've been studying game footage and reading about strategic formations. The neutral zone trap is essentially just a defensive realignment to force turnovers at the blue line, right?"
Sarah stared at me. "Holy shit. You've done homework."
"I'm a scientist. Research is what I do."
The arena lights dimmed suddenly, and a spotlight hit the ice as the announcer's voice boomed through the speakers. My heart leapt into my throat as the team skated out one by one.
"Number four, returning to the ice after six months, Austin 'Stone' Callahan!"
The crowd erupted, and I found myself on my feet, screaming with an enthusiasm that would have shocked my lab colleagues.
Austin glided onto the ice, powerful and graceful in a way that sent a flush of heat through my body.
Even from this distance, I could see the intensity in his posture—shoulders squared, head high, the slight hesitation in his left stride the only evidence of his injury.
"He looks good," Sarah said, nudging me. "Really good."
"Yes, he does," I murmured, not taking my eyes off him.
The game moved faster than I'd expected, a chaotic ballet of speed and precision that somehow still followed rules I was struggling to track.
Austin played with controlled aggression, his defensive positioning exactly as he'd explained to me over dinner last week.
When he bodychecked an opposing player, sending the guy sprawling across the ice, I found myself cheering wildly.
"Look at you, all hockey girlfriend," Sarah teased. "Next thing you know, you'll be yelling at the refs about missed penalties."
"That was clearly interference before the puck arrived," I said indignantly, pointing at a play near the boards. "The timing differential was at least half a second."
Sarah burst out laughing. "Oh my god, you're analyzing hockey with scientific precision. Dennis was right about you."
"What did Dennis say?"
"That you were exactly what Stone needed—someone who speaks his language but in an entirely different dialect."
I wasn't sure what to make of that, but didn't have time to analyze it because Austin had the puck, cutting through the neutral zone with surprising speed for a defenseman. He fed a perfect pass to the center, who one-timed it into the net.
The goal horn blared, and I screamed so loudly my throat hurt. Austin's teammates mobbed him, thumping his back and helmet as the crowd roared.
"Primary assist! That's his first point back!" Sarah explained unnecessarily, as if I hadn't been tracking every statistic of Austin's career for weeks.
Pride bloomed in my chest. This was his world—ordered chaos, physicality tempered by strategy, team dynamics balanced with individual skill. So different from my sterile lab, yet somehow familiar in its complexity.
Then it happened.
Second period, Austin pinned against the boards, digging for the puck. An opposing player—number 76, Seattle—charging full-speed. The collision was sickening, Austin's head snapping back, his body crumpling to the ice.
Time stopped. Everything around me faded to white noise.
"Get up," I whispered, clutching Sarah's arm so tightly she winced. "Please get up."
Austin lay motionless for what felt like hours but was probably only seconds. The medical staff approached. My scientific brain cataloged all the worst possibilities: concussion, re-torn ACL, broken collarbone.
"Come on, Austin," I murmured, my voice breaking. "You didn't do all that fucking rehab to go out like this."
Then, like something from a movie, he moved. Pushed himself up. Shook off the trainer's help.
The crowd erupted again, but I couldn't cheer, couldn't even breathe properly. My body felt hollow with relief, then flooded with something so intense it brought tears to my eyes.
This was more than caring. More than falling in love.
This was the terrifying realization that Austin Callahan had become essential to me—as vital as oxygen, as necessary as my next heartbeat.
"He's okay," Sarah said, squeezing my hand. "Stone's tough as hell. He wouldn't stay down unless something was really wrong."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Austin skated back to the bench, moving well but with a tightness in his shoulders I recognized from his worst rehab days.
"Ladies," a voice interrupted. I looked up to see an older woman smiling down at us. "Mind if I join you? I'm Elaine Martinez, Coach's wife."
"Of course," Sarah moved over, making room. "This is Kate, Stone's girlfriend."
"The scientist," Elaine said, smiling warmly as she settled beside me. "My husband mentioned you. Said you were explaining bacterial resistance to Dennis using hockey terminology."
I felt my cheeks heat. "It seemed like the most effective communication approach."
"Smart woman. These hockey boys only understand things if you relate it to the game." She patted my knee. "So, how are you finding your first game?"
"Terrifying," I admitted. "I've dissected cadavers with steadier hands than I have right now."
"That's love, honey." She chuckled. "Twenty-six years with James, and I still get heart palpitations every time someone takes a run at one of his players."
The third period was pure tension—Austin playing through what was clearly pain, though only I seemed to notice the subtle difference in his skating. When the final buzzer sounded with Minnesota up 3-2, the arena erupted, and I found myself hugging Sarah and Elaine like we were old friends.
"First win is the sweetest," Elaine said, giving me a knowing smile. "Now comes the waiting part. The boys will be a while with media and cool-down."
"I don't mind waiting," I replied, which was true. I'd wait all night if necessary to see Austin, to confirm with my own hands and eyes that he was truly okay.
We made our way to the family waiting area outside the locker room. It was like a bizarre socialite gathering—beautiful women in team gear that somehow looked fashion-forward, children running around in miniature jerseys, all of them completely at ease in this world that still felt foreign to me.
"Dr. Ellis? Kate Ellis?"
I turned to find a woman with a press badge approaching, her eyebrows raised in what looked like genuine surprise.
"I'm Melissa Chen from Sports Today. I thought you looked familiar—I just read your paper on plasmid-mediated resistance in the Journal of Antimicrobial Chemotherapy. I did pre-med before switching to journalism."
"Oh! That's... unexpected," I said, genuinely surprised to be recognized for my research in this setting.
"What brings you to tonight's game?" she asked, then her eyes widened as she caught sight of my jersey with Austin's name and number. "Wait, are you here with Callahan?"
Before I could answer, another reporter joined us, this one with a camera slung around his neck. "You covering the WAGs angle, Mel? Who's this?"
"This is Dr. Kate Ellis," Melissa said, emphasizing my title. "She's a microbiologist whose work on antibiotic resistance was just published in JAC."
The photographer looked unimpressed. "Cool. But why is she waiting outside the locker room?"
I shifted uncomfortably. "I'm here with Austin Callahan."
His eyebrows shot up, and he immediately raised his camera. The flash caught me off-guard, making me blink rapidly.
"So you're Stone's new girlfriend? How'd you two meet?"
Melissa frowned at her colleague. "Maybe dial it back, Dave. Dr. Ellis, I'd actually love to talk about the statistical modeling you used in your research. The predictive analytics reminded me of some sports performance metrics we use."
Grateful for the subject change, I launched into an explanation of my methodology, barely noticing as Dave snapped more photos.
"The probability distribution functions we applied could absolutely translate to athletic performance tracking.
You could model injury recovery trajectories with similar parameters. "
"Fascinating," Melissa said, scribbling notes. "So you could theoretically predict recovery timelines more accurately?"
"In theory, yes, though human variables introduce significant complexity." I was warming to the topic, forgetting my surroundings entirely. "Austin's recovery actually exceeded standard projections by nearly 22%, which statistically speaking is—"
I caught myself, realizing I was veering into personal territory. But before I could redirect, the locker room doors opened, and players began emerging. Austin was among the last, his hair still damp from the shower, his expression lightening when he spotted me.
"There he is," I said, unable to keep the affection from my voice.
Dave's camera clicked again, capturing the moment Austin pulled me into a tight embrace.
"You were incredible," I whispered against his chest. "But don't ever scare me like that again or I'll culture flesh-eating bacteria in your protein shakes."
Austin laughed, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Noted. Ready to go home?"
Home. The word still gave me butterflies.
The next morning, I woke to Austin's phone buzzing incessantly. He groaned, reaching across me to grab it from the nightstand, his body warm and solid against mine.
"Dennis, it's fucking 7 AM on a rest day," he growled into the phone. "This better be—What article?"
I blinked sleepily, curling closer against him, but froze when his entire body tensed.
"Send me the link." His voice had turned to ice. "Now."
"What's wrong?" I asked, fully awake now.
Austin didn't answer, just stared at his phone with a darkening expression. When he finally looked at me, his eyes held a fury I'd never seen before.
"Some asshole wrote a piece about you." He handed me the phone, jaw clenched tight.
The headline made my stomach drop:
STONE COLD: CALLAHAN'S LATEST PUCK BUNNY CLAIMS TO BE SCIENTIST
Below it was the photo from last night—me mid-sentence, gesturing enthusiastically, looking slightly disheveled in Austin's oversized jersey. The caption read: "Callahan's newest conquest tried impressing reporters with scientific jargon while waiting for her hockey boyfriend."
"What the actual fuck?" I scrolled down, each paragraph worse than the last. The piece dismissed my research as "alleged," implied I was using Austin for attention, and suggested I was just the latest in his "string of rink side conquests."
"I'm going to fucking end this guy," Austin said, already dialing his agent.
"Wait." I put my hand on his arm, mind racing. "Let me think about this scientifically."
"Kate, this isn't a lab experiment. This asshole is attacking you."
"Exactly. And the most effective counter to misinformation is accurate data presented compellingly." I sat up, brain shifting into problem-solving mode. "If we react with anger, we validate the emotional framing. We need to recontextualize the narrative."
Austin stared at me. "Sometimes I forget how brilliant you are."
I grabbed my own phone, already formulating a plan. "Does the team have a social media manager?"
"Yes, why?"
"Because we're going to craft the perfect response." I smiled, a plan forming. "How do you feel about educational content?"
Two hours later, we posted a photo of us in Austin's kitchen—me in a lab coat over his jersey, him in full hockey gear minus skates. I was holding a hockey stick like a pointer, gesturing to a whiteboard covered in scientific diagrams while Austin looked studiously attentive.
The caption read:
"Hockey lesson #47: Microbiology. When @StoneCold4 isn't teaching me about blue lines, I'm teaching him about bacterial resistance.
For the record: Dr. Kate Ellis, PhD, University of Minnesota Department of Microbiology, published researcher, terrible at fantasy hockey drafts, excellent at killing superbugs.
Also, 'puck bunny' is so 2010—preferred term is 'hockey evolutionary biologist' #ScienceOnIce #RelationshipGoals"
We tagged both the original reporter and his publication. Within an hour, the post had gone viral in both hockey and scientific circles.
"Take that, asshole," Austin said, wrapping his arms around me from behind as we watched the likes and supportive comments pour in. "Nobody messes with my brilliant scientist."
I turned in his arms, rising on tiptoes to kiss him. "And nobody calls my hockey player 'Stone Cold' except me."
His eyes darkened with heat. "I like the sound of that."
"Good," I murmured against his lips. " Because I'm pretty sure your heart rate recovery could use some hands-on evaluation."
"Of course," he agreed, already lifting me onto the kitchen counter. "I'm fully committed to your research methods, Dr. Ellis."
"That's very generous of you, Mr. Callahan," I said, wrapping my legs around his waist. "The scientific community appreciates your sacrifice."
His laugh vibrated against my neck as he carried me to the bedroom.