Page 4 of Chasing The Goal
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 itsmarter.
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?
