Page 8 of Player Misconduct
“Seriously?” Peyton asks, her eyebrows stitching together, almost shocked by this.
“Oh… right,” Cammy says, leaning back into her chair as if an old realization just hit her. “I forgot that you technically have a doctor/patient relationship.”
“And the sanctions, especially right now in the playoffs…” I trail off. “Even if I wanted something to happen with Aleksi—and I’m not saying that I do”—I look around the café, remembering that we’re in a public place. I lean closer and drop my voice lower. The last thing I need is some random person hearing this and it gets out. “It’s too messy and the potential cost is too great.”
“Have you two talked about this?” Penelope asks, both as a friend and as the GM.
I lean back. “No, of course not. I don’t want to start a conversation about any of this with him. For all I know, he’s just flirting with me because he knows it can’t happen.”
“Sure that’s why he’s flirting with you,” Cammy says with an eye roll and a smirk. “Come on, Kendall. If he was an emoji, he’d be the one with drool dripping down the side of its mouth whenever you walk into a room.”
“But does he know you can’t date?” Peyton asks, looking between the rest of us.
“He should know. He’s been in the league long enough to know that medical staff are off limits," Penelope assures with a vigorous nod. “But that doesn’t mean rules aren’t often broken in this league. People just try to keep it quiet. These boys like playing on the edge. That’s why they play hockey.”
We all snicker because it’s true. If hockey players weren’t breaking rules, they would have lost interest in the game years ago.
The trouble is, Aleksi might lose time in the game, maybe get traded, but he’ll still have a career. The Hawkeyes might get sanctions, but those don’t last long. I’m the only one who stands to lose my entire livelihood because I answer to a different power than the NHL. I answer to the medical board.
“So no Aleksi?” Peyton asks one last time.
“No players at all. Ever. I’ve been down this road. I know some of you at this table have great guys, but they’re not all made the same.” They all nod as if they understand.
“My ex-husband cheated on me with a cheerleader he met at a bar,” I say, voice flat so it doesn’t shake. They know that Tarron left me for someone else, but they don’t know all of it. “I was naive and stupid to think he had been faithful all these years while I was finishing my fellowship, but that was the tip of the iceberg, and once the divorce proceedings started, I found out about the dozen or more affairs he had over the years. The only reason I found out about the cheerleader at the bar was because he got lazy and someone snapped them making out together.”
Peyton’s hand finds mine under the table. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“His agent didn’t want to lose the fat management fee he was making off Tarron, so he tried to spin it. Put in the press that a ‘source close to us’ said we were on the brink of divorce anyway. That I was only after expanding my career as a team doctor by marrying him. He recovered Tarron’s image by spreading fake headlines that Tarron and the cheerleader were secretly engaged and that I was fighting the divorce to make it seem like they weren’t just caught cheating but loved each other.”
“What an asshole,” Isla says.
I nod. “I tried to move on, but I was a workaholic and most of my waking hours were spent around athletes, so that’s what I dated.” I huff out a laugh that doesn’t feel like one. “Turns out, I can navigate a torn meniscus blindfolded. I can’t navigate egos and alcohol and lies.”
“Not all players,” Cammy says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “Not all players. But I’m a magnet for the worst of their kind, and for some unknown reason, I can’t seem to peg them as soon as I meet them. I don’t trust my intuition. My picker is broken, and maybe there is such a thing as a curse you inherit from your mother.”
Penelope squeezes my hand. “And that’s why you left the NFL.”
“Exactly,” I echo. “Tarron’s agent started it by taking a hit at me to save his client’s image, and then the press saw a clear shot when I was photographed leaving a restaurant in New York with another football player. That’s when the labeling started and the medical board started looking into it. After I was cleared, I considered not going back, but I ran into you and you offered me a change. I built back my reputation in a new league by doing the work, quietly, every day. I am not risking that because someone has a sexy accent and a nice ass.”
Peyton’s mouth tilts. “He does, though.”
“Peyton.”
“Hunter’s ass is better, but I’m just saying. Aleksi is in great shape, and he’s had a crush on you forever. And the way he looks at you is so swoony.”
“The swoony look is the problem. The other stuff is easier to ignore,” I say.
Isla’s eyes are kind and annoyingly perceptive. “You know, it’s allowed to feel good when someone looks at you like that, even if nothing can come of it.”
I spin my half-drunk chai cup in my hand. “It’s allowed. But it won’t do either of us any good. Especially not me. I can’t afford to have my work questioned because I smiled at the wrong person.”
A beat of silence. Then Isla squeezes my knee. “Okay. Rule stands. We get it.”
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. “Now can we talk about who’s bringing the travel humidifier? Because I refuse to turn into a raisin before game time.”
The conversation tilts back into logistics, blessedly ordinary. Peyton’s debating heels vs. sneakers; if we should all bring cute outfits for the team dinner. Cammy is trying to convince Isla that fanny packs are back. We mock each other’s packing lists and compare notes on which arena has the worst coffee.
