My Hockey Nemesis

Three years later

My alarm went off at five-thirty.

I was already awake as I stared at the ceiling for another minute before forcing myself out of bed. My body protested immediately, every muscle aching from another night spent waking up every few hours to check on Ethan.

Three years of living by medication schedules, physiotherapy appointments, insurance calls, and hospital visits.

Weeks and Months had past with me pretending I wasn't exhausted.

I tied my hair into a loose ponytail as I walked down the hallway, stopping outside Ethan's room long enough to compose myself.

I pushed the door open quietly.

The rhythmic beeping of the cardiac monitor filled the room.

Morning sunlight seeped through the curtains, landing across Ethan's face. He looked almost peaceful, if you ignored the hospital bed that had replaced the one we'd once shared and the ventilator tubing coiled neatly beside him for emergencies.

"Morning," I said softly.

His eyes shifted toward me.

That was all.

Three years ago, Ethan had filled every room with laughter.

Now, his eyes did all the talking.

I walked over and checked the monitor out of habit before looking over his overnight chart.

"Blood pressure stable.

Heart rate normal.

Oxygen saturation acceptable." I whispered to myself while I ticked the boxes.

A small victory.

"I'll take that."

Setting the clipboard aside, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

The first task was turning him.

No matter how expensive the mattress was, leaving him in one position for too long would eventually cause pressure injuries. I counted softly under my breath as I adjusted his body, supporting his shoulders and hips before placing fresh pillows behind his back.

"There we go."

His breathing remained steady.

Next came the passive range-of-motion exercises.

I carefully bent and straightened each joint, moving his arms and legs through motions he could no longer perform himself.

When I first started, I'd cried through every session. Now I just focused on making sure I didn't hurt him.

"I'm sorry," I whispered as I stretched his left shoulder.

His fingers twitched.

Barely.

Most people would've dismissed it as nothing. But it gave me Hope.

"I know."

Whether he actually understood me or not didn't matter anymore.

After helping him through the rest of his morning care, I administered his medications and adjusted the blanket over his legs.

"I'll be at the arena today," I told him while tidying the bedside table.

"Miss. Alvarez will stay with you until I get back."

His eyes stayed on mine.

"I won't be late."

At least, I hoped not.

---

By seven-thirty, I was driving towards the very same arena where it all happened. The building came into view long before I reached the parking lot. I hadn't realized I'd stopped breathing until my chest started hurting.

I parked in my usual spot and sat there for another minute.

"You can do this."

I wasn't sure whether I was convincing myself or lying.

The familiar scent of sharpened skate blades, rubber mats, and fresh ice greeted me the moment I stepped inside. It was strange how a place could remain exactly the same while reminding you that your own life never would.

For a brief moment, memories threatened to drag me back to that night, but I forced them away and kept walking.

I checked in with the head therapist before heading to the rehabilitation wing.

"Morning, Lena."

"Morning."

He gave me a sympathetic smile, the same one I'd been getting from everyone ever since I came back to work after Ethan's accident. I hated that look almost as much as I hated the pity behind it.

"Busy day?"

"When isn't it?" I replied, forcing a small smile.

He chuckled and handed me a clipboard.

"The guys are finishing practice. You'll be helping with post-session evaluations."

I nodded and made my way toward the treatment rooms.

The sound of pucks slamming against the boards echoed faintly through the hallway while coaches barked instructions from the ice. Life had moved on. I wasn't sure I had.

I busied myself preparing one of the treatment rooms, laying out fresh towels, disinfecting the examination table, and arranging the equipment exactly how I liked it.

The door opened behind me.

"You really came back."

My grip tightened around the bottle of disinfectant.

I'd know that voice anywhere.

Slowly, I turned.

Arthur Pearson stood in the doorway. He looked different than he had three years ago.

Older, maybe.

The sharp edges of his face had hardened, and a faint scar traced the line of his jaw. His practice jersey clung to his broad shoulders, damp with sweat after training.

But his eyes were exactly the same.

Steady and Unreadable.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

"I heard about Ethan," he said quietly.

Something inside me snapped. "You don't get to say his name."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue.

"You lost that right three years ago."

"Lena-"

"No."

The word came out sharper than I intended.

"I don't need explanations or apologies. Nothing you say is ever going to change what happened."

His gaze never left mine.

"I wasn't going to apologize."

A bitter laugh escaped me. Typical.

"Of course you weren't."

"I was going to ask how he's doing."

The question caught me off guard, but it only made me angrier.

"How do you think he's doing?" I asked. "He's still trapped in a hospital bed because of what happened on this ice."

Silence settled between us.

Arthur lowered his eyes for the briefest moment before looking back at me.

"I'm glad he has you."

The words weren't defensive or sarcastic.

If anything, they sounded sincere.

I hated that.

"Pearson."

Arthur looked over.

"Coach wants you in his office."

"I'll be there."

The trainer disappeared again. Arthur picked up his stick before looking at me one last time.

"I know you hate me."

I folded my arms across my chest.

"You have no idea."

For a second, it looked like he wanted to say something else.

Instead, he gave a small nod and walked away. I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until he disappeared around the corner.

My hands were shaking.

I held on to the edge of the treatment table until they finally steadied. Just hearing his voice was enough to reopen wounds that had never truly healed.

A knock on the open door pulled me back to the present.

The head therapist stepped inside with another clipboard.

"Lena, slight change to today's schedule."

I accepted it without looking.

"One of the therapists called in sick, so I'm moving a few assignments around."

"That's fine."

"You'll be taking over one of the rehabilitation cases."

I flipped open the file. Shoulder impingement. Rehabilitation after repeated impact injuries.

I scanned down to the patient's name.

Arthur Pearson.

"There has to be someone else."

"I'm afraid not."

He frowned, clearly confused by my reaction.

"You're our best sports rehabilitation specialist, and he specifically requested an experienced therapist."

I stared at the file in my hands.

"He... requested me?"

"Not by name," he clarified. "Just someone senior. You're the best fit." Before I could protest, a shadow appeared behind the frosted glass door.

Two steady knocks followed.

"Lena?" the receptionist called. "Mr. Pearson is ready for his appointment."

My fingers tightened around the file until the edges dug into my palm.

For three years, I'd managed to avoid being alone with the man I blamed for destroying my life.

Now, I was expected to spend the next hour with him.

Another knock echoed through the room.

Then Arthur's calm voice came from the other side of the door.

"I'm coming in."