I watch him shuffle off to shower, struck by how different this morning routine feels from any I shared with Brad. There's no tension, no walking on eggshells, no subtle digs about my appearance or habits—just easy companionship and mutual support.
It's nice. Dangerous, but nice.
The Pittsburgh Fury training facility is state-of-the-art, a gleaming testament to the city's dedication to its hockey team. Looking remarkably better after a shower and more coffee, Alder guides me through security with the effortless confidence of someone who belongs.
The facility buzzes with activity despite the season being over. Support staff, trainers, and a handful of players mill about, some nodding to Alder as we pass. I notice how he straightens slightly, his public persona slipping back into place—confident, easygoing, professional.
He glances at his watch. "I should head to my meeting. Text me when you're done for the day?"
"Will do. Thanks for the ride."
He flashes me a grin, already looking more like himself than he did at breakfast. "What are friends for?"
The morning flies by in a flurry of paperwork, equipment checks, and introductions to the staff. By noon, I've established my clinic protocols, reviewed patient files, and scheduled several players for procedures during the off-season. Experiencing this level of autonomy and resources after the emergency room's constant scramble is exhilarating.
I know that as soon as these guys are back to full contact, I’ll be looking at some gory situations. But this summer is all about temporary crowns, deep cleanings, and a few fillings.
I'm organizing supplies when a knock at my door interrupts my thoughts. I expect it to be one of the administrative staff, but instead, Alder stands there, holding a paper bag that smells tantalizingly of garlic.
"Lunch?" he offers. "I brought Italian."
I typically avoid smelly food if I’m going to be breathing near people’s faces, but I’m not seeing patients today… "You're a lifesaver, " I say as I clear space on my desk as he unpacks containers of pasta. "How was your meeting?"
"Boring. End-of-season review, preliminary plans for next year." He shrugs, handing me a fork. "The usual."
"Sounds thrilling."
"About as thrilling as cataloging dental supplies." He nods toward the cabinet I'd been organizing.
I laugh, acknowledging the point. "So this is the glamorous life of professional athletes. Meetings and medical check-ups."
"The parts they don't show in commercials." He twirls pasta on his fork. "How's your day going?"
"Good. Busy. Your brother is scheduled for his flipper fitting tomorrow."
Alder groans. "Great. He'll be whining all evening."
"Big baby about all dental work, huh?"
"The biggest. Mom had to bribe him with ice cream well into high school."
I laugh at the image of towering Tucker Stag being bribed like a child. "Speaking of your family... about Sunday dinner."
Alder's expression softens. "You don't have to go if you're not comfortable. I can make excuses."
"No, I want to." I'm surprised to realize I mean it. "I just... what should I expect? Are they going to interrogate me? Should I bring something?"
"Just yourself." He hesitates. "And maybe prepare for questions. They're nosy but well-meaning."
"How many people are we talking about?"
"Depends. Core family—my parents, brothers, probably Odin's girlfriend, Gunnar's fiancée.” He counts on his fingers. "Then there's the extended crew—trio of uncles, their kids, maybe some family friends."
"So, twenty people is a conservative estimate?"
He chuckles. "Pretty much. We're a big herd.”
"And they all play hockey?"
