Chapter ONE Lexi

My heart does a triple axel in my chest as I step into the frigid embrace of Ashville College's hockey arena. First day jitters skate circles around my stomach, but excitement pumps through my veins like adrenaline before a big game. It's a cocktail of emotions, but I'm ready to drink it down. Sure, Ashville, Minnesota isn’t exactly everyone; idea of a great place to start a sports career, but my hometown holds its own.

Senior year. This internship is one of the only things between me and fulfilling my degree requirements. I’m so ready.

"Okay, Lexi," I mutter to myself, "time to make ’em proud."

With every stride across the gleaming concourse, I can feel the ghosts of hockey legends past whispering in my ear, reminding me this is where I belong. I breathe in the familiar scent of cold air mixed with the faint musk of Zamboni exhaust—smells like potential.

I don't waste time. The layout of the arena unfolds before me like one of those schematic diagrams my dad used to draw up for game plays. To the left, the locker rooms with their promise of sweaty gear and strategy talks; straight ahead, the training rooms humming with the reminders of rehabbed injuries; and beyond that, the rink itself—a shimmering expanse of ice that's seen more slice than a pizzeria on game night.

"Home sweet home," I say under my breath, a smirk playing at the corner of my mouth.

I imagine Dad's voice coaching me through this moment, the same way he did when I laced up my first pair of skates. "Keep your head up, Lexi. Eyes on the play." It's a mantra for hockey and, as it turns out, life.

The arena is quiet now, though the whole Ashville Aces team is either on the ice or leaning on the outside of the boards— the calm before the storm of stick-clashing and puck-slapping practice. I take a mental snapshot of each player, though they are small from where I’m at in the stands, and each area, storing them in my mind next to all the sports medicine knowledge I've been hoarding for years. This isn't just some internship. It's the first shift of the rest of my career, and I want to be ready for anything.

"Show them what you're made of, Turner," I pep-talk myself, brushing a loose strand of hair back into my ponytail as I start down the steps toward the rink.

like the memory of a thousand early morning practices. The sharp sound of blades cutting across the surface echoes through the arena, a symphony to any hockey lover's ears. I'm close enough to see the players' breaths hang in the air, their determined faces set and focused.

"Alexis Turner?" A voice booms over the ambient noise. I turn to find the source—a man with a presence that fills the space around him. Coach Thompson stands there, barrel-chested, military-cut gray hair, khakis and long-sleeves polo impeccable, clipboard in hand, wearing a look that means business.

"Call me Lexi," I respond, extending my hand. My grip is firm, practiced; it has to be when you're stepping into a world dominated by men who could bench press your body weight.

"Right, Lexi." He clasps my hand with a nod, appraising me for a moment too long, slightly wary. "Welcome aboard. Our physio, Drew, will typically be joining us when you’re here. But today, it’s just us. Let's introduce you to the team."

We weave between the benches and discarded water bottles until we're at the edge of the rink. The practice is now in full swing—players weaving intricate patterns on the ice, puck flying from stick to stick with a precision that speaks of endless drills.

"Everyone!" Coach Thompson's voice cuts through the clatter. Practice slows as players circle around us, curiosity lighting up their sweat-glistened faces. "This is Lexi, our new intern. She'll be assisting with physical therapies and ensuring you lot don't fall apart mid-season."

I look over the team, noting each man as I recognize him. I’ve studied the roster and the team’s online portfolios.

Tyler Reed, defenseman.

Chris Anderson, center.

Dean "The Machine" Hartley, Kyle "Flash" Franklin, Alexander “Xander” Price, “Reckless” Reid Jackson—wingers always have nicknames.

And Eric Larson, goalie.

A chorus of nods and murmurs greet me. None of them are too enthusiastic. And then, Noah Bishop, the captain, skates forward with an ease that speaks volumes of his time on the ice. His smile is genuine, welcoming; it makes something in my chest loosen.

"Nice to meet you, Lexi," he says, his voice calm and reassuring.

"Likewise," I reply, but before I can say more, another figure commands attention.

Wes Jacobs, star forward, swishes closer with a swagger that takes up more space than it should. There's a challenge in his ice-blue eyes, visible even through his helmet, the kind that says he knows exactly how good he is. But underneath the bravado, I see something else—a flicker of something deeper.

"Hope you've got thick skin," Wes says, his tone teasing but edged with a dare. "Some of us aren't as easygoing as Captain America here."

"Thick skin, steel-toed boots, and a no-nonsense attitude,” I shoot back, standing my ground. "I think I’ll manage."

A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, and for a second, I wonder if Wes Jacobs is impressed. But then the moment’s gone, lost to the echo of the coach’s whistle signaling the end of the huddle.

"Let's get back to it, gentlemen," Coach Thompson announces, and just like that, the players disperse, returning to the rhythm of practice.

I retreat to the sidelines, pulling out my notepad. It’s time to observe, to study the way they move individually and together. Noah leads with a calm assertiveness, his play clean and precise. In contrast, Wes is all fire and flash, pushing the limits with a natural instinct that can’t be taught. But he also takes risks—risks that can get him hurt, in the wrong circumstance. The dynamic on the ice is readable, the push and pull of personalities and play styles. They're a unit, yes, but within it are stories, rivalries, friendships. I scribble down notes on their techniques, already thinking of training programs, injury prevention strategies.

They think they’re just showing off for the new girl, but I’m seeing much more than that. I'm seeing potential. They all move well together, and I'm seeing the beginning of an unforgettable season—if they can keep it together.

The last few minutes of practice is when it happens.

They're running drills again, a two-on-two scrimmage, Bishop and Jacobs against Anderson and Reed. The puck dances between sticks, gliding across the ice with a mesmerizing rhythm. Noah has control, the puck seemingly attracted to his stick as he weaves through the makeshift defense. He's about to pass it over to Wes when it happens.

Wes charges forward without looking, shoulder colliding hard into Noah's chest. It’s a brutal impact, a thunderous clash of bodies that sends shockwaves through the rink. Both players hit the ice in an unceremonious tumble, leaving silence in its wake.

I gasp along with everyone else.

Wes is the first to move, pushing himself up. He looks over at Noah, his eyes wide with shock. The puck rests forgotten a few feet away. Around us, the entire rink holds its breath.

"Bishop, you all right?" Wes is kneeling next to him now, his usual bravado replaced by concern.

Noah groans and tries to push himself up with a grunt. “Yeah,” he finally says, his voice edged with annoyance. “Dude, you hit me like a ton of bricks.”

The collective breath of everyone in the arena seems to whoosh out as Wes helps Noah to his feet, and they rerun the drill without incident. But I see it—Noah’s favoring one of his ankles. A shrill whistle pierces the arena, signaling a break in practice. Players glide to the boards, chests heaving, sweat glistening on their brows. I push off the wall, my sneakers finding traction as I make my way across the rubber mats toward Noah, who's wincing, sat in the penalty box, one hand clutched around his ankle.

"Hey, Noah," I say, pitching my voice above the din of exhausted chatter. "Mind if I take a look at that?"

Maybe I shouldn’t—the team physio isn’t here to oversee me. I wonder if I’m being too bold. I don’t want to get into trouble day one, but I’m here, and I can help.

Noah looks up, surprise etching his features—which are, admittedly, pretty cute now that I have a clear view of him without the face guard in the way—before he masks it with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Offering your expertise on the first day? Do I get this VIP treatment often?"

"Only when you're limping like a pirate with a peg leg," I retort, kneeling beside him. His skate is already off, and my fingers are deft as they peel back his sock, exposing an ankle that's already swelling. "How bad is it?"

"Ah, I've had worse." His attempt at nonchalance doesn't fool me. The grimace gives him away as I probe gently.

"Scale of one to ten?" I ask, keeping my touch light but clinical as I assess the damage.

"Solid six?" He winces again as I press a tender spot.

"Previous injuries?" My mind races through potential treatments even as I await his response.

"A sprain last season. Same ankle." Noah's gaze holds mine, a silent understanding passing between us. He knows I'm not just another intern; I know what this game costs.

"All right, Captain," I say, injecting confidence into my tone. "Let's get some ice on this and talk to Coach."

I return quickly with a bag of ice and an Ace bandage, my mind whirring with treatment plans. Noah watches me approach, his expression a blend of gratitude and pain that tugs at something deep inside me. I've always been a sucker for the wounded-hero type, but it's more than that—his worry is practically etched into his features.

"All right, Captain," I begin, easing down beside him. "Let's turn that six into a two, shall we?" My hands are steady as I wrap the ice in a towel before positioning it against his ankle.

"Is this the part where you tell me my season's over and I should start considering underwater basket weaving as a sport?" Noah jokes, that charming half-smile playing on his lips.

"Only if you're planning to make it a contact sport. Otherwise, I don’t think hockey fans will follow you to your next endeavor." I secure the bandage with practiced ease. "But seriously, keep weight off it for the next 24 hours, ice for twenty minutes on, forty off. And I'll need you doing some light rehab exercises starting tomorrow."

"Bossy, aren't you?" he teases, but he nods, showing he's taking it all in.

"Comes with the territory. And Coach Thompson did say I’m here to help, remember? But I guess you're used to calling the shots, huh? How does it feel to be on the other side?"

"Surprisingly refreshing," he admits, watching me work with keen blue eyes. "You have a good touch, Lexi. Not too gentle, not too rough. Goldilocks would approve."

"Let's not bring fairy tales into this," I quip, adjusting the ice pack. "Although, if you want, I can recite 'Jack and the Beanstalk' while you elevate your leg. I know it by heart. I did a lot of babysitting for extra cash my freshman year."

"Thanks, I'll pass." He laughs, the sound rich and warm, and for a brief moment, we're just two people sharing a joke instead of an intern and team captain in the middle of a hockey arena. It's strangely intimate, this shared bubble of levity.

"All right then, no bedtime stories." I stand up, brushing off my hands as I offer him a final piece of advice. "Remember, RICE—rest, ice, compression, elevation. Stick to it, and you'll be terrorizing opponents on the ice again before you know it."

"Wes is the terror—and you notice he’s fled the scene of the crime?”

I nod, looking around for the other crash-ee. We must be in the locker room already. Noah's ankle, now neatly wrapped and iced, looks like a textbook example of sprain management. I step back, hands on hips, surveying my handiwork.

"I see that. Well, that should do it," I say, checking off mental notes in my head. "How's the pressure? Not too tight, I hope."

Noah flexes his ankle gingerly, testing the limits of the compression tape holding the ice in place. "It's perfect," he admits with a nod of approval. "You really know your stuff, Lexi."

"Thanks," I reply, trying to brush off the compliment with nonchalance, even though inside I'm doing victory laps. "Just doing my job."

"Still," Noah continues, sincerity lacing his voice, "I've had my fair share of ankle sprains, and this feels better than most wraps I've had. You're not just going through the motions—you actually care. It makes a difference."

His words, warm and appreciative, ignite a little spark of pride in my chest. The captain of the hockey team acknowledging my dedication is more than just a confidence booster—it's validation that I'm exactly where I'm meant to be.

"Appreciate it, Captain," I quip with a wink. "Now, don't go ruining my masterpiece by playing hero on the ice before you're ready."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he chuckles, but there's a promise in his eyes that tells me he'll heed my advice.

"You going to live, Cap?" A deep voice cuts through our exchange, and I turn to find Wes Jacobs leaning against the doorframe of the penalty box. His presence is like a sudden drop in temperature, the air charged with a different kind of electricity.

"He'll be fine," I respond, crossing my arms over my chest. I'm all too aware of his reputation—Wes Jacobs doesn't play by anyone's rules but his own. He certainly didn't stick around to see if Noah was okay, and I don't recall him apologizing for causing the collision.

"Nice job with the ankle," Wes says, eyeing Noah's foot with a hint of skepticism. "But come on, isn't all this a bit much? Do we even need someone like you hovering over us? Walk it off—that's how real players handle it."

"Is that so?" I challenge, meeting his intense gaze head-on. He might unnerve others, but I grew up with three brothers who taught me how to stand my ground. "Because 'real players' also have 'real career-ending injuries' when they ignore professional medical advice."

I maintain eye contact with Wes, noting the stubborn set of his jaw as I calmly lay out the facts. "Every player thinks they're invincible until they're not," I continue, my voice steady despite his challenging stare. "Ignoring a minor injury can lead to major setbacks. Trust me, you don't want to be benched because you played tough instead of smart."

He surveys me with cool amusement. "So, what's your grand plan to keep us from breaking apart? Bubble wrap under our jerseys?"

"Only for the biggest egos," I retort quickly. “Let me know what size jersey you wear so I can order plenty.” My response seems to crack the ice, and Wes's lips twitch into a reluctant grin.

"Okay, Doc," he concedes, the nickname laced with a hint of respect. "I'll bite. What do you suggest?"

"Preventative care," I say, seizing the opportunity. "Proper warm-ups, cool-downs, regular check-ups, and listening to your body. It's not rocket science, but it works."

Wes nods slowly, and I can tell he's actually considering my words. "And if we still end up injured?" he challenges.

"Then you'll have the best care I can give. But let's try to avoid that, shall we?" I offer him a smile that's part professional, part playful, hoping to bridge the gap between his defiance and my dedication.

Wes pushes off from the doorway, stepping closer with a smirk that could either mean trouble or interest—I can't tell which. "Well, then, I guess we'll see how good you really are at keeping this bunch of misfits in one piece."

"Challenge accepted," I shoot back, refusing to let his jibe rattle me. There's something about Wes Jacobs that spells complication, but I'm not one to back down from a fight—especially not on my first day.

"Fair enough," he admits, pushing off the wall and heading toward the rink. "We’ll see what you've got, Turner."

Watching him skate away, I turn my attention back to Noah, who's been quietly observing our exchange. His approving nod fills me with a sense of accomplishment; I've managed to handle Wes Jacobs, at least for now.

"Seems like you might just survive this internship," Noah comments, the warmth in his voice contrasting sharply with Wes's earlier chill.

"Survive?" I laugh. "I'm planning to thrive."

"Good luck," Noah says with a knowing look. "You're gonna need it with him."

"Thanks," I reply, "but I have a feeling luck has nothing to do with it."

There's much to learn about this team, about these players, and how they mesh together on and off the ice. But one thing's for certain—it's going to be one heck of a season.