Chapter 1
Paige Morgan hated being late.
Unfortunately, Chicago traffic didn’t care.
She tightened both hands around the steering wheel as taxis cut across lanes in front of her, horns blaring through the cold November morning. Snow from the night before clung to the edges of the road in dirty grey piles while people in thick coats hurried along the sidewalks with coffee cups in hand.
Chicago was loud.
Louder than home.
Louder than the small Pennsylvania town she’d grown up in where everyone knew everyone and her dad still shouted at hockey games through the television like the players could hear him.
Her stomach twisted.
Not nerves.
Fine. Maybe nerves.
Today was her first official day working for the Chicago Frost.
The Chicago Frost.
Even thinking the words felt surreal.
At twenty-three years old, Paige had become the youngest sports therapist ever hired by the organization. Her university professors had called it impressive.
Her mother had cried.
Her father had nearly passed out.
And half the internet had assumed she got the job because she was a woman.
That part still irritated her.
Paige parked in the underground garage beneath North Point Arena and killed the engine. For a moment, silence settled around her.
Then reality hit again.
Professional hockey.
NHL players.
A locker room full of men who were probably already waiting to see if she could survive.
She grabbed her bag from the passenger seat and stepped out into the freezing air.
“Okay,” she muttered under her breath. “You earned this. Don’t punch anybody before lunch.”
The elevator ride up felt too fast.
The doors opened directly into the Frost training facilities.
And suddenly she was there.
The hallway walls were covered in framed photographs.
Championship wins.
Historic moments.
Players lifting trophies.
The Frost logo stretched across the far wall in navy and silver.
Paige exhaled slowly.
This place mattered to people.
That pressure sat heavy on her shoulders.
“Morgan?”
Paige turned.
A broad older man in a Frost quarter-zip approached her with an easy smile.
“Coach Walker,” he said, offering his hand.
She shook it firmly. “Paige.”
“Glad you made it.” His eyes dropped briefly to her suitcase-sized therapy bag. “Ready for the chaos?”
“Depends how dramatic your players are.”
A laugh burst out of him.
“Yeah, you’ll fit in fine.”
He led her through the facility while explaining schedules, treatment rotations, travel expectations, and game-day protocols.
Paige listened carefully, mentally cataloguing everything.
The training room was bigger than any she’d worked in before.
Treatment tables lined one wall.
Recovery equipment filled the corners.
Medical charts sat organized beside computer monitors.
It smelled faintly of disinfectant, coffee, and sweat.
Comforting.
Familiar.
Home.
“Players usually start rolling in around eight,” Walker said. “Most of them are decent. A few think they’re comedians.”
“So… athletes.”
Another laugh.
“Exactly.”
Voices echoed from down the corridor.
The team arriving.
Paige straightened instinctively.
Large bodies filled the doorway seconds later.
Tall. Loud. Half-awake.
Several conversations stopped the second they noticed her.
Well.
Here we go.
One blond player nudged the teammate beside him.
“That the new therapist?” he asked quietly.
“Looks too normal,” another muttered.
Paige ignored them.
She’d spent years learning how to survive rooms like this.
A dark-haired player with a grin walked forward first.
“You must be Paige.”
She nodded.
He held out his hand. “Eli Torres. Rookie. Future legend.”
“Current ego problem?” she asked.
A bark of laughter escaped him.
“Oh, I like her.”
“Give it an hour,” another player said.
An older defenseman approached next.
Ryan Mercer.
Paige recognized him immediately.
Veteran player. Alternate captain. Fifteen years in the league.
He shook her hand gently, unlike the others trying to prove something.
“Welcome to the disaster,” he said.
“Happy to help.”
His eyes warmed slightly.
Approval.
Good.
Then another voice cut through the room.
“Well, this just made rehab way less depressing.”
Paige turned toward the player leaning against the doorway.
Tyler Knox.
She knew the name before the face.
Talented winger.
Fast.
Arrogant.
Currently recovering from a shoulder injury.
He looked her over without shame.
“Please tell me you’re assigned to me.”
Paige smiled politely.
“No.”
A few players snorted.
Tyler looked amused instead of embarrassed.
“Cold.”
“Professional,” she corrected.
Before he could answer, the room shifted.
Not loudly.
Not obviously.
But enough.
Players straightened slightly.
Conversations paused.
Attention moved toward the hallway.
Paige followed it.
And saw him.
Callum Hayes walked into the training room carrying a coffee in one hand and a duffel bag over his shoulder.
He was taller than she expected.
Broad shoulders.
Dirty blond hair slightly damp like he’d showered recently.
Sharp jaw.
Tired eyes.
Not the polished celebrity version she’d seen online.
Real.
The entire room seemed to adjust around him naturally.
Leadership without effort.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
And held.
Paige hated that her stomach immediately betrayed her.
Because of course Callum Hayes was attractive.
That was practically part of his brand.
Captain of the Chicago Frost.
NHL golden boy.
Tabloid favorite.
Professional heartbreaker if every gossip article online was to be believed.
Callum walked closer.
His expression unreadable.
“Coach.”
“Hayes.” Walker nodded toward Paige. “This is Paige Morgan. New sports therapist.”
Callum’s gaze moved back to her.
Steady.
Assessing.
Not flirtatious.
Which somehow made it worse.
He held out his hand.
“Welcome to the Frost.”
His voice was rougher than she expected.
Paige shook his hand.
Warm.
Strong.
“Thanks.”
For one strange second, the room felt too quiet.
Then Tyler ruined it.
“Careful, Cap,” he called. “Morgan already rejected me.”
Callum didn’t look away from Paige.
“Smart woman.”
The room burst into laughter.
Tyler clutched his chest dramatically.
“Wow. Betrayed by my own captain.”
Paige fought a smile.
Callum noticed.
She could tell by the slight shift in his expression.
Interesting.
Coach Walker clapped his hands together.
“Alright, children. Practice in thirty. Medical checks before anyone touches the ice.”
The room exploded into movement.
Players moved between lockers and treatment tables while staff rushed around organizing equipment.
Paige immediately got to work.
And within twenty minutes, she understood exactly how exhausting professional athletes were.
“On a scale from one to ten?” she asked a defenseman examining his wrist.
“Three.”
“You’re visibly sweating.”
“Maybe I’m nervous around pretty women.”
“Maybe you’re lying.”
Ryan Mercer nearly choked on his coffee nearby.
Word spread quickly after that.
By the second hour, players had stopped testing her quite as much.
Mostly because she didn’t react.
She treated them all the same.
Professional.
Direct.
Unimpressed.
Tyler Knox became her biggest problem.
“Do I really need all these stretches?” he complained while sitting on a treatment table.
“If you want full shoulder mobility again, yes.”
“I think I’m naturally flexible.”
Paige deadpanned. “Emotionally?”
Eli burst out laughing from across the room.
Tyler pointed at her accusingly. “She’s mean.”
“You’ll survive.”
Callum entered midway through Tyler’s rehab session.
His eyes flicked toward the resistance bands abandoned beside Tyler.
“Didn’t finish your program?”
Tyler instantly looked defensive.
“I was getting there.”
“No, you weren’t,” Paige said calmly.
Silence.
Tyler stared at her.
Callum did too.
Most people probably expected her to backtrack.
She didn’t.
Tyler scoffed. “You always this strict?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Then unexpectedly, Callum spoke.
“Good.”
Tyler groaned dramatically.
“Unbelievable. She’s been here half a day and you already like her more than me.”
“Not difficult,” Ryan muttered while walking past.
The room laughed again.
Paige looked down at Tyler’s chart.
“Finish your rehab exercises,” she said. “Or tear your shoulder properly next game. Makes no difference to me.”
A few nearby players went quiet.
Not because of what she said.
Because she meant it.
Tyler studied her for a second before grabbing the resistance band again.
“There,” he muttered. “Happy?”
"Thrilled.”
As the players began heading toward the ice, Paige finally allowed herself one slow breath.
She was surviving.
Barely.
But surviving.
“You handled Knox well.”
Her head turned.
Callum stood beside the doorway now dressed for practice, hockey stick balanced against his shoulder.
Up close, he looked even more exhausted than she first thought.
Faint shadows beneath his eyes.
Tension hidden beneath composure.
Paige shrugged.
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
His mouth twitched slightly.
“I believe that.”
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then shouting erupted from down the hallway.
“Hayes!” Eli yelled. “Get your ass on the ice before Coach kills us!”
Callum glanced toward the rink before looking back at Paige.
“See you around, Morgan.”
Morgan.
Not Paige.
Professional.
She appreciated that.
Even if the way he said it sent unexpected warmth crawling up her spine.
Callum turned and disappeared down the hallway toward the arena lights.
Paige watched him go for exactly two seconds too long.
Then Ryan Mercer appeared beside her holding two coffees.
Without a word, he handed her one.
“Rough first day?” he asked.
Paige took the cup gratefully.
“You have the emotional maturity of a teenage boy in this building.”
Ryan grinned.
“Yeah. But they’re good people once you survive the idiot stage.”
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the hallway Callum disappeared down.
Something told her surviving this team was going to be harder than she expected.
Especially their captain.
