Page 8 of Arrogant Puck

He stares at me for a beat. Then another.

And just when I think he’s going to push—snap, dismiss, test me—he says, “You’re not wrong.”

I blink.

“It’s tight,” he adds. “Worse when I cut wide.”

I smile to myself, proud to have a good eye.

He shrugs. “It’s our little secret though…Sage.”

My eyes dart to his, surprised I have to keep a secret already. First day. First athlete I talk to. And I have to keep this a secret? I haven’t even started work yet.

“How is it a secret if it’s so obvious?”

He studies me like I’ve surprised him, just a little.

A slow smile pulls at his mouth. This one’s different. Still sharp but edged with something closer to curiosity. Not warm. But not ice either.

“I should get going. First day and all,” I say.

As I walk off, he says, “Remember our little secret, Sage.”

A chill runs up my spine at the tone in his voice, so I keep walking to the doors I think I’m supposed to be entering through.

This is it. My fresh start.

“You must be Sage,” a man says as I enter through the door. I’m so thankful I’m in the correct place. I gave myself time in case I would get lost. “Sage Monroe. I’m Riley, head PT,” he says, shaking my hand. “Welcome to the madhouse.”

Riley’s office is tucked away. He’s younger than I expected—maybe early thirties, with sandy hair and the kind of easy smile that puts people at ease immediately.

I settle into the chair across from his desk, pulling out a notebook to take notes. Professional. Prepared. Exactly the kind of young professional they will be proud to employ.

“So,” Riley says, leaning back in his chair. “Janet mentioned you’re coming from UC San Diego. Athletic department there too?”

“Yes, for about six months.” I keep my voice steady, matter of fact. “I loved the work but had to relocate for family matters.”

He nods, not pressing for details. “Well, you’ll find this place keeps you busy. We’ve got hockey, basketball, soccer, track—you name it. But hockey’s our crown jewel. Your main focus. Mine aswell. Division I, nationally ranked, and these guys beat the hell out of each other on a regular basis.”

He hands me a thick folder stuffed with papers. “Player charts. Injury histories, current treatments, ongoing concerns. I want you to study these today—really get to know our guys on paper. Then later you will learn their bodies, their weak spots, their habits.”

I flip through the folder, scanning names and medical histories. Henderson, Davis, Morrison. Pages and pages of young men pushing their bodies to the limit.

“Think you can handle that for your first day?” Riley asks.

“Absolutely.”

He stands, gesturing toward the door. “Let me show you around, then you can get started on your reading.”

The tour is quick but thorough. Treatment rooms equipped with massage tables and ultrasound machines. A hydrotherapy pool that smells like chlorine and determination. Cold tubs for recovery. Hot tubs for loosening tight muscles.

“Equipment room’s down the hall,” Riley says, pointing to a heavy door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only.’ “You’ll probably spend time in there fitting guys for braces, checking protective gear. And this—” he opens another door “—is where the magic happens.”

The ice rink spreads out before us, pristine and empty in the morning light now. Rows of seats stretch up toward the ceiling, and I can almost hear the echo of games played and won and lost on this ice.

It was darker in here earlier when I met the… I didn’t get his name.

“Practice starts soon,” Riley says. “That’s when you’ll really see what we’re dealing with.”

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