Chapter 1: Damage Control
The video had already been looped twenty-seven times by the time Chris Neil walked into the Barley Blades front office.
He knew, because every screen in the building—conference room, trainer’s office, even the receptionist’s tablet—had frozen on the same frame: him, shirt half-off, blood on his lip, knuckles split, throwing a punch outside a club at 2:03 a.m.
Perfect form. Terrible timing.
“Sit,” Coach Hartley grunted, not looking up from the legal pad he was scribbling on. Chris sat. The cut above his eyebrow pulled tight. Someone had definitely clocked him.
General Manager Sterling paced in the corner, eyes narrowed behind thick glasses. “You want to explain what the hell that was?”
Chris leaned back in the chair. “Guy mouthed off. Took a swing. I finished it.”
“Christ,” Sterling muttered. “You’re not twenty-one anymore, Neil. You’re the face of this franchise.”
Chris bit his tongue before he could say something smart. That’s what had gotten him here in the first place. That, and maybe the whiskey.
Hartley stood up, rubbed his jaw. “League wants to suspend you. PR wants to crucify you. But I want to salvage this season. So here’s the deal.”
Chris straightened slightly.
“You’re going to rehab your image. No booze. No brawls. Weekly psych evals. And you’ll be working with the team physician for injury clearance and travel supervision.”
Chris scoffed. “What, like a babysitter?”
“No,” came a voice from the doorway. “Like a doctor who doesn’t have time to coddle spoiled athletes with anger issues.”
He turned. And promptly shut up.
Standing in the doorway was a woman in a navy blazer and sharp black slacks. Hair in a no-nonsense braid, a tablet in her hand, and eyes that could freeze a man in place. She didn’t blink when he looked her over. If anything, she looked bored.
“This is **Dr. Anna Blaine**,” Sterling said. “She’s the new medical director for the Blades. Started last week.”
Chris frowned. “Didn’t know we were hiring.”
“We weren’t,” Anna said coolly. “But after your latest PR disaster, ownership decided you needed... closer management.”
She walked toward him, heels clicking, and handed him a schedule.
“Weekly evaluations, travel clearance, and therapy check-ins. You follow it to the letter, or you sit the season. Any deviation, I’ll report it.”
“Are you always this friendly?” Chris said, raising a brow.
“Only when I’m thrilled to be working overtime because a grown man can’t control his fists.”
Coach Hartley looked between them. “Glad we’re all on the same page.”
---
Fifteen minutes later, Chris stormed out of the office and headed toward the players’ entrance, schedule in hand. The paper was still warm where she’d handed it to him. Precise. Organized. Cold.
She probably didn’t even watch hockey.
He hated her already.
And yet… when she’d looked at him, something in her gaze had landed deeper than any punch that night. Not judgment. Not pity.
Just the quiet certainty that she saw right through him.
And that scared the hell out of him.
---
Chris didn’t say much during the elevator ride down from the executive floor. Didn’t have to. The weight of Anna Blaine’s gaze beside him was enough to keep his mouth shut, which was probably a miracle.
She stood a precise step apart, arms crossed, tablet cradled in one hand. Her expression was unreadable, a kind of calm contempt he hadn’t seen since his high school vice principal.
“You know,” he said finally, just to break the silence, “if you wanted to stare, you could’ve asked for a picture.”
She didn’t flinch. “If I wanted a mugshot, I’d Google your name.”
Chris chuckled under his breath. “You always this charming?”
“Only when I’m paired with reckless man-children.”
The elevator dinged. Chris stepped out first and turned toward the players’ exit, expecting her to walk the other way. But her heels followed him, steady and unhurried.
“Where are you going?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“You have a baseline medical assessment at three. I’m driving.”
“I can take my own car.”
“You’re currently one headline away from a suspension,” she said, brushing past him to open the door to the parking lot. “So no, you can’t.”
Chris stared after her, jaw tight, then followed.
Her car was a silver sedan—clean, clinical, like her. He slid into the passenger seat and buckled up. For a moment, there was silence.
Then: “What happened that night?”
Chris looked out the window. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” she said, already pulling out of the lot. “Because I’m responsible for clearing you to play. And if you’re emotionally unstable, you’re a liability.”
He clenched his jaw. “Guy called my brother a junkie. Said I was next.”
Anna’s fingers tightened briefly on the steering wheel. “Your brother?”
“Was a goalie. Died two years ago. Overdose.” He didn’t know why he told her. Maybe because she didn’t make a sound, didn’t gasp or say *I’m sorry* like everyone else. Just nodded once, like she filed it away.
After a moment, she said, “You punch people every time someone talks shit?”
“Just the ones who deserve it.”
“That must be exhausting.”
Chris barked a laugh, surprised. “What about you, doc? What’s your story?”
“I’m not the one being court-ordered into therapy.”
“Touché.”
---
The clinic wasn’t far—a sleek facility attached to the Blades’ practice rink. Chris had been there a hundred times, but this time, the white walls and clean lines felt colder with Anna watching.
He went through the motions—blood pressure, flexibility tests, shoulder mobility. Anna took notes, her gaze sharp but detached. She didn’t compliment his stats. Didn’t ask about his offseason training. Just recorded and moved on.
When it was over, she stood, closed the file, and said, “You’ll get a schedule every Sunday. Miss a check-in, and you sit.”
Chris leaned back on the exam table. “So that’s it? I play nice, do your tests, and you clear me?”
Her eyes met his. Cool. Calm. Sharp enough to cut.
“You follow the program, I sign off on your eligibility. But let’s be clear, Chris—I’m not your friend. I’m not your PR handler. I’m here to make sure you don’t burn the entire team down with you.”
She turned and walked out.
And for the first time in a long time, Chris didn’t have a damn thing to say back.
---
He got home just before six. The sun was going down behind the skyline, casting shadows through his loft’s giant windows. It was all concrete and glass, expensive furniture he hadn’t picked out, and a fridge full of meal prep he rarely touched.
He dropped his duffel bag by the door and sat on the couch, staring at the wall. The silence crept in.
He didn’t like being alone anymore. Not since Connor.
His phone buzzed. A text from teammate Rory popped up:
**“Dude. Dr. Blaine? Ice queen. You good?”**
Chris smirked.
**“She hates me already.”**
**“You surprised?”**
**“Nah.”**
**“Good luck, man. She’s got the power to bench your ass.”**
He tossed the phone onto the cushion beside him and leaned back, one arm draped over his eyes.
He’d faced down defensemen twice his size, gone three rounds with bruisers from Montreal to Minnesota. But Dr. Anna Blaine?
She might be the most dangerous opponent he’d ever faced.
---