The Hockey Problem (Off the Ice #1)

Chapter One

IN WALKS TROUBLE

Tori

The file on my desk is three inches thick.

Zayden Bishop. Twenty-nine years old. Right winger for the New York Knights. Six-foot-two, two hundred and ten pounds of French-Canadian hockey prodigy who’s been playing through what looks like a rotator cuff issue for at least six weeks, based on the game footage I reviewed last night.

I flip through his injury history while my coffee goes cold. Separated shoulder, 2021. Broken wrist, 2022. Concussion protocol twice in three years. The man treats his body like a rental car with full coverage insurance.

I’m sore just thinking about it.

Outside my window, January in New York is doing its thing—gray sky, bitter wind, cold that makes you question every life choice that led you to a city where the air physically hurts.

The Knights’ facility is shiny and modern, all glass and steel, but I can’t focus on that.

Not when I’m about to get hands-on with the most notorious player on the roster.

Dana Cross, Director of Athletic Performance and the reason I have this job, appears in my doorway. She’s got her tablet tucked under her arm and that look on her face. The one that says I’m about to ruin your morning.

“You ready for Bishop?”

“Define ready.”

She almost smiles. “He’s essential to the playoff run. His shoulder’s been bothering him for weeks. He’s been hiding the severity.”

“I noticed,” I say, tapping the file. “You can see it from the nosebleeds. He’s favoring his left side on every shot.”

“Which is why you’re taking point. Full oversight. Recovery plan, travel schedule, progress reports—all you.”

I set down my coffee. “Dana.”

“I know he’s difficult.”

“Difficult is an understatement. I’ve heard the stories.

” Everyone has. Zayden Bishop doesn’t do interviews, doesn’t do media days, doesn’t do anything that isn’t hockey or—according to the rumors—his kid.

The tabloids call him cold. Unapproachable.

The guy who looks through you like you’re furniture.

“The stories are mostly bullshit,” Dana says. “He’s private, not hostile.”

I raise a brow. “Is there a difference?”

“You’ll see.” She checks her watch. “He’ll be in exam room two. Don’t let him charm you.”

I almost laugh. “Charm isn’t exactly his reputation.”

“No,” she agrees, already walking away. “But he’s got other tricks.”

I have no idea what that means, and I don’t have time to ask because my phone buzzes with a calendar reminder. Bishop, Z. - Initial Assessment. 9:00 AM.

Perfect. Another ego with a jersey number.

I grab my tablet, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and head down the hall.

Exam room two is bright, sterile—my kind of place. Fluorescent lights, adjustable table, wall of equipment I probably won’t need today. I’m setting up my assessment forms when the door opens and Zayden Bishop walks in.

And he’s... not what I expected. There’s no swagger, no look-at-me energy. He enters like he’d rather not be here at all—shoulders tight, gaze scanning the room like he’s searching for threats.

I wait for the arrogance. The I’m a big deal energy I’ve gotten from every other player who’s sat on my table. It doesn’t come.

He’s wearing Knights athletic gear, black joggers and a hoodie pushed up to his elbows, and there’s a tension in his jaw that tells me he’s not happy to be here.

Second thing I notice: he’s unfairly attractive in person.

I knew that, objectively. I’ve seen the photos, the game footage, the Sports Illustrated spread from three years ago that made every woman in America suddenly interested in hockey.

But photos don’t capture how massive he is in person—towering over me with all that bulky muscle.

They don’t capture how his eyes scan the room before landing on me, assessing, cataloging.

Dark hair. Darker eyes. A face that belongs on magazine covers, all sharp angles and stubble.

Stop it, I tell myself. He’s a patient. He’s everything you promised yourself you’d never be stupid enough to want.

“Mr. Bishop.” I keep my voice clinical. “I’m Victoria Wells, Tori. I’ll be handling your rehabilitation.”

“Zayden,” he says. Low voice, a little rough, with just a hint of an accent that betrays his Quebec roots.

“Have a seat on the table, Mr. Bishop. We’ll begin with a full assessment.”

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, that I didn’t immediately start fawning—but he doesn’t argue. Just walks to the exam table and sits, movements careful, confirming what I already suspected. “Okay,” he says. “But call me Zayden.”

“Shirt off, please.”

He pulls the hoodie over his head, then the T-shirt underneath, and I keep my face neutral through sheer willpower.

He’s built like a hockey player—broad shoulders, defined chest, functional muscle that comes from years of actual training, not vanity reps in front of a gym mirror.

There’s a scar on his left side, probably from the 2021 surgery.

His skin is tan even in January, which either means good genetics or a spray tan habit I’m going to silently judge him for.

I wash my hands and then approach. “I’m going to palpate the shoulder. Tell me when it hurts.”

He nods.

I start with the trapezius, working my way across to the deltoid. His muscles are tight—way too tight—and when I press into the junction of his neck and shoulder, his jaw clenches.

“That hurt?”

“It’s fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.” I press again, watching his face. “Scale of one to ten.”

“Four.”

I move to his rotator cuff, and when I find the spot I’m looking for—the one that’s been causing all the problems—he sucks in a breath.

“Four?” I repeat.

“Maybe six.”

“Mmhmm.” I continue the assessment, cataloging every flinch he tries to hide, every compensation pattern his body has developed to work around the damage. By the time I’m done, I have a very clear picture of what we’re dealing with.

I step back, and jot a few notes. “How long have you been playing through this?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. I can’t fix what you won’t admit is broken.”

He looks at me then—really looks—those dark eyes assessing and I feel the weight of his attention like something physical. There’s an intensity to him that’s almost uncomfortable, like he’s seeing more than you want him to see.

“Since October,” he finally says.

“October.” I don’t bother hiding my disbelief. “You’ve been playing through a rotator cuff impingement for three months.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the flex you think it is.” I pick up my tablet, and start typing notes.

“You have inflammation in the supraspinatus, early signs of tendinopathy, and your compensation patterns have put extra strain on your bicep tendon. If you’d come in when it first started hurting, we’d be talking about two weeks of modified training.

Now we’re looking at six to eight weeks of intensive rehab. ”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts. “I don’t have six to eight weeks.”

“Then I suggest you follow my protocol exactly, because if you keep pushing through this, you’re looking at surgery. And that’s not six weeks. That’s six months.”

Silence.

I can see him doing the math—the games he’d miss, the playoff implications, whatever else is going on in his life that makes him treat his body like it’s disposable. For a second, he looks tired. Not physically, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere he probably doesn’t let most people see.

“Fine,” he says. “What do you need me to do?”

“Ice, rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow at eight AM. We’ll start with mobility work and go from there.” I pause. “And Zayden? When I ask if something hurts, I need the real answer. Not the tough-guy answer. I can’t help you if you lie to me.”

He holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. “You always this bossy?”

“With patients who hide injuries for three months? Yes.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. Closer than anything I’ve seen from him since he walked in.

He pulls his shirt back on, and I turn to my tablet, typing notes I don’t actually need just to have something to do with my hands. The assessment is done. I should let him leave. That would be the professional thing to do.

“There’s a place on Fifth that does recovery smoothies,” he says.

I glance up. He’s still by the exam table, hoodie in his hand, watching me.

“What?”

“If you’re looking for post-workout fuel recommendations for players. The green one tastes like ass, but it works.”

I give him a confused look. “I have a nutrition protocol.”

“I’m sure you do.” He shrugs into the hoodie. “Just saying. It works.”

I go back to my notes. “Noted.”

“You’re not going to write that down?”

“I have a nutrition protocol,” I repeat, but something’s creeping into my voice. Something that sounds dangerously close to amusement.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me. “What about tacos?”

I look up again. “Excuse me?”

“Best tacos in the city. In your opinion.” He tilts his head slightly. “Just to check your credibility.”

“My credibility?” I blink.

“Tell me your favorite taco spot and I’ll tell you if I can trust you.”

I shouldn’t engage. This is exactly how lines get blurry—the casual banter, the “we’re just friendly” energy that slowly becomes something else, something dangerous.

I have rules for a reason. Good reasons.

Reasons I paid for in humiliation and tears and watching my reputation get shredded by a guy who smiled just like this one does.

But something about the way he’s looking at me—not flirty, just genuinely curious, like my answer actually matters—makes me say, “Rosario’s. On Twelfth.”

He winces. Actually winces, like I’ve personally insulted his grandmother. “Rosario’s? That tourist trap?”

“It’s not a tourist trap. It’s authentic.”

“It’s Instagram bait. You want real tacos, you go to Tito’s. Cash only. No menu. You eat what they give you.”

I lift one brow. “That sounds unsanitary.”

“That sounds like you’ve never had a good taco.”

“Still, not sure I’m willing to take my chances at Tito’s.”

I’m smiling now. Actually smiling, at a player, in my treatment room, and I can feel the ice I’ve carefully built around myself starting to crack at the edges.

“You want real food? Come to Montreal. I’ll take you to Schwartz’s for smoked meat. Then we’ll talk.”

“Let me guess… everything in Canada is better, according to you?”

“Not everything.” He pauses, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Just most things.”

Something about that smile—slow, a little smug, entirely too charming—makes me need to end this conversation immediately.

I clear my throat and straighten my posture. “I think we’re done here, Mr. Bishop.”

“Zayden.”

“Mr. Bishop.” I nod toward the door. “Ice, rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Try not to do anything stupid before then.”

He grins—just a flash, there and gone—and it transforms his whole face. Makes him look younger. Less guarded. Almost human.

“No promises,” he says.

And then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and I’m standing alone in the exam room wondering what the hell just happened.

I give myself sixty seconds to spiral. Zayden Bishop has a reputation. Cold. Difficult. The guy who doesn’t waste words on anyone who isn’t directly useful to him.

The man has a reputation for being a brick wall, and he just argued with me about tacos.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. A glance down confirms it’s Dana.

He’s yours. Full oversight. Don’t let him self-destruct.

I type back: Understood.

I gather my things and head back to my office, but I can’t shake the weird, unsettled feeling in my chest. He was supposed to be easy to dismiss.

Another arrogant athlete who thinks rules don’t apply to him.

Another entitled jerk who’d flirt and push and give me every reason to keep my walls exactly where they are.

Instead, he was quiet. Observant. Self-deprecating—which caught me completely off guard.

And he made me laugh.

I stop in the hallway, press my back against the wall, and take a breath of cold, recycled air.

Get it together, Tori. He’s a patient. He’s a player. He’s literally everything you swore off.

The rules exist for a reason. I watched what happened to Carla when her relationship with a player went public—how fast she went from “rising star in sports medicine” to “the woman who slept with number forty-two.” She was brilliant.

Better than brilliant. None of it mattered once the story became about who she was sleeping with instead of what she could do.

I won’t be that story.

I won’t be anyone’s story except my own.

My phone buzzes again. Winnie, my best friend, who has a sixth sense for when I’m having a moment.

Dinner tonight? That new Thai place?

I type back: Yes. Need it.

Uh oh. Bad day?

I think about Zayden Bishop and his stupid taco opinions and the way his whole face changed when he smiled, and I hate that I noticed, hate that I’m still thinking about it, hate that some small, reckless part of me is already looking forward to tomorrow’s session.

Complicated, I reply. Tell you later.

I pocket my phone and head to my office.

He’s a patient. That’s it. I just need to keep reminding myself of that.