Unspoken Rules
Anna
The boardroom was all glass and tension. Frosted windows, silent clocks, the hum of expensive air conditioning fighting the nerves that crept up Anna’s spine. She sat at the long table across from three people who had the power to end her career in under five minutes.
They didn’t. But they could have.
“The optics,” the assistant GM said, fingertips tapping the table, “are not ideal.”
Anna nodded. “I understand.”
“We respect your work,” said the legal counsel, a woman whose blazer was sharper than her smile. “But when private relationships intersect with team medical care, there are questions of liability.”
She didn’t flinch. “That’s why I’ve removed myself from direct player supervision.”
The GM leaned forward, fingers laced. “We’re not questioning your integrity, Dr. Blaine.”
But you are, she thought. You just don’t want to say it out loud.
“Just your judgment,” he added.
That stung more than it should have.
Her reassignment was framed as temporary. A standard procedural measure while they "re-evaluated her role." She’d still be on payroll, still part of the organization. Just no longer in the tunnel during games, no longer managing the bench, and—most notably—no longer responsible for Chris Neil’s recovery protocols.
A clean break. Professionally.
Personally, it was anything but.
---
Chris
Practice was lighter than usual. Morning skate, followed by a film session. Coach didn’t say much, and no one pushed Chris about the press conference. Not to his face, anyway.
Still, he could feel the shift.
The subtle nods in the locker room. The way the rookies looked at him like he’d punched God and gotten away with it. The veterans weren’t unfriendly, but the air carried caution.
“You really said it?” Ty Garrison muttered at one point, grin tugging at his mouth.
“Every word.”
“That’s either real brave, or real dumb.”
Chris shrugged. “Maybe both.”
---
After practice, he texted Anna twice.
No reply.
So he did what he always did when he couldn’t sit still.
He skated.
Thirty extra minutes. Then ten more. Until his legs burned and the ache in his chest had somewhere to go.
When he finally left the rink, it was past 7:00 p.m., the parking lot nearly empty, the wind sharp and biting through his hoodie.
Still no reply.
He thought about driving to her building. Thought about calling again. But he knew Anna—she didn’t respond to pressure. She needed space before she let someone in.
And right now, she was deciding if he still had a place.
---
Anna
She didn’t cry when they handed her the new badge.
She didn’t break when she moved her things into a smaller, quieter office down the hall.
But she did pause when she caught her reflection in the tinted window of the auxiliary med bay—same white coat, same calm posture, but something about her looked... lonelier.
She was still Anna Blaine.
Still capable. Still professional.
But the fire inside her felt banked now, like it had been forced to retreat.
The other staff were careful with her. Not cold, not cruel—just cautious. Like she might detonate if touched too hard.
They whispered when she walked by.
She heard things she wasn’t meant to hear.
“...should’ve known better.”
“...wasn’t she the one who—?”
“...he’s half her recovery file.”
It didn’t matter how false it was.
What mattered was that it sounded true.
And truth didn’t matter to rumors. Just fire.
---
Chris
The game that night felt wrong before it even started.
No Anna in the tunnel. No flash of her clipboard. No brief eye contact over his shoulder. Just a new trainer, polite and perfunctory, handing him a pre-wrap like it was a job and nothing else.
He played hard. Got an assist. Took a hit he shouldn’t have. Fought back twice as hard.
But the whole time, something was off.
After the win, as the team spilled out of the locker room toward the press corridor, he caught a flash of a white coat through a side hall.
Not Anna.
Not even close.
He doubled back before anyone noticed and found the auxiliary med bay open, light spilling out in a warm, muted pool.
She was alone. Cleaning.
Packing, maybe.
Her back was to him.
“Are you really okay with this?” he asked quietly from the doorway.
She turned, startled, then relaxed. “You can’t keep finding me after games.”
“Why not?”
“Because people talk.”
“They already are.”
She hesitated. “I didn’t do this for us, Chris. I did this so I could keep my job.”
“I know.”
He took a step forward. “But I didn’t say what I said for them. I said it for you.”
She swallowed. Looked away.
“I’ve been waiting for something to feel like it’s mine again,” she said. “Something I didn’t have to hide or apologize for.”
“And do I count?”
Her eyes lifted to his.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
---
Anna
They sat in silence for a long time after that.
Not touching.
Not moving.
The quiet wasn’t empty. It was full of choices.
Finally, she said, “If I open this door all the way, you have to understand—it changes everything.”
“I know,” he said.
“I can’t lose my career for a fling.”
“Good,” he said, stepping closer. “Because this isn’t one.”
She stared at him. He didn’t look away.
It was the first time she believed him without any part of her flinching.
And when she finally kissed him, it wasn’t desperate. It was deliberate.
Like choosing the storm.
---