I'd done it—removed the shattered pieces of his lateral incisor while he gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles white, eyes watering but determined. Afterward, he'd thanked me with a nod and returned to the ice to score the game-winning goal.
These men are formidable.
And Sutton was right so far. To my knowledge, I haven’t appeared on television, and my name hasn’t surfaced in any kind of internet search. I get to be incognito while working dental magic on the gnarliest mouths in the business.
As the team warms up, my gaze lands on number 14, Alder Stag, as he sends a puck flying toward his twin at the blue line. My stomach does an unwelcome flip that has nothing to do with pre-game nerves. I mentally scold myself for my attraction to his athletic competence. Unprofessional, Lena. Completely unprofessional.
Additionally, he has Adam, and I have Brad—theoretically, at least.
I recheck my phone. Again, there is no message from my long-term boyfriend confirming he's using the ticket I arranged. When I asked him to come to tonight's game, he sighed heavily as if I'd suggested he endure root canal surgery without anesthetic.
"Another sports game?" he'd said, not looking up from his dissertation notes. "I have actual work to do, Lena."
I pressed the issue, explaining that this was different—a playoff elimination game, a chance to see what I actually do in my new role. Finally, he agreed, but only after I promised to get him a seat away from the "sports fanatics" in the Partners and Wives section.
Just like Alder had done for Adam…I overheard him saying so in the locker room. I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but our conversation at the barbecue stuck with me—the recognition of our parallel situations. Alder Stag and I have an understanding…or some sort of shared relationship strife. It's not that I'm thinking about Alder often, exactly. It's just that certain moments replay in my mind when I least expect them.
The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of warm-ups—time to focus.
I join the medical team at our station near the bench as the players take the ice for introductions. Dr. Martinez, the team physician, nods in greeting.
"Ready for whatever dental disasters await, Sinclair?"
"Always," I reply, adjusting my stash of purple nitrile gloves. "Though I'm hoping for a quiet night."
"Playoff hockey?" He laughs. "Good luck with that."
The arena erupts as the starting lineup is announced, the noise rising to a physical force when the Stag brothers' names boom through the speakers. I scan the crowd absently, wondering if Brad actually showed up when I spot him—miraculously—in the section I'd arranged. He's looking at his phone, completely detached from the excitement around him, but he's here.
I wish things had improved between us since I got this new job, but if anything, we’re growing even further apart. I no longer feel like we’re connecting, and I also have no idea how to start a conversation about it.
The game begins with the controlled violence unique tohockey—bodies colliding, sticks clashing, and skates carving sharp patterns in the ice. I watch with the clinical detachment I’ve been practicing, assessing each hit for potential injury and mentally cataloging the force and angle of every check into the boards.
Montreal plays aggressively from the first drop of the puck, targeting the Fury's top scorers. I find myself holding my breath when Alder shoulders a particularly nasty opponent into the boards, stealing the puck, and sending it to his brother without even looking. This happens 100 times a game; I should be used to it. But I’ve seen enough hockey this month to know that the telepathic connection between the twins is something to behold.
The first and second periods pass without incident—a minor miracle in playoff hockey, according to Doc, since the stakes are so high. I fiddle with my kit out of habit during the intermission, though nothing has been disturbed. I briefly glance at Brad, wondering if he's texting his advisor, perhaps one of his study group members, or just playing Candy Crush instead of watching the game.
The third period begins with heightened intensity, the desperation of both teams evident in their play. Five minutes in, I see it happen—Tucker Stag takes the top of a stick to the face as he battles for the puck. He drops immediately, a spray of red on the white ice. The whistle blows, and the ref starts waving his arms frantically.
"A-Stag is down," one of the assistants says, already gathering supplies.
My heart lurches before I can stop it. "T-Stag," I correct automatically.
The assistant gives me a curious look, but there's no time to explain how I can distinguish the brothers apart from adistance. We move quickly onto the ice, adrenaline sharpening my thoughts to a fine point.
Tucker is sitting up by the time we reach him, blood dripping freely from his mouth onto the ice. I kneel beside him, snapping into complete professional mode.
"Let me see, Tucker," I say, keeping my voice calm and authoritative tone.
He opens his mouth, revealing a partially fractured incisor, the jagged edge already cut into his lower lip, causing the bleeding. His eyes seem to calm when he recognizes me.
"Doc Thinclair?" he manages through the blood.
"Exactly so. Hold still."
I work efficiently, applying gauze to control the bleeding while examining the broken tooth. Thankfully, it's a clean break,—no root exposure, although the edges are sharp enough to cause further tissue damage if left untreated.
"I'm going to file down the sharp edges," I explain, reaching for my hand tool. "It'll be temporary until we get you properly treated off-ice."
