The Famous Hockey Star Is My Patient

Ivy's POV

Let me tell you something about professional athletes.

They don’t break quietly.

I learned that the hard way my first official day with the New York Defenders. The physio room smelled like antiseptic and regret, the kind of sterile chill that seeped straight into your bones.

I’d spent the morning setting up my station—resistance bands color-coded, foam rollers stacked like tiny soldiers, my playlist already queued on low because silence made these guys twitchy.

Also due to my past failure with an athlete, My career was literally on the line.

“Unbreakable” by cbg was humming through the speakers when the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the glass.

Ronan Hale didn’t walk in. He limped. Crutches under both arms, jaw locked so tight I could see the muscle jump.

Six-foot-four of pure goalie menace wrapped in a Defenders hoodie that had seen better days.

His dark hair was messy like he’d dragged his hands through it a hundred times, and those famous ice-blue eyes? They looked straight through me like I was another piece of equipment.

“Summers?” His voice was gravel dragged over ice.

“That’s me.” I flashed my brightest smile—the one my last team swore could defrost a Zamboni.

“Ivy Summers, new lead PT. Nice to finally meet the guy who’s been stonewalling the entire medical staff for three weeks.”

He didn’t smile back. Just dropped onto the treatment table with a grunt that sounded like it cost him. The crutches clattered to the floor.

Up close, the knee brace was bulky, angry purple bruising still blooming around the edges of the tape.

I’d read the reports—brutal hit in the third period against Boston, ACL partially torn, meniscus shredded. Career-ending if he didn’t get his head out of his ass.

“Reports say you’ve been skipping sessions,” I said, snapping on a pair of gloves. Professional. Detached.

Totally not noticing how the hoodie had ridden up to show a strip of toned abs that definitely didn’t belong on a guy who’d been benched for a month.

“Reports can choke.” He leaned back on his elbows, staring at the ceiling like it owed him money. “I don’t need a cheerleader with playlists and puns. I need to get back on the ice.”

I let the smile sharpen just a fraction. “Good thing I’m neither. I’m the one who’s going to make that knee listen whether you like it or not. Now lie back and try not to growl at me for the next forty-five minutes. Doctor’s orders.”

He did growl. Low, under his breath, but I caught it. Cute.

I started gentle—ice first, then manual therapy. My hands slid under his knee, lifting it carefully. The muscle jumped under my palms, tight as a coiled spring.

Heat radiated off his skin even through the brace. I pressed my thumbs into the quad, working the scar tissue in slow circles.

“Feel that?” I asked.

“Feels like you’re trying to break what’s left of it.”

“That’s the point, Hale. Break the bad stuff so the good stuff can rebuild.” I glanced up. His eyes were on me now—not through me. Locked. Something flickered there, gone before I could name it.

I kept my voice light. “You know, most goalies I’ve worked with at least pretend to be charming the first session. You’re really committing to the whole ‘unbreakable wall’ aesthetic.”

A huff that might have been a laugh escaped him. “Charming’s for forwards. Goalies just stop things.”

“Until they can’t,” I said softly.

The room went quiet except for the low thump of the playlist. I switched to the other side, fingers tracing the IT band. His breath hitched—just once—when I hit a knot. I didn’t comment. Didn’t need to.

I’d seen this before: the big, scary athlete who’d rather eat glass than admit he was scared.

Fifteen minutes in, I grabbed the resistance band. “Okay, superstar. Tiny movements. Don’t be a hero.”

He tried. The first rep was shaky, teeth clenched so hard I heard them grind. Sweat beaded on his forehead. By the fifth, his breathing had turned ragged.

“Enough,” he bit out.

“Nope. Two more. Then you can glare at me some more.”

He did the two more. Barely. When I finally lowered his leg, his hand shot out and caught my wrist. Not hard. Just… there. Calluses rough against my skin.

“I don’t need pity,” he said, voice low.

I met his eyes. Up close they were even bluer, stormier. “Good. Because I don’t do pity. I do results. And right now your knee is telling me it’s terrified you’re never playing again.” I leaned in a fraction, keeping my tone steady. “But I’m not. So you can push me away all you want, Hale. I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

His grip lingered half a second longer than it needed to. Then he let go like I’d burned him.

I stepped back, peeling off the gloves. “Same time tomorrow. Bring the attitude if you want—I’ve got worse.”

He didn’t answer. Just reached for his crutches, jaw tight again. But as he stood, I caught it—the tiniest hesitation, like he was testing whether the leg would hold.

And for the first time, those ice-blue eyes didn’t look through me. They looked… at me.

I turned away before he could see the small smile tugging at my lips.

Day one down, I thought, queuing up the next track on my playlist. Let’s see how long that wall lasts when I’m the one holding the sledgehammer.

Ronan Hale had no idea what he’d just let in the door.