Chapter FIVE Lexi

As I step onto the campus, the embrace of winter surrounds me completely. The air is crisp, tinged with the frosty bite that only a northern winter can deliver, and the crunch of snow underfoot marks each step with a satisfying punctuation. I’m on my way to an immersion observation, and I’m looking forward to it.

Trees, stripped of their foliage, wear a delicate coating of snow, their branches creating stark silhouettes against a pale gray sky. I walk along the winding paths that ribbon through the campus, bordered by an expanse of immaculately groomed lawns now transformed into endless white sheets. It’s early in the morning, and the snow is undisturbed except for the occasional tracks of rabbits and squirrels. The tranquility of the scene is punctuated only by the distant sound of the campus bell tower chiming the hour, its notes seeming crisper, carried further by the cold air.

The buildings around me range from historic, ivy-covered halls to modern structures of glass and steel. The older buildings, with their sturdy brick facades and large windows, seem to hold within them the warmth of decades of bustling academic life. Their roofs are frosted with snow, with icicles dangling from the eaves, sparkling in the occasional sunlight that breaks through the clouds.

As I pass by these academic halls, I can see inside where students are already gathering, some bundled up in scarves and beanies, cradling steaming cups of coffee or hot chocolate. The glow of warm light from the classrooms promises a refuge from the chilly outdoors, and laughter spills out every time someone opens a door, a brief blast of warm air following them out into the cold.

The heart of the campus is the student union, a bustling hub of activity. Even now, in the depths of winter, it draws students like a warm hearth. Inside, the atmosphere is lively. Groups of students sit around tables, some studying, others just chatting and enjoying themselves before classes. The scent of baked goods and coffee fills the air, mingling with the dampness of snow-trodden coats and winter boots left to dry by the door.

Across the way is the campus library, an impressive edifice of stone with tall, arched windows. It stands like a sentinel over the campus, its quiet dignity undisturbed by the weather. Inside, the library is a sanctuary of silence and study. Rows of books tower from floor to ceiling, their spines offering a spectrum of knowledge spanning centuries. Students sit at scattered tables, lost in thought or deep in study, the only sounds the soft murmur of whispered discussions and the occasional rustling of pages being turned.

Further down, the athletic fields lie dormant under a thick blanket of snow, the usual vibrant greens replaced by the stark whites and grays of winter. The tracks are barely visible, and the football field looks like a vast, empty canvas. Yet, the promise of spring hangs in the air, a silent understanding that this sleeping giant will awaken with the return of warmth.

This college, with its blend of tradition and modernity, offers more than just a place for academic pursuit. It provides a sense of community and belonging, a space where warmth is found not only in heated buildings but in the connections forged over shared experiences of enduring and embracing the bitter cold together. And the cold isn’t something I can escape—it’s waiting for me as I round the corner to the hockey arena, waiting for me to come try to conquer the ice.

Or, at least help my players to.

***

I lace up my boots with a determined pull, the leather straps pressing into my fingers, grounding me. The crisp snap of each eyelet is a tiny battle cry, echoing the tug-of-war in my chest. With one final tug on my laces, I'm ready. I push through the double doors of the arena, the air immediately biting at my cheeks. It's familiar and comforting—the scent of freshly Zamboni-ed ice mingling with the sharp tang of sweat and determination. My father used to say arenas hold the spirit of every game played within their walls. If that's true, this place is a cathedral.

"Turner!" someone shouts—a greeting or a warning, I can't tell.

"Present!" I call back, injecting as much cheer into the word as I can muster. Today, I'm all business—Lexi Turner, intern extraordinaire, soon-to-be savior of athletes' careers. No tangled emotions allowed. I’m practicing with the team in order to observe them on-ice, up close and personal.

Too bad I can’t stop thinking about how up close and personal Wes Jacobs and I got last night. The rink unfolds before me, a glacial stretch of pristine white. Players glide across it, their movements the embodiment of power and grace, a dance of giants clad in padding and steel blades. As I watch them, the energy is palpable—the raw, kinetic promise of competition, of camaraderie, of victory and defeat told in sweeps of stick against puck.

"Hey, Turner! Eyes on the prize!" Dean "The Machine" Hartley calls out as he zips past, somehow making his burly frame pirouette on the ice in a mockery of figure skating.

"Keep your day job, Hartley!" I retort, not missing a beat.

"Ouch," he laughs, slapping a hand over his heart but grinning wide.

There's work to be done, and I'm here to do it. Ankles flexing in my sturdy boots, I stride toward the team benches, clipboard in hand. My job is clear—keep these athletes in top form, manage injuries with precision and care, and above all, maintain professional distance. But as the cold seeps through my jacket, chilling me to the bone, I can't help but feel the heat of two particular gazes: Noah's warming like a gentle hearth fire, Wes's sparking like flint on steel.

Wes kissed me, but I didn’t miss how Noah’s eyes held more than professional interest when I was tending to his ankle.

My lips twitch into a smile at Dean’s retreating figure; the banter is part of the gig, a language all its own in the rink. But there's no time to dwell on the jester of the ice, nor on Noah and Wes. My gaze shifts, scanning for the next task, the next player’s movement—but instead, it catches snippets of conversation floating from the cluster of bodies by the boards.

"Can't wait for that cabin retreat, man. It's gonna be epic," one of them chuckles, slinging his arm over another's shoulder.

"Totally. Just hope the rookies don't get too wild," another responds, the laughter in his voice reaching me across the distance.

A cabin retreat. The thought sends a ripple through me, both thrilling and unsettling. Noah, Wes, the entire team—trapped in the wilderness together. It'll be tight quarters, shared spaces... and far too much opportunity for the emotions I'm wrestling with to surface. My mind wanders to snowy hikes, late-night campfires, and the inevitable proximity to Noah and Wes.

"Hey, Lexi, you coming on the retreat this weekend?" The voice breaks through my reverie, and I look up to find Noah's warm brown eyes on me, concern etched in the lines around them.

"Wouldn't miss it," I reply, maybe more curtly than I intend. But the smile he gives me is kind, forgiving.

More like Drew said it would count for intern hours, I think.

Not that I don’t want the experience, but these “team retreats” are often no more than a getaway party weekend for the team to blow off steam.

"Great! We could use your expertise out there. And..." He hesitates, a rare vulnerability flickering in his gaze. "It'll be nice to have you around."

"Thanks, Noah. I'll make sure to pack my professional hat—or should I say helmet?" I joke, trying to shake off the flutter his words cause in my chest.

"Helmet might be safer," he agrees, his smile broadening before he turns back to the others, leaving me with a heart that's suddenly beating double-time.

"Safer indeed," I whisper to the empty air, knowing full well that no helmet in the world could protect me from the collision course of feelings hurtling my way.

***

Before I can blink, Saturday morning comes. I’m elbow-deep in athletic tape and gauze pads, trying to find the delicate balance between thoroughness and efficiency. It's a tetris game of medical supplies as I slot ice packs next to compression braces, ensuring everything is packed tightly into the kit. The air in the equipment room is charged with an anticipatory buzz, everyone moving with purpose, laughter echoing off the walls as they toss gear bags into the pile.

"Lexi, you reckon we'll need this many splints?" Dean jests, holding up an armful of aluminum strips that glint under the fluorescent lights.

"Drew said plan ahead. And considering your track record on the ice, I'd pack double," I shoot back without missing a beat, and a round of chuckles ripples through the room.

"Ouch, our very own PT's got jokes," Dean smirks, but there's respect there too. He knows I'm not just here for laughs—I'm here to keep them all in one piece.

"All right, team, let's get those bags loaded up!" Noah's voice cuts above the din, authoritative yet warm. Everyone hops to it, hefting duffel bags over shoulders, boxes of snacks under arms. I grab a cooler filled to the brim with hydration drinks and follow the human caravan out toward the bus. As I step outside, a sudden hush blankets the world, the kind only a first snowfall can bring. Snowflakes drift lazily from the gray expanse above, dotting my eyelashes and melting on my cheeks. I pause, letting the cooler rest at my feet, and tilt my head back, mesmerized by the dance of countless tiny ice crystals.

"Hey, Lexi, catch!" A voice pulls me from the trance, and instinctively, I look forward just in time to see a snowball explode against my chest. Laughter erupts around me, and I brush off the wet patches, grinning despite myself. The source of the attack makes my chest pinch—Wes, grinning and handsome.

"Real mature, guys!" But I can't suppress the warmth spreading through me, not from the cold, but from the light-hearted mischief and the unbidden memory of Wes’s kiss.

"Come on, before we turn into popsicles," Wes calls out, his teasing tone not quite masking the heat in his eyes. He reaches out, offering a hand to help with the cooler, and for a moment, I'm caught in the crossfire of his electric blue gaze.

"Thanks," I say, shaking off the snowflakes—and the flutter in my stomach—as we make our way to the bus. The beauty of the early winter tableau etches itself into my memory: the sharp contrast of red and gold leaves blanketed in white, the muffled sounds of the city, and the team's laughter as we embark on this adventure together.

There's something about the first real snowfall that always gets me—it's the promise of newness, of wiping the slate clean and starting over. Even the familiar outside grounds of the arena look magical, transformed into a scene straight out of those cheesy holiday movies I claim to hate but secretly love.

I tug my beanie down further over my ears and shove my hands deeper into the pockets of my jacket. Can't get too sentimental; it's cold enough to freeze your nose hairs. My gaze drifts across the parking lot as more players start to emerge from the building, their voices loud against the quiet snowscape. They're clustered together, laughing and shoving each other playfully, the very picture of camaraderie.

"Looks like it's gonna be a memorable weekend," Wes remarks, a hint of something unreadable in his voice.

"Definitely," I agree, feeling the weight of anticipation settle in.

The bus is warm compared to the bite of the autumn air, a little haven on wheels ready to whisk us away to the cabin retreat. I find a seat near the front, dropping my duffel bag onto it before helping others stow their gear in the overhead compartments. Everyone's buzzing with energy, the excitement palpable as we settle in for the drive. Thankfully, Wes takes a seat at the back of the bus.

I slide into my mid-level seat, pull my phone out for one last check—zero messages, which is both a relief and a tiny stab of disappointment—and then turn it off. This weekend is about being present, about building connections with the team, and maybe figuring out what my heart wants along the way. A tricky game plan, but I've always been up for a challenge.

"Ready for some forced bonding?" Noah teases from the seat behind me, leaning forward so his breath tickles the back of my neck.

"Only if it involves marshmallows and ghost stories," I shoot back without missing a beat. The corners of his lips tug upward, and I can feel the smile more than see it.

"Scared you'll be stuck between me and Wes by the campfire?" he whispers conspiratorially.

"Please, I'd need to be scared of you two first," I retort, though my heartbeat betrays the casual facade.

As the bus engine rumbles to life and we pull away from the curb, I allow myself a contented sigh. The snow continues to fall gently outside, the landscape passing by in a blur of white and gray. I'm cocooned in this moving bubble with a bunch of rowdy hockey players, speeding toward an unknown that's both thrilling and terrifying.

But right now, with the hum of anticipation in the air and the promise of adventure ahead, I wouldn't have it any other way. Bring on the cabin retreat.