Chapter 1

The overhead lights hummed with a low, electrical drone that felt like it was vibrating inside Caleb’s skull. Every stride across the scarred ice sent a jagged spike of white-hot pain from his ribs down to his left knee. He ignored it. He had to. In the ecosystem of professional hockey, Caleb Vance was the mortar between the bricks. He wasn't the guy who scored the game-winner; he was the guy who dove in front of a hundred-mile-per-hour puck with ten seconds left on the clock.

He was the perfect sidekick, and sidekicks didn't take Valentine’s Day off.

Caleb leaned into a tight turn, his skates biting into the ice with a sharp *crunch*. The pain in his knee flared, a sickening pop echoing in the empty arena. He stumbled, his glove hitting the cold surface to steady himself.

"You’re going to tear the meniscus completely if you do that again, Vance."

The voice was cool, authoritative, and vibrated with a note of disappointment that hurt worse than the knee. Caleb looked up. Maya Thorne stood by the bench, her parka zipped to her chin, holding a small, padded envelope in one hand.

"Just working out the stiffness, Maya," Caleb lied, pulling himself upright. He tried to glide toward her with a nonchalance he didn't feel. "What are you doing here? It’s late."

"I could ask you the same thing. Or I could ask why I found a professional-grade ergonomic wrist brace on my desk tonight with a note saying it was for 'the person who carries the team on her back.'" She held up the envelope. "It’s a rare model, Caleb. Expensive. And it’s exactly what my carpal tunnel needed."

Caleb stopped five feet from the boards, the ice shaved into small piles beneath his blades. He didn't look at her. "I just saw you rubbing your wrist during the last road trip. Thought it might help."

"It’s Valentine’s Day," Maya said softly, her boots stepping onto the ice. She didn't slip; she walked with the practiced grace of someone who lived in rinks. "Most guys are out at dinner. You’re here, breaking yourself in the dark. Why do you do this? Why do you think you have to be the martyr for everyone else?"

"Because if I'm not the guy who sacrifices, who am I?" Caleb’s voice cracked, the exhaustion finally bleeding through. "I’m not the leading scorer. I’m the utility guy. If I'm not perfect, if I’m not the one taking the hits so the stars stay safe, I’m replaceable. I don’t want to be replaceable to the team. Especially not to you."

Maya stopped right in front of him. She reached out, her gloved hand resting on his jersey, right over his heart. "Cally, look at me."

He lowered his gaze to hers. Her eyes weren't full of the professional pity he feared. They were warm.

"You’ve spent three seasons being the sidekick," she whispered. "You think your value is in how much pain you can take. But I don’t care about the penalty kill. I care about the man who notices when my wrist hurts. I care about the man who stays late not because he’s a machine, but because he’s afraid of being forgotten."

She looked down at his skates. "Give me the guards, Caleb."

"What?"

"The skate guards. You’re done. I’m scratching you from the morning skate, and I’m taking you to the training room. But not for an ice bath." She smiled, a small, genuine thing that made the cold arena feel twenty degrees warmer. "I ordered takeout three hours ago, hoping you’d be here being stubborn. It’s sitting on my heater. We’re going to eat, and you’re going to sit still for once."

Caleb felt a strange sensation—the weight he’d been carrying for years finally beginning to shift. He didn't have to be the perfect warrior tonight. He didn't have to sacrifice anything.

"You're going to get in trouble for letting a player eat lo mein on the treatment table," he joked, though his chest felt tight with something that wasn't pain.

"I’m the head trainer," Maya said, sliding her arm around his waist to help him balance as he headed toward the gate. "I decide what’s healthy. And right now? You being with me is the healthiest thing for both of us."

Caleb stepped off the ice, leaving the darkness and the cold behind. For the first time in his career, he wasn't worried about the next shift. He was just a man, walking home with the woman who finally saw him.