Page 2 of Chasing The Goal
"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 brownhair 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 graceathletes 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.”
