Page 4 of Player Misconduct
He leans in, voice dropping. He leans in, voice dropping. “Fun fact—your pupils dilate when you look at something you want. Want me to test it?”
“Fun fact—if you don’t stop talking, I’ll butterfly-strip your mouth shut next.”
There’s no truth to my threat, and he knows it. In an industry full of men, you learn to beat them at their own game. Or at least settle for a draw.
He mimes zipping his lips, eyes dancing, then pops up from the bench when they call his number.
He shoots me a wink, only seen between us, and then tugs on his helmet, our nine-inch height difference plus his skates giving him an unfair advantage.
“Don’t write checks you can’t cash, Doc. You’d have to catch me first.”
Then he takes one step and jumps over the boards. I step back as he skates off, blades carving through the ice. The boards rattle with the next hit, the roar of the crowd filling the void between us.
Cold whips past my cheeks, but I barely feel it. My skin’s still flushed from the heat of our exchange. The familiar rush of adrenaline hums through my blood, the same one that always follows our back-and-forth.
This is exactly why I set boundaries. Why I promised myself nothing—especially not a pair of blue eyes and a smile like that—would ever mess with my focus again. Fraternization between a player and team doctor could cost more than just my license but also rattle the Hawkeyes franchise with sanctions against the team that could cripple the team's playoff eligibility.
But when his name booms through the announcer’s mic, the traitorous part of me perks up and takes notice of him skating across the ice, with one last smirking glance back at me.
I shove the thought away, reaching for the med kit, rechecking supplies that don’t need rechecking. Gauze, tape, saline--all perfectly fine. Still, I count them again. Anything to keep my hands moving and my mind off the fact that I just patched up the league’s biggest problem child… and maybe my own.
The third period is hockey stick warfare. My gloves squeak at how hard my fists are clenched.
Somehow, we pull it off.
3–2 over Colorado.
This isn’t the series. But it’s a lifeline. 2–1.
The player tunnel turns into chaos—mitts slapped, helmets knocked, words spoken that I won’t put in any report.
My first stop is the quiet room to check on Scottie, and then from there, document, document, document. In the locker room, relief and joy braid through triage. Theo and I ping-pong across bodies—shoulders, eyes, hamstrings. Bruises are alreadyblooming like storm clouds and no one seems to care. They’ll take an ice bath and be good as new because of the endorphin rush of a win.
Aleksi drifts into my orbit smelling like sweat and wintergreen, half-dressed in the slacks from his press suit, hair still damp from the showers, chest bare and flushed from the ice. The gash is holding. My work.
He taps my kit like it’s a door.
“Congrats, Doc,” he says, voice rough from yelling on the ice but still carrying that warmth that sneaks under my skin. “Series is a real thing again.”
It’s not the first time I’ve seen him shirtless. I’ve patched up half the roster over the years: torsos, bruises, stitches. It’s just anatomy. Usually.
But Aleksi’s different. Maybe it’s because he’s so at ease in his own skin, all six-three of him radiating confidence. Or maybe it’s because that same skin reads like a map of things I can’t help but want to know more about—things I’ll never find in a medical chart.
My gaze catches on the pale arc beneath his sternum. An old surgical scar.
I know the basics: open-heart surgery at two years old, done in Germany, and several others after that. A hip repair at nineteen that nearly ended his career. I know his twin sister lives in Helsinki where he greew up, but she’s been working in France for the last year. His mother and nephew live there too, and he’s close to all of them. The contents of their care packages make the rounds in the locker room. Home-made confections his mother makes, store-bought Swedish and Finnish treats from his childhood, new skin care products his sister thinks he’ll like—he’s always proud to share. I know he was close with his father before he passed somewhere between college and Aleksi signing with the international team, but the rest is a blank. Justthe little bits I’ve heard, the hints he’s dropped since joining the Hawkeyes last summer when they brought him up from the farm team.
I catch myself wondering what each mark cost him. What he remembers of it.
And that’s exactly the kind of wondering I can’t afford.
Knowing a patient’s medical history helps you treat them. Knowing their personal one blurs lines you can’t uncross. I’ve seen enough careers end over that mistake—mine almost included.
I clear my throat and gesture toward his face instead. “Looks like it’s holding.”
“Good thing,” he says, grin crooked. “You’d charge double for an after-hours patch-up job, right?”
He picks up a small black packet from the bench beside him, the label full of impossible Finnish vowels.
