Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

THIERRY

“Hi, Ho, Silver… get away from me!” Gerry snapped, his voice ta ut with frustration as he brushed past Coach Mike C?te—known simply as Coach Mike to the team—who was doggedly trailing him from the rink down to the locker rooms. The coach’s determined pace only seemed to add fuel to Gerry’s irritation. Without breaking stride, Gerry shoved past Lafreniere and Coeur, who both immediately reacted.

“Watch where you’re going, Button Buster ! That’s my freakin’ foot?—”

“Coeur, stop it!” Coach Mike barked, his tone sharp. “Thierry, can we talk?”

“No,” Gerry shot back, his pace quickening.

“Thierry, please…” Coach Mike’s tone softened, but Gerry’s resolve was firm.

“I don’t need to talk about this or hear?—”

“Awww, just let the Pantry Pirate go get his cookies and?—”

“COEUR!” The name ricocheted through the corridor, shouted by several voices, including Gerry and Coach Mike. The sarcastic winger stood there, helmet off, revealing a damp, sweaty man-bun that only he could somehow make look cool. His faux-innocent expression was maddening, and Gerry’s frustration deepened.

Not everyone was built like Coeur. Not everyone had the kind of natural, chiseled physique that came effortlessly. Gerry had fought hard—*so* hard—for every ounce of muscle he carried. But even now, it sometimes felt like the scale was winning.

His childhood had been a battlefield of whispered comments and unsolicited advice. He’s a little pudgy , his parents used to say, always followed by the obligatory we love you just the way you are. Yeah, that made it all better. From playground taunts to hushed family critiques, Gerry had heard it all.

He just needs to exercise more.

Maybe if he were more active.

Muscle builds testosterone, and he’s looking pretty… feminine.

Even now, the echoes of those words haunted him, creeping in during moments like this when his teammates' teasing hit too close to home. Every ache in his knees, every twinge in his back, seemed to come with an unspoken reminder: lose twenty pounds, and the pain will go away.

But today wasn’t just any day.

Today was the final straw.

Coach Mike had pulled him aside earlier, voice low, the way a father might speak to a son. “We’ve hired a new physical therapist to work with the dietician. She’s here to help, Gerry.” The words were meant to be reassuring, but they only deepened the sting.

Then she walked in.

Gerry could still see her in his mind’s eye, her presence so vivid it felt like she was still standing in front of him. A petite, ethereal woman with straight black hair cascading like silk and eyes the color of glacial ice. She had smiled—a radiant, disarming smile that could have melted eve n the iciest exterior.

“You must be Gerry,” she had said, her voice warm and bright. “I’m Molly, and we’re going to work closely together. I’m here to help with?—”

The rest of her words were drowned out by the pounding of Gerry’s pulse in his ears. A part of him—the part still stitched together by frayed threads of self-worth—crumbled right then and there. She was stunning. Perfect. And she was here to help him .

Beside him, Batiste muttered something, but Gerry barely registered it. All he could focus on was the overwhelming urge to escape . His embarrassment was a living, breathing thing, clawing at him, demanding that he run before he completely unraveled.

“Runaway, runaway!” a cartoonish voice seemed to chant in his head. He didn’t need to be told twice. Spinning on his heel, Gerry bolted, her words trailing off behind him.

“Oh my gosh, Coach—that’s low, even for you!” Coeur’s mocking laughter rang out like nails on a chalkboard. “You got him a fat-doc ?”

“Coeur, if you don’t tais toi …” Batiste’s voice rose to a near shriek, his anger barely contained as Giroux stepped in to calm him down. But the damage was done. The humiliation burned like a brand on Gerry’s chest.

Bouchard appeared in front of him, hands raised, trying to block his path. “She’s the best…” he began.

“MOVE!” Gerry barked.

“Gerry, listen—she’s going to help Lafreniere’s hips, Giroux’s knees, and I know your?—”

“GET OUT OF MY WAY!” The words came out in a roar, his voice raw and trembling with suppressed emotion.

“Let him go,” a soft, feminine voice interjected from behind him. Molly . Gerry froze for a fraction of a second, his spine stiffening at the s ound of her voice. He saw Bouchard glance past his shoulder, his face tightening with discomfort. The pity in his eyes was unbearable.

Gerry shoved past him, his chest tight with the effort of holding back tears of rage and shame. He stormed into the locker room, slamming the door open with enough force to send it crashing against the wall.

The showers offered solace—temporary, fleeting, but solace nonetheless. Alone at last, Gerry leaned against the cold tile, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but now it was joined by something heavier. The weight of every insult, every joke, every well-meaning comment about his body.

This was his new reality: Molly, the stunning physical therapist, was his latest hurdle. She was going to be his partner in this battle—a battle he wasn’t sure he had the strength to fight anymore.