Chapter 8

The medical bay went quiet after Logan’s question. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?” “Because I’ve seen real threats, Mr Blackwood,” she said calmly. “A tall athlete with a bad attitude and bruised ribs doesn’t make the list. Now go home and rest.” Logan stared at her for a couple of seconds, his jaw tightening as if he was trying to come up with something to say. Nothing came. He turned without another word and walked through the glass doors, leaving Maya alone in the medical bay. By Friday afternoon, his forty-eight-hour rest period was over. His mood, however, had gotten worse. Maya stood in the glass observation booth overlooking the rink, watching the team go through high-intensity five-on-five drills. From forty feet above the ice, she could still tell Logan was pushing himself too hard. He skated faster than everyone else. He hit harder. Every movement looked like he was trying to punish himself for getting hurt in the first place. Whenever he took a sharp turn or absorbed a hit along the boards, Maya caught the same things she had noticed before — the slight hesitation in his stride and the brief grimace that crossed his face before he forced it away. He was protecting his left side. Instead of letting the injured muscles do their share of the work, he was putting more strain on his back and hips. “He’s going to tear something,” Marcus said as he came up beside her at the railing, a stopwatch hanging from his thumb. “He didn’t take the full dose of anti-inflammatory you gave him, did he?” “No.” Maya kept her eyes on Player 37 as he moved into position for the face-off. “He’s skating through the pain because he’s too stubborn to admit it hurts.” The whistle blew and the puck dropped. Logan won the draw and cut toward the net. A six-foot-four defenseman moved in and delivered a hard shoulder check to Logan’s left side. It was a clean hit. But Logan wasn’t fully healed. A sharp grunt escaped him when the impact landed. His stick slipped from his hand and clattered across the ice. His knees gave way. For a second, he folded over, one hand going straight to his ribs. The whistle blew again. Coach Dave Miller skated toward him, shouting for the trainers. Maya was already moving. She grabbed her medical kit and hurried down the stairs, through the rink tunnel, and onto the ice. Logan had managed to get himself upright by using the glass for support. His face was pale, sweat running from his chin as he struggled to breathe. “I’m fine,” he rasped, waving away the assistant coaches reaching for him. “Get back to the line. Next drill.” “You’re not fine.” Maya’s voice carried across the suddenly quiet rink as she stepped onto the ice, her rubber-soled boots keeping her steady. “Off the ice, Logan. Now.” Coach Miller turned toward her, clearly caught off guard. “Dr. Carter, he says he can play through—” “I don’t care what he says, Coach.” Maya stepped between Logan and the rest of the team. “He shifted his weight when he took that hit because his left intercostal muscle is spasming. Another hit in that same spot could fracture a rib and send it into his pleural space. He’s done for today.” The players stopped moving and every head turned toward them. Nobody spoke to Coach Miller that way. And nobody told Logan Blackwood to leave his own ice. Logan slowly lifted his head. His gray eyes were bloodshot, his face twisted with anger. He took a painful step toward her, towering over her while his chest rose and fell heavily. “You don’t command me, Doctor.” His voice was low. “Get off my ice before I have management throw you out of this building permanently.” He meant it. Coach Miller shifted uneasily. The players exchanged looks, waiting for Maya to back down. She didn’t. Maya stepped closer instead. “You can threaten my job all you want, Mr Blackwood,” she said, loud enough for everyone on the ice to hear. “You can have me fired. You can have security walk me to my car. You can complain to the board. But you’re going to do all of that after I get you off this ice, because I’m not going to stand here and watch you wreck your season and your career just because you’re too stubborn to admit you’re hurt.” Nobody moved or said a word. Logan’s jaw tightened. The muscles in his neck stood out against the collar of his jersey. His fists closed at his sides, his gloves creaking under the pressure. For several seconds, Maya wondered if he was actually going to lose his temper. Instead, he stared at her. He seemed to be waiting for her to look away, but she didn’t. He searched her face for fear, hesitation, anything that would make her back down. There was nothing. She wasn’t trying to challenge him, she was doing her job. And she genuinely cared whether he walked away from that rink in one piece. Something changed in his expression. The anger was still there, but it wasn’t as sharp as before. Confusion replaced some of it, along with something Maya couldn’t quite read. Logan finally looked away. Without saying anything, he turned around. He slammed his stick against the ice, grabbed the glove he had dropped, and headed toward the bench. His steps were uneven as he pushed open the gate, climbed off the ice, and disappeared down the corridor toward the medical bay. Coach Miller continued staring after him. Then he looked at Maya. His mouth opened slightly before he seemed to remember himself. “Clear the ice, boys. Take ten.” Maya didn’t wait around. She picked up her medical kit and headed back through the tunnel toward the clinic. As she passed the player bench, one of the veteran assistant captains leaned over the boards. He was tall, with bright red hair, and he watched her with a mixture of concern and disbelief. “Hey, Doc,” he said under his breath. Maya slowed and looked at him as he shook his head. “Nobody talks to Logan like that. Ever.” His eyes followed her as she continued toward the clinic. “Watch your back.”