Not an option

Ivy's POV

Let me tell you something about routines in this job.

They feel solid right up until the second they shatter.

I had everything timed perfectly for our three o’clock slot. Playlist queued to a mid-tempo track that built energy without overwhelming, fresh ice packs chilling in the mini-fridge, and a new set of resistance bands laid out like colorful soldiers on the counter.

The physio room smelled the same—antiseptic sharp and faintly metallic—but I’d cracked a window to let in a sliver of spring air.

After yesterday’s small win with the clamshells and that accidental brush of his fingers, I figured today we could push a little further into single-leg balance drills. Nothing crazy. Just enough to remind his body it still knew how to trust itself.

I checked the clock at 2:58.

No crutches in the hallway. No low growl announcing his arrival.

By 3:05 I was pacing the narrow space between the treatment table and the stability balls, phone in hand. Ronan wasn’t the type to ghost a session after he’d shown up twice in a row.

Not with that haunted look he got every time the knee reminded him what he stood to lose. I sent a quick text to the team coordinator, Hale on his way? and waited.

Nothing.

At 3:12 my phone buzzed, but it wasn’t the coordinator. It was Dr. Patel from the main medical suite, voice tight when I answered.

“Ivy? There’s been an incident. Ronan tried to drive himself here—against every piece of advice—and the knee gave out getting out of the car in the parking garage. He went down hard. Possible re-tear. We’ve got him in imaging now.”

The floor tilted under me. I gripped the edge of the counter, the metal cool against my palm. “How bad?”

“Bad enough that he’s not walking out today. Swelling is aggressive. We’re monitoring for compartment syndrome. He’s stable but… he’s asking for you.” A pause, the kind that meant more was coming.

“Look, the front office is freaking out. Media’s already sniffing around the garage footage. We need twenty-four-seven oversight for at least the next seventy-two hours—strict elevation, ice cycles, pain management, and someone who actually knows his protocol. The on-call resident can’t swing it with the roster crunch.”

My stomach dropped. “Send him to the rehab wing. I can extend hours—”

“Not an option. Insurance and liability want a live-in medical professional on site. His place. Private, secure, away from the circus. And the team’s picking you.”

The words landed like a slap shot to the chest.

Me.

Not the senior PT with twenty years and a corner office. Not the team doctor who’d known Ronan since draft day.

Me—the new girl who’d been here all of four days and had spent exactly two sessions trying to chip through his walls.

I sank onto the rolling stool, gloves still half-on from earlier prep. “Dr. Patel, I… I’m flattered, but I’m not equipped for that. Office sessions are one thing. Living with him is—”

“Exactly why it has to be you,” she cut in gently. “You’re the one who got him to do ten extra reps yesterday without him storming out. He trusts you enough to have asked for you by name while he was cursing through the pain. The alternative is a stranger from an agency, and he already made it clear that’s not happening.”

I closed my eyes. Famous hockey star. Penthouse apartment I’d only seen in tabloid spreads.

Ronan Hale—unbreakable goalie, walking billboard for every endorsement deal in the league—needing me in his space twenty-four hours a day.

Watching him sleep, or not sleep. Managing the dark moods when the pain peaked at 3 a.m. Dealing with the fact that the entire city would probably know I was there before breakfast tomorrow.

Office sessions had felt safe. Professional boundaries. Gloves on, playlist humming, forty-five minutes and done. This? This was stepping into his world.

The one with the twenty-thousand-seat arena screaming his name, the paparazzi camped outside, the weight of a career that could vanish if I missed one ice cycle.

I wasn’t ready.

My hands weren’t steady when I stood up and started packing the emergency rehab kit—extra bands, compression sleeves, the portable stim unit, my own spare charger because God knew I’d forget something.

My reflection in the glass cabinet looked pale, eyes too wide. You’ve handled worse, I told myself. College athletes with attitude. Pro football guys who thought PT meant party time.

But none of them had been Ronan. None of them had ice-blue eyes that saw too much while pretending they saw nothing at all.

Dr. Patel was still talking logistics—keys to his place would be waiting at the security desk, a driver en route, confidentiality paperwork already signed on his end. I murmured the right responses, but my brain kept looping on one thought: living with him.

Sharing the same air. Watching that wall of his crack wider in real time while I tried not to let my own nerves show.

Because the truth was simpler and scarier than any re-tear.

Ronan Hale in my professional space was manageable.

Ronan Hale in his own space—vulnerable, furious, possibly terrified—was an entirely different game. One I wasn’t sure I could play without losing my footing.

I zipped the bag shut, playlist still humming from the speakers like it hadn’t gotten the memo that everything just changed. The track switched to something slower, almost questioning. Fitting.

By the time the driver texted that he was downstairs, my pulse was hammering harder than any pre-game warm-up.

I stepped into the hallway, kit slung over my shoulder, and tried to summon the same bright smile I’d given him yesterday.

It felt shaky at best.

Ronan had no idea what he’d just pulled me into.

And neither, apparently, did I.