2. Olivia

OLIVIA

A s I lead Calvin through the empty hallways of the arena, I try to tell myself I'm just being a good person here, that my offer to wrap his ankle is nothing more than a professional courtesy. But deep down, I know there's more to it than that.

I glance over my shoulder, taking in the sight of him limping along behind me. Even in pain, he moves with a certain grace, a quiet strength that speaks to years of pushing his body to the limits. My dad was a huge Nighthawks fan, so I've seen Calvin’s career from the beginning—every bone-crushing check, every triumphant goal, and the way he always bounces back up, no matter how hard he falls. I admire his grit. But truth be told, I admire the way his ass fits snugly into those hockey pants even more. The man is a walking fantasy. And if I had my way, I’d definitely be the one helping him out of anything his perfectly sculpted body happens to be wearing.

I shake my head, forcing myself to play it cool as we reach the Fury's locker room. While my dad would have been over the moon if I’d told him I was working for his favorite team, he’s still more than proud that his ‘little girl’—who’s definitely not little by any stretch of the word—does important work inside the sport he loves.

I push the door open and gesture for Calvin to go ahead of me. He limps past, looking at me like I’m his lifeline. When we lock eyes, heat pool low in my belly, and I have to look away and chastise myself for even entertaining the thought of what it would feel like to have him looking at me that way while his rugged body was pressing mine into a mattress. I’m here to do a job, not indulge in fantasies.

“Just through here.” The door swings closed behind us, and I lead him into the treatment room, the smell of antiseptic and liniment hitting my nostrils. It’s a familiar scent, one that usually calms me, grounding me in my work. This room is my safe place, the place where I’m the professional, and I’m in control. But today it feels different, charged. Calvin stumbles a bit as he steps toward the padded table, and I instinctively reach out to steady him. My fingers brush against his strong arm, and a new rush of warmth floods through me. I feel like I’m on heat or something. This is ridiculous!

“Thanks, doc,” he murmurs, a playful smile on his lips as he settles on the edge of the treatment table and looks around the room. “You sure this is OK?”

“What is?”

“My being in here?” His brow furrows as he looks back at me. “I don't want to cause any trouble.”

“You worried someone might see you in here and get the wrong idea?” I arch an eyebrow as I gather some supplies from the drawers. “Trust me, Calvin, no one would look at us and think that. I treat players alone in here all the time, and not a single rumor has done the rounds.” I lower my voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I’m not like they girls they hang pictures of in their lockers.”

“I don't know, doc.” Calvin’s eyes roam over my body in a way that makes me feel suddenly exposed. “Any man with a set of eyes in his head would be havin’ some very rumor-fueling thoughts in this kind of situation.” His eyes return to mine. “Maybe they just respect you too much.”

“Maybe,” I say, the laughter in my tone vanishing. I clear my throat and try to ignore the blush creeping up my neck while I busily arrange my supplies on the tray, telling myself that he’s just teasing, perhaps trying to make me feel better since I’m using my own time to help him out. But the way his gaze lingers on my curves has me wondering if maybe he’s serious. Maybe he really does like what he sees.

I look up at him and almost swoon. God, this man has the most kissable lips. I want him.

“Ah… Why don’t you sit back some more and put your foot on the table?” I suggest, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’ll take a look at that ankle. It’s swollen enough to warrant some attention.”

Calvin complies, shifting back with a graceful ease that belies his size. He props his foot on the table and leans back slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. There’s something happening in the air between us, like a game of chicken where neither of us wants to blink first. It’s…confusing. He’s gorgeous, ripped and rugged, and here I am, a regular-looking person with more squish on my body than most find appealing. It doesn’t make sense…

Now, that’s not to say I’m completely down on myself. I’m not. I've worked hard to accept and love my body the way it is, but I also work with professional athletes, so I’m realistic enough to accept that in this space, I'm not the type most players go for. They tend to prefer the skinny, model-esque women, the ones who look like they belong on the cover of a magazine. It's a relief, in a way, to know that most of the guys I work with don't see me as a potential conquest. It makes things simpler, less awkward.

But the way Calvin is looking at me now, his eyes dark with something that looks suspiciously like desire, makes me wonder if I'm wrong this time.

I swallow hard, torn between wanting to drown in that gaze and the rational part of my brain screaming to keep things professional. “OK, let’s check out that ankle,” I say, my voice a bit higher than usual as I pull my stool closer and gently grasp his foot. He flinches a little.

“I noticed you got a full game in today,” I say, making conversation as a distraction as I oil up my hands and use massage to search for pain points. I can feel the heat of his skin beneath my fingers, and it sends a shiver of awareness up my arm. “That must have felt pretty great. Even though your ankle looks like it took a beating.”

Calvin chuckles. “You could say that,” he replies, his voice gravelly and smooth all at once. “I was just trying to remember how to skate without falling on my face. Luckily, I didn't embarrass myself too much—might have even taught some of those young players a thing or two.”

I let out a small laugh, trying to keep my focus on his ankle instead of the way his smile makes the laugh lines on his face crinkle in the most handsome way. “Injury aside, I'd say you did more than just teach them. You still have that swagger that made you a crowd favorite early in your career.” I glance up at him, locking eyes for a moment before forcing myself back to the task at hand. He lets out a groan as my fingers work over the tender ligaments, and it sends a jolt of awareness straight to my clit.

“You think I have swagger, huh?” He meets my gaze. “Is that your professional opinion?”

I bite back a grin, enjoying this…whatever it is. Most players I treat complain at me like I’m their mom, but Calvin? He’s a different breed. And I’m finding my thoughts getting dirtier by the second. “As the head of sports medicine around here, I believe my professional opinion carries quite a bit of weight. You were at the top of your game out there today,” I say, applying a little pressure as I drag my fingers down the sides of his ankle. He winces, and I quickly drop any flirtation and slip into doctor mode. “How long has this been bothering you?”

He sighs, running a hand through his damp hair. “Honestly? It's been off and on for years. I hurt it during practice once, and ever since then, it’s been a constant battle. And I've tried everything—physical therapy, acupuncture, you name it. Nothing seems to stick, and I’ve been benched most of the season because of it.”

I frown, genuinely concerned now. “That’s tough, Calvin. I can only imagine how frustrating that must be for you. But if it’s been lingering, we might need to take a different approach.”

He leans back slightly and smirks. “We? I’m not sure you’ve noticed, doc. But we play for different teams.”

“I’m not playing,” I retort. “I’m just trying to keep you on the ice where you belong, Captain Pain-in-the-Ass.”

His brow arches. “Why?”

“Because keeping players on the ice is my job.”

“No. Keeping Fury players on the ice is your job. Why are you helping me?”

I pause, the question hanging between us like a thick fog that refuses to lift. The intensity of his gaze makes my heart race a little faster, and I mentally chastise myself for letting it get this far. I’m a professional, after all. But there’s something in Calvin’s expression—something raw and sincere—that’s tugging at my heart. “I guess I just have a soft spot for stubborn defensemen,” I reply, my voice teasingly light as I try to defuse the moment. “But really, it’s because my dad’s a big Nighthawks fan. I’ve followed your career, and I want to see you succeed. No player wants to end their career on the sidelines, and I can’t let you be one of them. You're too damn good for that.”

He narrows his eyes. “So, this is all about your dad?”

I shake my head, the smile fading slightly. “No, it’s more than that. I admire your dedication to the game. You’ve fought hard to get where you are, and it’s not just about the jersey you wear. It’s about the passion and effort you put in every single time you step onto that ice. I can respect that. And frankly, it’s inspiring to see someone throw themselves into their craft despite the setbacks.”

Calvin shifts forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies me. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, doc. And the help. Even if it is coming from the enemy camp.” He winks then, and I immediately roll my eyes. Still, I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips.

“Speaking of help, have you ever considered trying Pilates? It's a great way to build strength and flexibility, especially in the joints. I’ve always wanted to introduce it for injury prevention here, but the higher ups seem to think it’s too 'soft' for a sport like hockey.” I shrug, trying to keep the mood light, but Calvin’s expression shifts.

“Pilates? Seriously?” He chuckles, the sound rich and genuine. “I have this image of me doing some sort of dance routine in tights. Isn't that what suburban moms do to feel like they're working out?”

I give him a look, my hands stilling on his ankle. “See? That’s exactly the attitude I keep coming up against. But, don't knock it until you've tried it, tough guy. Pilates is no joke. It's a serious workout, and it could be just what you need to get this ankle back in shape.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You trying to get me into a room full of soccer moms, doc? Because if you wanted to see me in tight pants, all you had to do was ask.”

I feel my cheeks heat up at his words, and I quickly look back down at his ankle, hoping he can't see the effect he's having on me. “In your dreams, Barrett. I'm just trying to help you out. But if you're too scared to try something new, I guess I understand.”

His eyes narrow, and I can see the competitive spark ignite in his gaze. “Scared? I'm not scared of anything. Especially not a class that involves a bunch of lying around on mats.”

I smirk. “Prove it then. Come to a class with me. We’ll find a studio halfway between Granite City and Sugar City—somewhere no one knows either of us—and I'll show you just how tough Pilates can be.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I feel a rush of panic as I realize what I've just done. I've basically asked Calvin Barrett out on a date. To a Pilates class, of all things. I'm about to backtrack, to laugh it off as a joke, but then I see the way he's looking at me, his eyes darkening in a way that makes my stomach flip. I want this man so bad.

“All right, doc,” he says, voice gravel. “You're on. But don't blame me if I show up all those soccer moms with my superior athleticism.”

I snort, shaking my head as I wipe off the massage oil and move on to strapping his ankle. “We'll see about that, Barrett. We'll see.”