Fault Lines
Anna
She found him at the hotel gym at 6:12 a.m.
The air still smelled like rubber mats and metal, the lights too bright for the early hour. He was alone—headphones on, punching rhythm into a bag that swung slightly with each hit.
Anna watched from the doorway for longer than she should’ve. Noticed how his movements weren’t as sharp as usual. Like he hadn’t really slept.
Neither had she.
She stepped inside.
He saw her in the mirror first, then turned—sweat darkening the collar of his T-shirt, chest rising hard with every breath.
“Didn’t think I’d see you today,” he said, pulling off his gloves.
“I wasn’t going to come.” She hesitated. “But I read the note.”
His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Yeah?”
“I needed a few hours to... decide what to do with it.”
“And?”
“I’m here.”
Something in his shoulders released, slow and tentative.
She walked over and sat on the bench press beside him.
They didn’t speak for a while.
The only sound was the steady hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.
---
Chris
She was so still beside him—knees close, hair pulled back, that same little crease between her brows she always got when she was bracing for something.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t want to startle the moment into shattering.
Finally, she spoke. “I keep thinking about Levi. About the look in his eyes when he realized he couldn’t feel his legs for a second.”
Chris swallowed. “He’s gonna be okay.”
“I know. But I didn’t feel okay after.”
“You’re not supposed to. That means you care.”
“That’s the problem,” she whispered. “I care too much. About my patients. About the staff. About... you.”
His breath caught.
She didn’t look at him. Just stared at her hands.
“I spent years building a wall between me and this team. Everyone had to go through it. You bulldozed straight through.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
She looked up then. “But you did.”
Silence stretched again. But this time, it felt different. Not sharp—just full.
He reached out slowly, his hand brushing the edge of hers.
And she didn’t pull away.
Instead, she turned her palm up and laced their fingers together.
It was the first time they’d touched outside of necessity.
It wasn’t clinical.
It wasn’t fleeting.
It meant something.
---
Anna
She didn’t know why she let herself do it—hold his hand, soften that last inch between them.
But the truth was, she didn’t want to hold that distance anymore.
She’d spent so long telling herself she could handle the stress, the scrutiny, the loneliness of this job. But the moment he’d looked at her on the ice, she’d realized how much she'd been pretending.
And now, sitting here, their hands still joined in the quiet, she let herself feel it.
Not the lust. Not the confusion.
The want.
The dangerous, aching want to be seen by someone who didn’t run.
---
Chris
When she finally looked at him—really looked—he saw it.
Not just permission.
Invitation.
“Can I—” he started, but didn’t finish.
She leaned in, her forehead resting lightly against his.
Not a kiss.
Something deeper. Gentler.
A moment held between inhale and exhale.
He closed his eyes and breathed her in. Sweat, lavender shampoo, the faint citrus tang of hotel soap.
Neither of them moved for a long time.
And when they pulled back, it wasn’t awkward.
It was honest.
“I have to get to the rink,” she said softly.
“Yeah. I’ll see you there.”
She started walking away—then turned.
“You can bulldoze the wall,” she said, voice almost a smile. “But don’t tear the whole house down. Not yet.”
Chris grinned. “Just the door, then?”
She nodded once.
And this time, when she left, he didn’t feel like she was walking away from him.
---
Chris
By the time the team bus rolled out for morning skate, Chris had one earbud in and both eyes on the back of Anna’s head.
She sat up front, in the medical staff row. Close enough to feel like a tether. Far enough to keep things... what? Professional?
It was already too late for that.
Still, he didn’t speak to her when they filed into the arena.
Didn’t even brush her shoulder.
It wasn’t distance.
It was protection. A quiet understanding.
They’d crossed a line that morning. Not the kind you could see—but the kind that left something cracked behind your ribs.
He wanted to touch her again.
But not here.
Not like this.
---
Anna
She’d barely set foot in the medical room when Coach Hughes walked in.
“Doc, got a second?”
She nodded, pulse steady. “Sure.”
He gestured to the hallway, and the moment they stepped out, his voice dropped an octave.
“Media caught wind of the note. The one Chris left you.”
She went still.
“How—”
“We don’t know. Someone leaked it. Maybe hotel staff, maybe a player. Either way, it’s out. It’s getting legs.”
Anna’s stomach turned. “I haven’t said anything to anyone.”
“I believe you,” Hughes said. “But upper management’s watching this close. They like you. They respect you. But they’re going to need some kind of assurance.”
She swallowed. “Assurance of what?”
“That this thing with Neil? It’s not compromising your role.”
“It hasn’t. It won’t.”
But even as she said it, her voice trembled. Slight. Barely perceptible.
Hughes didn’t call it out.
He just nodded, gave her a long look, and said, “Tighten it up, Doc. Fast.”
Then he walked away.
---
Chris
When he saw her after practice, she looked like she’d been run over by a freight train. Hair still damp, expression locked down.
He waited until the locker room emptied before following her down the corridor.
“Anna.”
She didn’t stop walking.
He caught up anyway, falling into step beside her.
“You heard?” she asked.
“I heard.”
They turned a corner into a side hallway, quiet and empty.
“Someone leaked the note,” she said flatly.
His jaw tensed. “I should’ve never left it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She finally stopped walking, turning to face him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be fallout.”
He stepped closer. “Let me help.”
“How?” Her voice broke, just a little. “This isn’t a hit you can throw or a goal you can score. This is my career, Chris.”
“I know.” His voice dropped. “And I’m not asking you to risk it. But don’t shut me out now. Not after this morning.”
Anna looked at him—really looked.
Then her shoulders sagged.
And she whispered, “I’m tired of being the one who has to be careful all the time.”
Chris didn’t hesitate. He cupped her cheek gently, not kissing her, not pulling her closer—just holding her still.
A moment of quiet defiance.
“I’ll be careful,” he murmured. “For both of us.”
She closed her eyes.
And for the second time that day, she let him in.
---
Anna
That night, she didn’t go back to her own room.
They didn’t talk about it—didn’t plan it.
She knocked once on his door, heart racing.
He opened it like he’d been waiting for her.
There were no fireworks. No unraveling of clothes.
They just lay down side by side on the bed, shoes still on, the city lights outside their window painting the ceiling with soft gray shadows.
She turned her face into his shoulder.
Felt his arm come around her waist, tentative but sure.
And when she finally fell asleep, it was the first time in weeks she didn’t dream of failing.
She dreamed of breath.
Warmth.
Stillness.
Of something like safety.
---