Page 3 of Player Misconduct
He grins around his mouth guard like I told him his shot looks pretty. Blond hair flying, skating like physics owes him an apology.
Horn. Intermission. The room turns into steam, curses, the slap of tape. Slade Matthews’ voice sounds something like belief. I duck into the quiet room: towel over Scottie’s eyes, breaths steadier. Theo is already jotting notes; we’ll debrief every chart in the morning.
“You’re doing great,” I tell Scottie. “Any nausea?”
“Just nausea about not being on the ice.”
“You’re not missing much. It’s boring out there. Real snooze fest,” I lie.
He snorts. “You’re a shitty liar, Doc.”
I swap his bottle and review Theo’s plan. “No screens. No lights. No heroics. If you want back on the ice for the upcoming game, you need to show me you’re healthy enough.”
He shoots me a begrudging thumbs-up.
Second period ages me. We’re down one off a tipped shot. I realize I forgot to breathe for a minute when stars press in and dissolve. Irony noted.
Halfway through, Aleksi takes a stick up high and comes to the bench blinking, one hand cupping his eye.
“Sit,” I tell him, already reaching. Blood, bright and thin, spiders down his cheekbone. “Don’t rub it.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he says with a slight Finnish accent, and takes a seat in front of me. “How tough do I look right now, Doc?” He asks, still grinning.
“You want it straight?”
“Always. You know how I like it.” His eyes sparkle back at me with playful interest, eating up the banter.
I cut him a look—his grin widens. This flirting can’t keep going on like this. Not if I want to keep my license. Not with the medical board still remembering my last review.
“Fine. You look like a raccoon who lost a bar fight.” I say, pressing a little too firmly with the gauze. He winces, but the smile doesn’t fade.
“Hold still,” I say instead, pressing a little too firmly with the gauze.
He winces, but the smile doesn’t fade. “You’re enjoying this,” he says.
It’s not a question. He thinks he knows the answer.
“I’m enjoying you not bleeding on my floor,” I fire back.
“Mm.” His grin curves slow, like he’s in on the secret. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Damn him. The worst part is—he’s right, but I’ll never own up to it. The board still has my last ethics review tucked neatly in a file somewhere from a complaint that lacked proof. One wrong move and I’m the headline again.
I clean, clot, and slap on a couple of butterfly strips on the wound. It’ll hold… for now.
I glance over his face again to make sure I didn’t miss anything. His lashes are absurdly long—too pretty for someone with that jaw line. They make those crystal-blue eyes unfairly bright. Hard not to get lost in them, especially this close. He catches me staring as I finish up and his grin turns into a sexy smirk.
Dammit, stop being hot while I’m working.
“Stop smiling. You’ll pop it open and it’ll scar.”
“Don’t girls find scars sexy?” he asks.
“I don’t know… maybe girls do. You’ll have to find one to ask. Women prefer their men with working brain cells. You’re damaged goods.”
He chuckles, low in his chest, clearly pleased with my answer. “Then it’s lucky I’m not looking for a girl.”
I freeze for half a beat. His eyes glitter back at me as if he knows he's baiting me in, waiting for me to bite.
