Crossing Lines
The scent of stale coffee and disinfectant clung to the air of the Briar University hockey arena. Harper Reid adjusted the unfamiliar weight of her medical kit, the new Athletic Training staff ID card a stark contrast to the worn jersey she once wore. Three years. Two surgeries. A lifetime ago. The scar on her left knee, a phantom echo of a shattered dream, began to tingle.
“Look who finally made it to the big leagues.” Korra West, her friend and fellow trainer, leaned against the doorway, a wry smile playing on her lips.
Harper grinned back, a practiced, professional mask. “Somebody had to come save your ass.”
Korra snorted. “Please. I’m not the one who has to deal with twenty-five overgrown boys who think they’re invincible.” She pushed off the doorframe, her dark ponytail swinging. “Speaking of which, how weird is it going to be? Working for your dad?”
“About as weird as you’d expect,” Harper replied, her hands already moving to organize her supplies, finding comfort in the familiar rhythm. “But I earned this position. My resume—”
“Your resume is incredible and you know it. That’s not what I meant.” Korra perched on the exam table, watching her. “I meant how weird is it going to be being back here? After everything?”
Harper’s hands stilled on the roll of athletic tape. The scar pulsed, a vivid memory of ice and impact, of dreams fracturing like glass. “I’m fine. That was a long time ago.”
Before Korra could argue, deep, male voices echoed from the corridor, signaling the arrival of the team. Showtime. Harper straightened her shoulders, sliding into professional mode. She could do this. She had to.
Then he walked in. Wes Carter. The golden boy. And their eyes met, an electric current sparking in the pre-dawn quiet of the training room.
