Chapter 3 The Retreat

The Mustangs won the game.

As I made my way toward their locker room to check in on the players I’d treated, the buzz of the arena still ringing in my ears, I almost collided with Wesley Nolan coming out of the shadows.

He flashed me a grin. “I overheard your conversation with Coach back there. He’s never that talkative. You must be some kind of miracle worker.”

I smiled lightly, keeping my tone steady. “Oh, I’m a doctor. I don’t deal in miracles.”

Just then, Noah Hudson lumbered past us, his towering frame casting a shadow across the hallway. He glanced at me with a cool expression. “Good job on those stitches, Doc.”

“Good job on not getting into any more brawls out on the ice,” I shot back.

Noah’s brown eyes narrowed as he shifted his stance, his posture suddenly aggressive as he turned toward Wesley. “We’ve still got unfinished business, Nolan.”

Wesley didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll save a spot on my dance card just for you, Hudson.”

Before the tension could escalate, Coach Dennis’s piercing whistle cut through the air. He stood tall in the center of the locker room, the weight of authority radiating from him as the room fell silent.

“Team,” he announced, voice steady and commanding. “I have an announcement. As of tomorrow, Wesley Nolan is transferring over from the Mustangs.”

A murmur spread like wildfire through the players, excitement mixed with confusion.

“To win him over,” Coach continued, “I’ve agreed to let him compete for team captain.”

The room erupted; some cheering, some whispering, some wide-eyed in disbelief.

I stayed quiet, keeping my head down while watching the storm unfold.

Coach Dennis caught my eye and gave me a subtle nod, clearly impressed by my calm amid the chaos.

But Noah wasn’t having any of it.

“This is bullshit, Coach!” he growled, voice low and sharp. “You said I was next in line for captain.”

Coach Dennis held up a hand, cutting off the noise before Noah could say another word.

“Show me you can do it,” he said firmly, looking straight at him. “And I’ll consider you too.”

Noah’s jaw flexed. I could feel the heat radiating off him from where I stood, but he didn’t speak again. Not while the coach was still watching.

“That’s not all,” Coach added. “We’re going on a five-day team bonding retreat.”

A few of the players groaned, others exchanged confused glances.

“Our new doctor,” he continued, “is coming with us.”

My eyes widened. “I am?”

“I can’t trust these guys not to fuck each other up,” he said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. “And to make sure no one tries to back out, we’re catching the red eye train tonight.”

Just like that, it was settled.

No time to pack. No time to mentally prepare. No time for anything except a quick stop at the hospital.

I cut across town, heart still pounding from the locker room scene, and jogged up the back stairs to Northcrest. The sports medicine wing was quiet for the night, but the pediatric hospital next door still buzzed with the morning rush. I slipped through the staff corridor to the shared lounge, and there my best friend, Lucia was.

She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of her white coat over a coral pink turtleneck. Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek bun, tight enough to mean business. Her skin was a smooth, rich brown that always seemed to glow under hospital lights, and her eyes sparkled like she already knew everything before I even opened my mouth. She had the kind of figure that made scrubs look tailored, and her lipstick always matched her mood.

“Look who it is,” she said with a smirk, spinning slightly on her heel. “If it isn’t the new team doctor for the Vipers.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Lucia.”

We hugged quickly but tightly.

“I’m so happy to see you,” I said. “These Vipers are going to be tough.”

“You’ve got this,” she said, pulling back. “You’re a star. Besides, you have a secret weapon.”

She reached behind her back and produced a thick file, bulging with tabs and clipped notes.

“What is that?” I asked.

“A dossier,” she said, like it was a word she used every day. “On your team’s most difficult players.”

She handed it over and gave me a wink. “The Vipers are insane. This will help you handle all their issues.”

I flipped open the file, and there he was.

Noah Hudson.

Hockey’s biggest bad boy, captured mid-glare, helmet under his arm, shirt half off, tattoos peeking through the edge of his shoulder pads. Even in a still image, he looked like he was seconds away from a fight. Or something worse.

Lucia leaned over my shoulder. “Okay, I’m just gonna say it. He’s hot.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean totally unhinged?”

I skimmed the notes. “Last season alone, he sustained two concussions, five fractures, dental surgery, a broken nose… and three actual arrests.”

Lucia whistled. “He likes to fight. But he always scores, so he gets away with it.”

I shook my head. “If he keeps racking up injuries at that pace, he’ll be retired before thirty.”

I turned the page, and Wesley Nolan’s photo greeted me like it was waiting for applause.

His hair was pushed back like he had just stepped off a yacht, eyes bluer than they should be, and a grin that belonged in a commercial. I almost rolled my eyes.

Lucia pointed. “Be careful with that one. I hear he’ll make a move on anything with a pulse. And it normally works.”

I scanned the note beside his photo. “I’m more concerned with the fact that he’s skipped his last five physical therapy appointments.”

“That too,” Lucia muttered.

I flipped the page again, and this time, it wasn’t a player. It was the coach.

Dennis Cooper.

The photograph looked more like a magazine spread than a staff ID. He stood stiffly in his Vipers gear, arms crossed, beard perfectly trimmed, eyes locked on the camera like it owed him money.

Lucia blinked. “Wow. He played in the Olympics?”

Lucia’s eyes were still fixed on the photo. “Wow. He played in the Olympics?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice softer now. “My dad was a huge fan of Dennis Cooper. He’s a total legend.”

I brushed my finger lightly along the edge of the page.

“It says here he retired early because of a bum ankle. But no one really knows what happened. He just… vanished.”

There was something about that kind of silence, the way careers just end, stories left untold, that made my chest feel tight.

I closed the file, folding it against my chest like armor.

“Thank you, Lucia. I feel so much more prepared now.”

She smiled, satisfied. “Go take care of your lunatics, Doc.”

I laughed under my breath, nerves still buzzing but steadier now.

Then I turned, ready to face whatever the red-eye train ride and five days in hockey hell had in store for me.

**********

I pinched the inside of my wrist, just to make sure I was really awake.

Outside the train window, the sun was rising over the mountains, soft streaks of gold bleeding across jagged peaks. It was beautiful, surreal. For a moment, I let myself enjoy it. Until I felt the seat beside me shift.

Coach Dennis dropped into it with his usual scowl, arms crossed like he’d been awake since the Ice Age.

“Follow me,” he muttered.

Before I could ask why, his hand curled around my forearm. Not roughly, but with just enough force to make it clear there was no room for negotiation.

He led me through the narrow corridor to a private train car, decked out like some luxury charter. Tables lined with silver trays and warmers, a full catering spread set out for the team.

The Vipers were sprawled across leather chairs in various stages of sleep and wakefulness. A few were already eating. Noah leaned back with his boots up. Wesley had his headphones in, bobbing his head to some beat only he could hear.

The coach jerked his chin toward the catering table.

“Avoid the shrimp.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just turned and disappeared again.

I found a seat, grabbed a small plate of eggs and toast, and settled in, trying to keep my nerves in check. The train rumbled steadily beneath us, like it didn’t care one bit about the ticking bomb of testosterone on board.

Then I heard someone gagging.

Followed by a loud retch.

I turned sharply in my seat.

At the back of the car, the Vipers’ goalie, Bryson, I thought, was hunched forward, vomiting all over the polished floor.

I jumped up, instincts kicking in. But before I could even get to him, another player staggered back from the food table, his hand over his mouth. Then another.

The sound of retching multiplied, echoing against the walls. Half the team was bent over, groaning or worse.

I pressed my mask to my face, barely catching my own gag.

“This has to be food poisoning,” I whispered, already moving.

I forced open the sliding door to the next train car; one of the private cabins, and waved to Noah and Wesley.

“You two… help me. Get everyone who’s still standing into this car. The sick ones stay back there. We need to isolate it.”

They didn’t argue, to my surprise. Maybe the smell had done the convincing.

Together, we pulled groaning bodies into reclining chairs, brought water bottles, and grabbed blankets from the overhead bins. The air was thick with bile and panic.

Coach Dennis stood beside me, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I told that idiot not to eat seafood on a moving train,” he muttered.

I nodded, keeping my voice steady. “It does seem… ill-advised.”

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.

I fished it out with gloved fingers, already knowing who it would be.

A text from my stepfather lit the screen, and it read,

“One wrong move, Grace. Better not mess up on this retreat.”

My stomach twisted. Like I didn’t already feel the pressure crushing my lungs.

The last thing I needed was a player dying of food poisoning on my watch.

A harsh, hacking sound cut through my spiraling thoughts. One of the players was bent over the edge of a seat, dry heaving and wheezing, his face pale as ash.

“Help!” he croaked, clutching his chest.