Chapter 5
"That's not what I asked."
"That's the best you're getting, Fallon."
He released her hands slowly, deliberately. The cold air rushed back into the void, making her skin prickle. He sat up, swinging his long legs off the edge of the table, his shoulders broadening as he shook out his neck.
"Get some sleep," he said, his voice returning to its normal, laconic rumble. He reached over, picked up the ceramic mug with the wide handle, and placed it directly into her hand, curling her stiff fingers around the warm porcelain. "Drink the tea. It helps the swelling."
He stood, stepped into his slides, and walked to the door. Before he opened it, he looked back over his shoulder.
"See you at breakfast, Doc."
The latch clicked shut behind him. Fallon sat alone on the rolling stool in the dim room, her hands wrapped around the warm mug, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
***
In the team video room the following afternoon in Minnesota, August was the model citizen.
While the rest of the defensive unit slouched in their leather chairs, tossing popcorn and trading crude jokes, August sat in the front row, a black leather-bound notebook open on the small fold-down desk.
Fallon stood near the doorway, a mug of black coffee in her hands, watching him from under the fluorescent lights.
He didn't slouch. He didn't look at his phone. He watched the projector screen with a terrifying, surgical focus. Coach Miller was breaking down the opposing team’s forecheck, pausing the tape to draw red telestrator circles around the Minnesota wingers.
"Bennett," Coach Miller barked, snapping a wooden pointer against the screen. "You're back in the lineup Thursday against Edmonton. When their top line cycles behind the net, what’s your read on McTavish?"
"He prefers the reverse to the off-wing," August answered immediately, without checking his notes. "If you take his inside hip at the hash marks, he tries to curl back toward the crease. But he keeps his head down for a third of a second when he collects on the backhand."
Miller blinked, visibly surprised. "Right. Exactly. Don't go for the hit there—contain the lane and wait for the center support."
"Understood," August said.
He jotted down two short lines in his notebook.
From her position by the door, Fallon felt a quiet wave of triumph settle over her shoulders. The protocol was working. The anger management sessions, the strict routine, the late-night physical therapy—she was channeling his focus. He wasn't an uncontrollable wild dog; he was a brilliant hockey mind who had simply lacked a leash and an anchor.
She caught his eye as Miller advanced the tape to special teams.
August gave her a brief, microscopic nod—a private acknowledgment that passed under the noses of twenty-three teammates and five coaches. Fallon felt a stupid, warm flutter beneath her ribs and quickly took a sip of her scalding coffee to hide the smile threatening her lips.
Later that evening, while the team played their game against Minnesota, August sat beside her in the press box. He wore a tailored navy suit that made his shoulders look impossibly wide, his white collar stark against the tanned, scarred skin of his throat.
Whenever an opposing player initiated a scrum along the boards below, August didn't tense. He didn't grip the desk or curse under his breath. He merely tracked the movements with his dark, hooded eyes, his right hand occasionally reaching into his suit pocket to click a ballpoint pen.
*He's healing,* Fallon thought, watching the clean profile of his jaw in the bright arena lights. *He just needed someone to show him that his life has value off the ice.*
***
Thursday morning arrived in Edmonton with negative-twenty-degree winds howling off the Saskatchewan River.
The morning skate at Rogers Place was crisp, the ice hard and fast. Fallon stood near the players' bench with a medical kit strapped over her shoulder, monitoring the return-to-play metrics on her tablet.
August looked magnificent. His suspension served, he moved across the ice with a terrifying, effortless grace. For a man of his size, his edges were whisper-quiet. He caught passes on his backhand with velvet-soft wrists, threading sixty-foot breakout feeds that hit the wingers in full stride.
"Looking good, Doc," assistant coach Kelly said, leaning on the dasher beside her. "Whatever liniment you're rubbing on that kid’s head, keep doing it. He hasn't barked at an official all week."
"It's not liniment," Fallon said, keeping her eyes glued to August as he circled the blue line. "It's discipline."
"Well, pray it holds. Edmonton's got Nolan Vance in the press box, but their third line is loaded with agitators. If Bennett keeps his cool tonight, we might actually steal two points."
Fallon’s fingers paused on her tablet screen.
*Nolan Vance.*
"Nolan Vance?" she asked, turning to Kelly. "Derek Vance's brother?"
"Cousin," Kelly corrected, spitting into a paper cup. "Played together in juniors. Nolan was with their farm team for five years before he got called up last month. Tough bastard. Not much skill, but he likes to throw his weight around."
A strange, cold drop of water seemed to hit the back of Fallon's neck.
Derek Vance in Chicago.
Nolan Vance in Edmonton.
She remembered Derek Vance—the veteran August had blindsided into the open bench stanchion a week ago. He had been an aging journeyman who bounced between four different organizations over the last decade. A nobody, really. Why had August targeted him?
*He hurt people,* August had said in the dark of the Chicago hotel room.
Fallon looked out at the ice.
August was standing by the center circle, adjusting the strap on his helmet. He looked over at the bench. When he saw her standing beside Kelly, his gaze locked onto hers.
He didn't smile. He didn't look away.
His face was a mask of absolute, unreadable serenity. But there was something in the set of his jaw—a cold, mechanical readiness that made her breath catch in her throat.
"August!" she called out, stepping up to the open bench gate.
He skated over, stopping inches from the rubber matting, spraying a light dusting of white ice crystals against the toe of her boots. The cool draft off his jersey smelled of fresh sweat, laundry detergent, and the metallic chill of the rink.
"What's wrong?" he asked, leaning down, his gloved hands resting on the dasher.
"Nothing," she lied, her eyes searching his face. "Just... remember the protocol."
"Rule four?"
"Rule four," she whispered. "Play the puck. No retaliations. No cheap shots. You promised me."
August took off his right glove, dropping it onto the bench. With his bare hand—the knuckles healed now, marked only by the thin, dark lines of the surgical thread she had yet to remove—he reached out and touched the collar of her medical jacket.
His fingertips were warm from the exertion of the skate. He adjusted the zipper, pulling it up an inch higher against the freezing draft coming off the ice sheet, his knuckles lightly grazing the hollow of her throat.
The intimacy of the gesture was so casual, so completely natural, that Kelly didn't even notice from three feet away. But Fallon felt it in the soles of her boots. Her whole body thrummed with the electric, quiet heat that always seemed to exist between them.
