My dress hangs on the back of the bathroom door, the fabric catching the morning light. It seems out of place in this stark, undecorated apartment.
Kind of like me at the gala, if I'm being honest. Dressed up and trying to belong.
My phone buzzes as I make coffee on the single-cup machine I salvaged from my apartment. The screen lights up with notification after notification—texts, news alerts, social media mentions. I'd silenced it last night after getting home, unwilling to deal with the aftermath of the gala fight.
But there's no avoiding it now.
I scroll through the messages, most from numbers I don't recognize. Journalists are probably hoping for a comment about the altercation between Alder and Adam. The news alerts are even more direct:
*"FURY STAR DECKS EX IN CHARITY GALA BRAWL"*
*"STAG VS. LAWSON: LOVERS' QUARREL TURNS VIOLENT"*
I can't help but feel a wave of relief that I'm mentioned only in passing in most articles, if at all. A few notes that "team dentist Dr. Lena Sinclair was seen attending to Stag's injuries," but the focus is squarely on Alder and Adam.
Silver linings… I suppose. My career might survive this mess after all.
I hesitate for a moment, then open my messages and tap out a text to Alder:
How's the jaw this morning?
Professional concern. That's all it is.
His response comes quicker than I expected: a photo ofAlder's face in profile, a spectacular bruise spreading along his jawline in mottled purple and blue. He's giving an exaggerated frown to the camera. Even injured and pouty, he's ridiculously handsome.
I shouldn't respond. I should maintain a professional distance. But my fingers are typing before I can stop them:
Impressive bruise. Ice and ibuprofen. And maybe don't punch anyone else for a while.
Three dots appear, then:
No promises. How's the new place?
The simple question carries more weight than it should. I stare at it for a long moment before replying:
Quiet. Getting used to it.
Another pause, then:
Gordie misses you.
What I want to write isI miss him too. I miss you.What I actually type is:
Give him a scratch behind the ears from me.
Will do
comes the reply, and then nothing more.
I set my phone down, determined to focus on work. The move to my place was the right decision, the necessary one. The fact that it feels wrong is irrelevant.
The drive to the Fury facility seems to take forever. When Iarrive, the main space buzzes with youth hockey camps and frenzied talk between scouts and the coaching staff. I make my way to my office, nodding professionally to the staff I pass, relieved that Alder isn't here volunteering.
I throw myself into patient files and equipment inventory, grateful for the mundane tasks that require concentration without emotional investment. The morning passes in a blur of paperwork and consultations with the athletic trainers about face shield modifications.
Just before noon, there's a knock at my office door. I look up to find Sarah Collins, the assistant coach, leaning against the doorframe. Her dark hair is pulled back in her trademark sleek ponytail, and her Fury polo and slacks are impeccably wrinkle-free. I feel frumpy by comparison in my scrubs.
"Got a minute, Doc?" she asks.
