Chapter TWO Noah

A sprained ankle is the least of my worries right now—though thoughts of the woman who’d just tended to me is edging out some of those anxieties.

The weight of the 'C' on my chest is a constant reminder of what's at stake. With each game, there's a pressure that mounts, tightening around me like the laces of my skates. It's not just about winning; it's about leading these guys to victory, making sure we're more than a team—more like a brotherhood, where every pass and check on the ice is built on trust.

I'm in the training room early, the quiet before the storm of grunts and clattering equipment. The faint smell of antiseptic fights against the lingering scent of sweat—a testament to yesterday's practice. On the walls, there are posters with motivational quotes that I can practically recite in my sleep. But today, none of them seem to penetrate the haze of my concentration as I think about tonight's game. We need this win. I need this win.

My thoughts scatter when the door swings open with a purposeful push. Lexi strides in, her sandy blonde hair pulled back into a practical ponytail that somehow manages to look effortlessly stylish. She scans the room, taking in the scene with a level of focus that rivals any athlete's, before landing on me. There's this thing she does—this narrowing of her eyes—that makes it feel like she's seeing right through to the playbook in my mind. I caught it yesterday, but now, its reappearance makes it clear that it’s habitual. And pretty cute.

Unfortunately, she’s followed by Drew Carson, the team physio. The logical part of me knows he’s supposed to be her supervision during the internship, but there’s a part of me that is disgruntled that the tall, lanky staff member is going to be hovering over my alone time with a pretty girl.

“Hey, Drew,” I say.

“Noah,” he says, nodding at me. He’s smirking like he knows exactly why I’m annoyed at his presence.

"Morning, Captain," she says, and there's that edge of sarcasm that tells me she's ready to get down to business and not play around.

"Lexi," I greet, pushing up from the bench and feeling a sense of anticipation bubbling within me. I watch her set down her bag and pull out her supplies, each movement precise and confident. She's like a coach in her own right, calling the shots in the realm of strains and sprains, a general on the battlefield of bodily wear and tear.

"Ready for the big game?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder with a quirked eyebrow that suggests she already knows the answer.

"Always," I reply, but it comes out more like a question, betraying the storm of doubts swirling inside me.

She gives me a knowing nod, as if she's just read the play-by-play of my thoughts, and I can't help but wonder how someone who's never laced up for a college game with the stakes we face seems to understand it all so well. Then again, growing up with a hockey coach for a dad and a high school career on the ice probably taught her more about the game than most.

I admit—I internet snooped a little.

"Good," she says, pulling on her gloves with a snap that echoes off the walls. "Because we've got work to do. Her tone is professional yet not devoid of warmth. "Show me your ankle.”

I extend my foot toward her, trying to ignore the way my heart rate kicks up a notch as she kneels. It's ridiculous, really, how someone whose job is literally to inflict pain—or at least discomfort—can make me so damn nervous. Drew’s just leaning on the wall behind her, observing.

"Looks like you're favoring your left side." Her fingers are deft, probing the bruised ankle with a gentleness that belies her firm touch. "You know, for a big, tough hockey player, you're surprisingly fragile."

"Hey now," I protest, but there's laughter in my voice. "One more crack like that and I might start thinking you don't believe in my invincibility."

"Invincibility is overrated," Lexi retorts, securing compression tape around my leg with practiced ease. "It's all about resilience, Noah."

"Is that your professional opinion?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Absolutely." She meets my gaze squarely, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips.

I swing my leg up, testing the range of motion in my ankle. It's better already—Lexi's magic hands at work. I can't help the grin that spreads across my face.

"Thanks, Doc," I say, offering her a mock salute. "I wouldn't want to risk further injury by disappointing you."

"Make sure you don't," she replies, pointing a stern finger at me. "I've got enough on my plate without having to patch up our star captain because he couldn't follow simple instructions."

"Simple is my middle name," I assure her, though we both know it's a bald-faced lie. There's nothing simple about the way I play—on the ice or off.

"Good to know," Lexi says, tossing her hair back into a ponytail. "Just remember, Noah Bishop: simplicity doesn't mean taking shortcuts, especially not when it comes to recovery."

"Understood, Coach Turner," I respond with a playful smirk.

"Coach? Ha! Smart man," she says, her eyes twinkling. She looks over her shoulder at Drew, who gives her a thumbs-up.

“You did perfect, Lexi. Noah, any questions for me?”

I shake my head. I don’t want to ask him if he could butt out of the next session between me and Lexi.

“Okay, then. See you out there.” With a final nod, she strides out of the training room, leaving me to ponder just how much trouble I'm in for being so thoroughly intrigued by our team intern. But for the next couple hours, we're both here for one thing: to make sure me all of The Aces are at our best when we hit the ice. Anything else—like the way my pulse quickens whenever she's around—has to be left on the sidelines.

***

The staccato rhythm of my skates against the ice merges with the thud of pucks hitting the boards, creating a symphony that's both exhilarating and grueling. Each sharp turn sends a jolt through my bruised ankle, but it's the kind of pain that fuels me, reminds me I'm alive and fighting for every point, every game.

"Keep your head up, Bishop!" Coach yells from across the rink, and I nod, knowing full well the target on my back isn't just metaphorical. The title of captain comes with its own set of bullseyes—each check against the boards a testament to that fact. Weakness won’t allow me to hold onto the position.

"Nice shot, Noah!" Dean hollers, his voice tinged with sarcasm as my puck narrowly misses the net. I shoot him a glare, but there's no real heat in it. We're teammates, after all, even if he does earn his nickname "The Machine" for reasons that extend beyond the rink.

My confidence in my own infallibility lasts most of practice. By the end of it, I’m in pain again. Practice winds down, and with each stride to the bench, I feel the weight of the game more acutely—the physical toll unmistakable. My muscles protest, reluctant to give in to the exhaustion, while my ankle throbs in time with my heartbeat.

The chill of the training room contrasts starkly with the heat from my muscles, still humming from the morning drills. I perch on the edge of the treatment table, rolling my sprained ankle in slow circles as Lexi approaches. I wonder why she chose this—patching up players in what must get to be a strange déjà vu of injuries.

Drew isn’t anywhere to be seen.

“Lose your chaperone?” I tease.

“He’s talking to Coach. I guess he trusts me not to hurt you.”

I laugh. “That’s a vote of confidence, I guess.”

"Looks like you took quite a beating today," Lexi observes as I slump before her.

"Just another day at the office," I quip, wincing as she prods gently along my lower leg.

"Ah, the glamorous life of a hockey player," she responds, her hands working deftly, the coolness of the therapeutic gel seeping into my skin. There's a methodical precision in her touch, a silent promise to mend what's been broken—or at least battered—in the rink.

"Can't complain," I say, though my grimace likely tells a different story.

"Sure, because getting slammed into the boards is everyone's idea of a good time," she counters, a smirk playing on her lips. For a moment, I'm caught off guard by the overhead lights catching in her sandy blonde hair, casting a halo around her focused expression.

"You know, you don't always have to be the indestructible Captain America," she says softly, her hands steady as she examines the swelling under her fingers.

"Feels like I do." The words slip out, echoing the doubt that's been gnawing at me. "There's a lot riding on these shoulders."

"Pressure of being captain?" She looks up at me, and there's an understanding in her gaze that makes something inside me want to reveal parts of myself I usually keep locked away.

"Every game feels like a proving ground," I admit, allowing vulnerability to seep into our bubble of trainer and athlete. "I can't slip up. Can't show weakness. Not just for me, but for the team, the fans..."

"Sounds exhausting," she murmurs, her touch gentle as she applies a cold compress to my wrist.

"Only when I think about it." I give her a half-hearted smile.

"Then stop thinking," Lexi advises with a chuckle, but her hand lingers on my leg for a moment longer than necessary.

Our eyes lock, and there's a silent conversation happening—one that's about more than sprains and strategy. In the span of that gaze, the world slows down, and I'm acutely aware of the warmth of her hand, the depth of her eyes, and the faint scent of her shampoo that seems to say, 'pay attention, this is important.'

"Better now?" she asks, breaking the spell but leaving an aftershock of tension between us.

"Much," I say, though I'm not referring to the ankle anymore. There's an electricity in the air, crackling with the potential of what-ifs and maybes. "Have you considered that bubble wrap uniform upgrade?" I tease, hoping to keep my tone light despite the growing tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with injuries.

"Wouldn't want to hinder your performance," Lexi retorts, meeting my gaze with those piercing green eyes. "You need to be able to move, right? Besides, that was your pal Wes’s suggestion, and isn’t he the one who got you into this position in the first place?" She looks pointedly at my ankle.

"Kind of," I agree, trying to ignore the way even our casual banter seems to charge the air between us. It's a dangerous game we're playing, one where the line between professional and personal blurs. I definitely don’t miss the vitriol she has for Wes. They’ve started off on the wrong foot, for sure.

"Thanks." I watch as she stands. "You ever miss being out there? On the ice, I mean."

"Every day," she confesses with a wistful smile. "But this—helping you guys stay on your feet—that's my new arena."

“That’s a noble trade," I say, meeting her gaze. There's something about being here, in the thick of hockey, that makes talking to Lexi feel like the most natural thing in the world. "So, what's the dream, Lexi? After graduation?"

"Pro teams, hopefully," she replies. "I want to be on the front lines, making sure injuries don't end careers prematurely."

"Like yours..." I trail off, remembering her story. I hope she doesn’t ask how I know about her knee injury, all those years ago.

Her eyes shadow, but she smiles. "Exactly. I can't play anymore, but I can give others the chance to keep playing. Maybe even prevent what happened to me from happening to someone else."

"That's... really admirable," I tell her, impressed by her determination and passion. I never realized how much our aspirations paralleled—me, striving to lead my team to victory; her, working to safeguard the players' futures.

"Enough about me," Lexi says, nudging my shoulder lightly. "What about you, Noah? What's your endgame?"

"Professional leagues, if I'm lucky. But honestly," I pause, choosing my words, "I just want to inspire people. To show that leadership isn't about bossing others around—it's about lifting them up, being someone they can rely on."

"Sounds like you're already there, Captain," she teases, but I can see the respect in her eyes.

"Trying to be," I admit, and in that admission, I feel a bond forming between us.

"Rest tonight, and ice every two hours," she instructs, snapping me back to reality. “And good practice.”

"Couldn't have done it without your magic hands," I retort, trying to keep it light, keep it safe. But the moment stretches between us, filled with unspoken words and stifled desires.

"See you tomorrow, Captain," she says, her tone casual, but there's something new in her gaze—a flicker of curiosity. “At game time.”

"Tomorrow," I echo, watching her walk away, every step she takes simultaneously pulling me closer and reminding me of the line we're both toeing.

As the training room comes alive with my teammates' raucous energy, I sit there, trapped in the silent tumult of my racing heart and the unanswered question that hangs heavily in the air. Lexi Turner—what happens next?