Page 5 of Player Misconduct
“Celebratory salmiakki,” he says. “My mom sent it in her latest care package. Very… acquired. Makes your face do fun shapes.”
I don’t know why the sweetness of Aleksi’s mother is the thing that gets me. Maybe because my own relationship with mine is… strained, at best. She hasn’t remembered my birthday since I was a kid, missed my high school and college graduations, and I didn’t even bother inviting her to my med school ceremony. The idea that she’d ever send me a care package is laughable.
But it doesn’t make me jealous of Aleksi. If anything, part of me wants to bethatmom—the one who sends her grown son candy across an ocean, just to remind him of home. I thought I’d be a mother by now, but life and an ugly divorce had other plans.
“You’re giving me experimental candy?” I ask, lifting a hesitant brow.
“For your collection of interesting data,” he says with a grin. “Apparently Jupiter’s finally in a good mood. Obviously improved puck luck.”
“Obviously.” I slide the packet into my kit. Aleksi and his random facts. “Hydrate.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes crinkle. “You’re very bossy when we win.”
“I’m always bossy.”
“True.” He tips his head, studying me. “You okay? You sprinted for East when he went down.”
“I’m fine. More importantly, he will be too.” I nod toward the quiet room. “He’s not my biggest fan right now. We’ll re-evaluate before morning skate.”
“Tell him I’m bringing the good licorice. Not the evil kind.”
“Right. That’ll fix it,” I deadpan, and he laughs, because even if candy can’t fix the loss of a shift, it helps. Especially because Scottie Easton is a human dumpster when it comes to food. I’ve rarely seen him without some kind of snack in his hand… unless he’s skating.
He taps two fingers to his temple in an exaggerated salute. “See you at Oakley’s after media. I owe you a drink for the eye.”
“You don’t owe me anything. It’s my job.”
The idea of sitting casually with Aleksi at the bar while he buys me a drink sounds nice in theory, but it’s also one step closer to misleading him into thinking something between us could ever happen. Nothing can happen as long as we both work for the Hawkeyes and he’s a professional player.
“Right,” he says, bright, unbothered by my attempt to rationalize whatever that was on the bench.
I should shut it down. Instead, the corner of my mouth betrays me. He catches it like a puck through traffic, smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and then he’s gone—swallowed by victory, steam, and music.
The rest is routine.
Head coach wrap-up. Media crushes the hall like a tide. I do my interview, hating the “female doctor in a male sport”questions. Today, most stick to Easton: Will he play on the road in two days? What’s his current condition?
I give them as little as possible and get out.
I dodge cameras, finish my notes, and send the concussion report. Cammy, Peyton, Vivi, and Penelope—the group of WAGs I’ve somehow become part of, even though I’m not a wife or a girlfriend—are waiting to walk to Oakley’s. Still, these girls are the closest thing I’ve got to a family. They’re the ones who made moving here and leaving behind everything I knew in Florida bearable. Actually, more than bearable. They were my saving grace after the media storm that branded me the jersey-jumper doctor following my divorce.
We head to Oakley’s together, the local sports bar just a few blocks from the arena where the players and fans flood after every game. One soda, a round of hugs, and I’m out—successfully dodging Aleksi. Not that it’s difficult. He’s a social butterfly, magnetic in a way that keeps people orbiting him. Still, even in a packed room, I can feel it—the weight of his gaze finding me again and again. Those bright blue eyes that always seem to shimmer when they land on me.
I catch him trying to work his way through the crowd more than once, only to get stopped by a fan. He’s too polite to brush anyone off, which gives me enough time to slip to another corner, pretending to be fascinated by whatever conversation I can latch onto. But it never lasts. Before long, I’ll look up and he’ll be watching again—mischief curving his lips, like he knows exactly what I’m doing. Like he thinks this is a game.
In my car, I don’t turn the radio on. My brain is still a highlight reel—the hit, the pupils, the glue, the wink. I pull the licorice out of my pocket, regard the label, and almost laugh at the dare. I put it back.
There’s a rule that keeps my life clean and my heart intact. I broke it once and watched my life burn. I’m not watching the full rerun.
So I focus on what’s ahead. It’s what I’ve done since fourteen: best grades, hard work, every scholarship, college acceptance, med school, and never repeat the life path my mother—and her mother—took: drugs, alcohol, worthless men.
Unfortunately, my retired NFL ex-husband is Exhibit A in repeating my mother’s choices. I should’ve seen the love-bombing the day I met him in the locker room. I should’ve known a reputation doesn’t change just because you make a wedding vow. Four years of long-distance marriage became one of my worst mistakes.
Then a year of post-divorce bad decisions and worse rumors had the medical board sniffing around for “fraternizing with a patient” when the press made fake allegations to sell stories. It wasn’t true, and the case closed. But it almost ended me.
I was almost done being a team doctor until I bumped into Penelope Matthews at a charity event and she asked if I’d ever thought about switching leagues. The NHL felt like fresh air, and having a female GM felt like a new start.
That’s when I solidified my rule. No players. Not ever again.
