Chapter 2

Maxine’s POV

“…and then he took a hit to the boards,” the athletic trainer was giving me details about his injury. 

 I heard every word he said but I processed none of it because my eyes were completely locked on him. 

After three years of being apart, he was sitting six feet away from me now, looking exactly the same way I had remembered him. 

No, that wasn’t entirely true.

He looked older and sharper now like life had carved something deeper into him.

His jaw was more defined, a faint shadow of stubble lining it like he hadn’t bothered to shave this morning. 

His dark hair was slightly longer than I remembered and pushed back messily like he had been running his hands through it. 

And those gray eyes of his were intense like they always were and right now, they were staring straight at me.

My heart kept slamming violently against my ribs.

Breathe, Maxine, breathe.

“Dr. Max?”

The sound of my name cut through the haze, and I blinked, forcing myself back into the room.

The trainer was standing beside me now, watching me carefully, with concern flickering across his face. 

“Are you alright?” He asked. 

I swallowed hard, straightening my shoulders.

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “I’m fine, thank you. I’ll take over from here.”

He hesitated for half a second, like he didn’t quite believe me, but nodded anyway before stepping aside, the door clicking softly behind him.

Now, it was just me and him alone. 

Dragging in a deep breath, I turned toward the counter, grabbing a pair of gloves. 

Thankfully, my hands were steady as I snapped them into place, the sharp sound echoing louder than it should have in the quiet room.

“You are a professional.” I mumbled to myself as I stepped closer, keeping my movements precise and controlled.

“Dr. Maxine Vaughan,” I said, my voice calm and detached like I was introducing myself to a complete stranger. “I’ll be your physician today.”

I didn’t look at him as I adjusted the tray beside me, arranging the instruments.

If I looked at him again, I might forget how to function.

“Can you tell me your full name?” I asked, my tone clinical.

There was a beat of silence then he said, “Hex Mercer.”

God, his voice.

It had hit me like a punch to the chest.

It was deeper than I remembered, rougher and familiar in a way that made something inside me ache.

I forced myself to nod, jotting it down even though I already knew everything about him or at least, I used to.

“Do you know where you are right now?” I continued, moving through the routine like muscle memory.

“At the arena.”

“Date?”

He answered correctly.

“Any dizziness? Nausea? Blurred vision?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“A little.”

“On a scale of one to ten?”

“Three.”

I nodded, stepping closer now, finally allowing myself to look at him properly.

It was a big mistake on my end because up close, it was worse as every detail hit harder.

The faint scar near his chin was now visible and those soft lips of his which I couldn't seem to get enough of were pressed together slightly when he was trying not to react to pain.

I forced myself to focus, gently moving his hand away from the towel pressed against his forehead.

“Alright,” I murmured, more to myself than to him.

There was a cut.

It was clean, but deep enough to need stitches.

“You’ve got a two to three centimeter laceration above your eyebrow,” I said, my voice steady again. “I’m going to clean it, numb it, and put in five to six stitches. It’ll take about ten minutes.”

After a beat, I met his eyes briefly just enough to maintain professionalism.

“Are you good with that?”

He nodded once, still staring at me with the same steady gaze that made my chest feel too tight.

“Alright,” I said quietly.

I turned back to the tray, picking up the antiseptic. My hands moved automatically as years of training took over.

“You’ll feel a sting,” I warned.

He didn’t react when the antiseptic touched his skin.

Hex Mercer had always been stubborn like that.

I reached for the syringe next, drawing in the anesthetic.

“This will numb the area,” I said, my voice softer now and quieter. “Small pinch.”

I injected it carefully, watching for any reaction but still, nothing.

It was just those eyes that were permanently fixed on me. 

I set the syringe aside then picked up the suturing kit with steady hands. 

I stepped closer again, positioning myself between his knees as I worked. I was way too close to him that I could feel the heat radiating from him.

The familiarity of it nearly knocked the breath out of me.

How many times had I been this close before?

How many times had his hands been on my waist, pulling me in instead of letting me work?

My throat tightened.

With a racing heart. I leaned in, beginning the first stitch.

The silence stretched between us, thick and charged.

This was pure torture and I can't wait to put an end to it. 

“Almost done,” I said, trying to fill the silence. 

Finally, I finished the final knot, cutting the thread and leaning back slightly.

“There,” I said, exhaling slowly. “All done.”

I stepped away immediately, creating distance between us because I needed it more than I wanted to admit.

I disposed of the used instruments, peeling off my gloves carefully.

I tried my best not to look at him but I failed at it.

Raising my head slowly, I shifted my gaze in his direction only to lock eyes with him. 

Clearing my throat, I quickly grabbed his file. 

“Stitches will need to be removed in about five to seven days,” I said, flipping it open. “Keep the area clean and dry. I’ll prescribe antibiotics to prevent infection and something mild for the pain.”

My pen moved quickly across the page as I needed anything to avoid his gaze and stop the memories from clawing their way back.

Suddenly, the door flung open. 

“Doc,” a voice called.

I turned to see the coach stepping in, his presence filling the room immediately.

“How bad is it?”

I straightened, slipping seamlessly back into professional mode.

“He’s not playing tonight,” I said without hesitation.

The coach frowned. “What?”

“He has a head injury,” I explained calmly. “Even if it’s minor, I need to monitor him for any delayed symptoms. He’s out for tonight.”

“We can’t afford that,” the coach shot back. “He’s our star forward.”

“I understand that,” I said, my jaw tightening slightly. “But I’m not clearing him.”

“He’s fine,” the coach insisted, gesturing toward Hex.

“He took a hit to the head and required stitches. He sits out.” I bit back. 

The coach exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated.

“Doc…”

“No,” I cut in, my voice leaving no room for argument. “He sits out. I’ll reassess him before the next game, but tonight, he’s not stepping on the ice.”

After a beat of silence, the coach released his breath. 

“Fine,” he muttered, throwing his hands up. “But he better be ready next game.”

“He will be,” I said confidently.

After a moment, he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

The room fell quiet again and I exhaled slowly, peeling off my gloves completely this time and tossing them into the bin.

“Lie down,” I said, gesturing toward the bed. “I want to run a few more checks.”

When I didn't hear movement, I frowned slightly, turning toward him.

And there it was again, that same intense, unreadable expression like he was seeing right through me.

My pulse quickened.

“Hex,” I said, sharper this time. “Lie down.”

He didn’t move, then he spoke, “Three years, huh…”

My breath caught in my throat. 

“I thought I’m not going to see you ever again.” He added, accompanying his words with that stupid, familiar and devastating lopsided smile of his.