Dear Hockey Captain, You Are The Daddy

Chloe’s Pov

I wiped down the examination table with a blue paper towel, scrubbing hard at a nonexistent stain just to keep my hands busy. My shoulders were tight from a six-hour shift, and my brain was already fried from studying for my biomechanics exam.

All I wanted was to finish my afternoon shift, go back to my tiny apartment, and eat a bowl of instant noodles in peace. But of course, life never made things that easy for me.

Across the room sat Nathaniel Hayes, the famous captain of the city’s top professional hockey team.

Even sitting on the edge of the physical therapy bench, he looked like he owned the whole building. He was twenty-five, impossibly broad-shouldered, and had the kind of dark hair and sharp jawline that made every sports reporter lose their mind during post-game interviews. Right now, he was wearing a grey team hoodie, black athletic shorts, and an expression that said he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

He was supposed to be doing a light lower-body recovery assessment after straining his hamstring two weeks ago. Instead, he was twirling his phone in one hand and staring at the wall clock like he was waiting for a bus.

"Mr. Hayes, if you don't keep your heel flat during the stretch, you're going to strain the muscle again," I said, keeping my voice as flat and professional as I could manage.

Nathaniel didn't even look at me. He just shifted his leg slightly, barely moving an inch. "I know my own body, Chloe. I've been playing hockey since I was four years old. A little hammy tightness isn't going to stop me from skating fifty miles an hour on Friday night."

"It's Chloe to you, not just my first name like we're old friends," I corrected, stepping closer and crossing my arms over my dark navy scrubs. "And your body doesn't care about your Friday night game. If you tear that tissue completely, you won't be skating anywhere for six months. So please, lower your foot and tilt your hips forward."

Nathaniel finally stopped spinning his phone. He turned his head and looked at me, his deep hazel eyes locking onto mine with a slow, lazy smirk. He took his sweet time looking at my simple ponytail, my faded sneakers, and the name tag pinned to my chest.

"You know," he said, his voice smooth and irritatingly calm, "most of the therapists here just let me do my usual routine. They don't usually stand over me with a clip board looking like they want to throw me out the window."

"Most of the therapists here are too polite to tell you that you're wasting everyone's time," I replied smoothly. "You scheduled this appointment. If you're just going to sit there and check your text messages, there are twenty other injured people sitting in the waiting room who actually want to get better."

A few metres away, my supervisor, Sarah, paused while wrapping a patient's ankle. She gave me a wide-eyed look that clearly meant be careful, that's a multi-million-dollar athlete you're talking to.

I didn't care. I grew up watching my older brother struggle through a career-ending knee injury because he ignored his doctors, and I had zero patience for rich guys who thought their money made them invincible. Talent didn't make your tendons stronger. Money couldn't magically glue a muscle back together.

Nathaniel let out a short, quiet laugh, though his eyes narrowed just a little bit. He slid off the bench and stood up to his full height. He towered over me, his massive frame blocking out the light from the fluorescent ceiling panels. Most people would have taken a step back, but I stood my ground, staring right back up at him.

"Look, Chloe," he said, leaning in just a fraction of an inch, his voice dropping lower so only I could hear. "I appreciate the enthusiasm, really. But I have three trainers and two team doctors who get paid a lot of money to worry about my legs. I don't need a part-time student telling me how to bend my knee."

That was the last straw. The arrogance dripping from his words made my blood boil.

"Then those three trainers are doing a terrible job, because your left hip is sagging every time you take a step," I said, my voice ringing clear across the quiet room. "You're compensating for the pain in your hamstring by overloading your glute and lower back. If you keep running your recovery plan your way, you're going to blow out your lower spine before the playoffs even start. Do you want me to draw you a diagram of the human nervous system, or can your massive ego not handle the science?"

The entire room went dead silent. Two other patients paused mid-exercise. A physical therapy assistant dropped a plastic resistance band onto the tile floor.

Nathaniel stared at me, completely caught off guard. For a second, the cocky smirk disappeared from his face, replaced by pure shock. Nobody talked to him like that. He was used to fans begging for autographs, reporters praising his leadership, and people tip-toeing around his bad mood.

"Are you always this pleasant?" he asked softly, his eyes searching my face as if trying to figure out if I was joking.

"Only when people act like their fame makes them immune to basic biology," I said, handing him a printed sheet of stretch diagrams. "Do the third exercise on that page. Ten reps. Three sets. Or leave and explain to your coach why you're sitting on the bench next month."

Nathaniel looked down at the paper, then back at me. Slowly, the smirk returned to his lips, but this time it felt different. It wasn't quite as condescending. There was a spark of real interest in his eyes now, like he had just discovered a puzzle he couldn't immediately solve.

"Alright, bossy," he murmured, sitting back down on the bench and actually aligning his body correctly this time. "Let's see if your scientific plan actually works."

For the next twenty minutes, he actually followed my instructions. He didn't check his phone once. Every time I corrected his posture, he made the adjustment without complaining, though he kept making sarcastic little comments just to see if he could make me lose my temper again. I kept my face totally blank, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset.

When the session was finally over, Nathaniel grabbed his gym bag and slung it over one shoulder. He walked past me toward the exit, stopping right beside my small desk.

"Thanks for the lesson, Chloe," he said, giving me a quick slant-ways smile. "You really enjoy bossing people around, don't you?"

"Only when they give me a good reason to," I replied without looking up from my clipboard.

He chuckled, turning to walk out the glass front doors. "See you around."

"Not if I see you first," I muttered under my breath.

I let out a long, heavy breath as the doors slid shut behind him. My heart was pounding against my ribs, and my hands were actually shaking a little bit. I hated how much space he took up in the room. I hated how handsome he was, and I hated even more that a small part of me had actually enjoyed standing up to him.

"Well, that was intense," Sarah said, walking over to my desk with a thick yellow folder in her hands.

"He's unbearable," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Why do the rich ones always think they know more than the medical staff?"

"Maybe so, but you certainly got his attention," Sarah said with a mysterious smile. She tapped the folder against the desk. "Which brings me to some big news. The centre just signed an official contract with the city's hockey organization. We're going to be handling all their major rehabilitation and clinical placements starting next week."

My stomach dropped into a hard, cold knot. "Wait... what?"

"You've been asking for a primary clinical placement for your senior credits, right?" Sarah continued, opening the folder and pointing to a printed sheet of paper with a dark blue team logo at the top. "The team requested our top recovery group. And the team manager specifically asked for the staff members who handled Nathaniel's assessment today."

I stared at the paper in horror. Right at the very top of the patient assignment list, written in bold black ink, was one single name: NATHANIEL HAYES.

"No," I whispered, my voice caught in my throat. "No way. Sarah, please tell me you're joking."

"I'm completely serious," Sarah said cheerfully, tapping my shoulder. "Congratulations, Chloe. He personally asked for you to be on his recovery team."