At six the next morning, Blackridge’s sports medicine room smelled like disinfectant, coffee, and bad decisions.

Jace arrived three minutes late.

I knew because I was watching the clock.

He came through the double doors in gray sweatpants and a black training shirt, his left arm held close to his ribs. The bruising had spread overnight. Even through the shirt, I could see how carefully he moved.

He looked around the room.

“Where’s Lauren?”

“Not here.”

His attention landed on me.

I held up his chart.

“She set the protocol. I run the morning session. Shirt off. Face down.”

Jace stayed by the door.

“I just need tape.”

“No.”

“I have a lift at seven.”

“You have a rehab appointment at six.”

His eyes narrowed.

I pointed to the table.

“If you skip the session, I document it. Lauren sees the note. Coach sees the note. Then they decide whether you dress Friday.”

“You enjoy this way too much.”

“I enjoy being right.”

That almost made him smile.

Almost.

He caught the hem of his shirt with his good hand and pulled it over his head. The movement dragged across his injured side, and he sucked in a breath.

The bruise along his collarbone was ugly. Purple and blue, with a swollen ridge over the AC joint.

I pointed again.

“Table.”

He climbed up and lay on his stomach.

“Pain level?”

“Three.”

I set the clipboard down.

“Try again.”

“Three.”

I pressed one thumb into the tight muscle beside his shoulder blade.

His entire body locked.

A hiss escaped him.

His right hand grabbed the edge of the table.

“Six?” I asked.

He turned his head enough to glare at me.

“You did that on purpose.”

“I needed an honest answer.”

“You could ask like a normal person.”

“I did.”

He muttered something I chose not to hear.

I worked along the muscle carefully, checking where the tension started and where it referred pain into the joint. Jace had torn through rehab too quickly the year before. The joint itself had healed. The support around it had not.

“You rushed this last season,” I said.

“I played the tournament.”

“You won the tournament and kept a weak shoulder.”

“We still won.”

“And now one clean hit put you on the ice.”

He started to push himself up.

I put a hand between his shoulder blades.

“Stay down.”

“Don’t order me around.”

“Lauren’s restriction stands. No contact drills. No upper-body lifting. If you ignore it, I write it down.”

Jace went still beneath my palm.

Not because he had decided to cooperate.

Because I was touching him.

The change was immediate.

The tension in his back eased. His breathing slowed. A quiet rumble vibrated through his chest, more content than threatening.

Then came the scent.

Pine. Frost. Clean winter air.

His wolf settled under my hands as if it had been waiting all night for me to show up.

My own wolf answered with a warm, embarrassing pull low in my chest.

I ignored both of them.

“Relax your right shoulder too,” I said.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re gripping the table like you want to tear it off the floor.”

He loosened his hand.

“Better?”

“Marginally.”

The clinic door opened.

“There you are.”

Madison Vale walked in carrying two iced coffees.

Of course she did.

At six-thirty in the morning, her blonde hair was smooth, her sweater probably cost more than my monthly food budget, and she looked as if she had been awake for hours preparing to be photographed.

She did not ask whether she could enter the treatment area.

She walked straight to Jace’s table.

His muscles tightened under my hands.

Madison set one coffee on the rolling tray, directly over the corner of his chart.

“You left your phone in my car.”

She held it up.

Jace lifted his head.

“Thanks.”

“Your mother moved dinner to seven. She wants us at the estate early because the alumni gala list still isn’t final.”

Us.

Not you.

Us.

Madison picked up Jace’s discarded shirt and folded it over one arm without hesitation. Then she touched his good shoulder with the casual familiarity of someone who had done it a thousand times.

I took my hands off him.

Jace’s scent sharpened at once.

His wolf noticed the loss.

He did too.

He glanced at me.

I stepped back and reached for the chart.

Something in me settled as I watched Madison stand beside him.

She was not a random girl I needed to compete with.

She was part of a plan.

She knew his schedule. Had his phone. Ate dinner with his parents. Helped his mother organize pack events. She fit into the Callahan future like a piece of furniture chosen years ago.

I had no interest in fighting her for the privilege of joining that house.

Especially not for a boy who had denied me in front of the entire school less than twenty-four hours ago.

I finished the note, tore off the printed schedule, and held it toward Jace.

“Six every morning. Five every afternoon.”

He sat up slowly.

“Every day?”

“Unless Lauren changes it.”

Madison looked between us.

I kept my voice calm.

“And so we are clear: in this room, you are an athlete. I am a student trainer working under Lauren’s plan. That is the only relationship we have.”

Jace reached for the paper.

His fingers brushed mine.

A jolt went straight up my arm.

The bond tightened.

I let go.

He did not.

His hand closed over the edge of the sheet, keeping it between us.

“And outside this room?” he asked.

Madison stopped moving.

So did I.

Jace’s eyes stayed on mine.

The question was quiet.

The room was not.

His wolf was listening.

Madison was listening.

And for one reckless second, I wanted to know what answer he thought he had earned.

Then I pulled the schedule out of his hand.

“Outside this room,” I said, “you’re the guy who said there was no bond.”

I set the paper on his knee.

“Start with living up to your own announcement.”

By six that evening, Jace had complained about the resistance bands, the ice pack, my taping technique, and the fact that Lauren had banned him from contact practice.

I survived all of it.

Then I escaped to the rink.

My last assignment of the day was a sophomore winger coming back from a knee sprain. Lauren wanted me to watch his lower-body mechanics while he worked slow turns around the face-off circles.

I stood behind the open bench gate in sneakers and called corrections over the scrape of his blades.

“Lower your hips. Don’t let the knee collapse inward.”

He tried again.

Better.

I marked the change on my tablet.

Something bumped the toe of my shoe.

A pair of black hockey skates sat on the rubber mat.

I looked up.

Jace leaned against the boards in his team jacket, his injured arm tucked close to his body.

“You spend a lot of time yelling about edge control for someone who never gets on the ice.”

“I’m observing mechanics.”

“From land.”

“That’s where the medical equipment is.”

His mouth twitched.

“You can’t skate.”

It was not a question.

I looked at the skates.

Then at him.

“I can skate.”

“Prove it.”

The sophomore finished his last lap and headed for the locker room, pretending very hard not to listen.

I should have walked away.

Instead, I sat on the bench and changed shoes.

Jace watched without saying a word.

The skates were close enough to my size to be dangerous.

I tightened the laces, stood, and immediately regretted every decision that had brought me here.

“You’re smiling,” I said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Get on the ice, Parker.”

I opened the gate.

My right blade touched first.

My ankle wobbled.

My left foot followed and shot forward.

I grabbed for the boards.

Jace caught my waist from the rubber side of the gate before I could go down.

His good arm locked around me.

Heat pressed along my back.

Pine and winter frost rose between us.

My wolf went very still.

“Easy,” he said near my ear. “Bend your knees.”

“I know how knees work.”

“Your current performance suggests otherwise.”

I elbowed him lightly in the ribs.

He laughed.

It surprised me enough that I turned my head.

Without the audience, without his parents, without Madison, Jace looked younger. Less like the future Alpha everyone discussed and more like an eighteen-year-old boy enjoying the fact that I was terrible at something.

“Let go,” I said.

“You’ll fall.”

“Maybe I’d rather fall.”

His expression changed.

Not offended.

Thinking.

Then he released me.

I lasted three seconds.

My skates went in opposite directions, and I landed hard on my butt.

Pain shot up my spine.

Jace laughed so loudly it echoed off the empty seats.

I glared at him.

That made him laugh harder.

“You are a terrible person.”

“You told me to let go.”

“I did not tell gravity to humiliate me.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

For a minute, the last two days disappeared.

There was no mate ceremony. No family hierarchy. No Madison. No public rejection.

Just me on the ice and Jace grinning from the gate.

I pushed myself to my knees.

“Any useful advice, Captain?”

“Use the boards until you find your balance. Short pushes. Don’t try to walk.”

I followed the boards and tried again.

Jace stayed at the gate and coached instead of touching me.

"Push out, not back. Small stride. Let the blade glide."

"You know I spend all day telling athletes not to listen to injured captains, right?"

"Then consider this peer education."

I made it halfway to the face-off circle before panic tightened my knees.

"Don’t look at your feet," he called.

"They’re the part trying to kill me."

"Look where you want to go."

I lifted my head.

He was still there, one hand on the gate, not moving toward me even though the bond tugged when I got farther away.

That detail lodged somewhere inconvenient in my chest.

This time, I made it ten feet.

Then fifteen.

On the return, my left skate caught an edge.

I tipped forward.

Jace reached through the open gate and caught my forearm before my knees hit the ice.

His grip was firm.

The bond sparked between us.

I looked at his hand.

He did too.

Then, as soon as I had my balance, he let go.

No joke.

No excuse to keep touching me.

No Alpha grip around my waist.

Just space.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it.”

The small act unsettled me more than flirting would have.

He had listened.

We left the rink together a few minutes later. I carried the borrowed skates by the laces while Jace held the door with his good arm.

The lobby lights were brighter than the ice.

So was reality.

“Jace, sweetheart.”

Claire Callahan stood beside the trophy cases in a cream cashmere coat.

Madison was with her.

Jace stopped.

The easy posture he had worn at the rink vanished.

“Mom.”

Claire’s gaze passed over me without pausing.

“We came to see how the shoulder is doing. Your father wants an update before dinner.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ll be better if you follow the schedule.” Madison stepped to his good side and rested a hand at his waist. “Claire and I were talking about playoff seating. My parents want the family boxes together.”

“It presents a unified front,” Claire said. “Especially with scouts attending.”

I stood two feet away holding skates.

Jace looked at me.

For one second, I thought he might say something.

This is Ivy.

She’s my mate.

She’s the reason my wolf didn’t tear apart the locker room.

Anything.

He said nothing.

Madison’s hand stayed on him.

Claire kept talking about seating charts.

The laugh we had shared on the ice suddenly felt stupid.

Private Jace could be warm. Funny. Careful.

Public Jace still disappeared inside his family’s expectations.

I stepped forward and pushed the skates against his chest. He caught them awkwardly with his right hand.

“Your skates, Callahan.”

His eyes darkened.

“Have a good night.”

I walked toward the doors.

“Ivy.”

My hand stopped on the metal handle.

Not Parker.

Ivy.

Behind me, Claire went silent.

So did Madison.

I could have turned around.

I didn’t.

He did not get to use my first name like a secret while pretending not to know what I was in the light.

I pushed the door open and walked into the cold.

A week later, Blackridge won another home game and Jace came off the ice with his shoulder angry again.

Not reinjured.

Angry.

There was a difference, and Lauren had made me learn it.

The locker room celebration thudded through the wall while Jace sat alone on the treatment table in athletic pants, shirtless, his hair still damp with melted ice and sweat.

I cut three strips of kinesiology tape.

“You took three hard hits on that side in the third period.”

“It’s hockey.”

“It’s also your left AC joint.”

“I noticed.”

“Did you? Because you kept volunteering it to people twice your size.”

“They’re not twice my size.”

“Your medical argument is devastating.”

He gave me a tired look.

The swelling was mild compared with the opener, but the muscle around the joint had tightened. Wolves healed quickly; his range of motion had improved every day. The problem was that Jace treated fast healing as permission to be reckless.

I stepped closer.

“I’m going to anchor across the chest and shoulder blade. Sit straight.”

He did.

The angle was awkward from the side.

I moved between his knees to reach the front anchor point.

Jace went quiet.

So did I.

My fingers pressed the first strip against his upper chest.

His skin was warm.

The bond stirred.

Pine and winter frost slid into the room, softer than it had been during the injury. Not a blast. A pull.

I kept my eyes on the tape.

“Don’t move.”

“I’m not moving.”

“You’re breathing.”

“I’ll work on that.”

I almost smiled.

Almost.

I guided the tape over the joint with careful tension, then around the back of his shoulder.

His hand flexed beside his thigh.

“Do you hate me?” he asked.

My fingers stopped.

“No.”

“That was fast.”

“I’m working.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

I smoothed the tape down.

“You stood in a courtyard and denied me in front of the entire school.”

“I know.”

“You let your mother talk about Madison like she was already part of your future while I stood three feet away.”

His jaw tightened.

“I know.”

I reached for the second strip.

“Then why ask?”

“Because you don’t act like you hate me.”

I looked at him.

That was the problem.

If I hated him, this would be easy.

I could ignore the way his wolf settled for me. I could forget how he had let go on the ice the second I had my balance. I could dismiss the quiet version of him who appeared whenever nobody important was watching.

“I’m trying to,” I admitted.

Jace’s eyes dropped to my mouth.

“How’s that going?”

“Poorly.”

His hands moved to my waist.

The contact hit through my shirt like a spark.

My wolf surged forward.

For one dangerous second, I stayed there.

His thumbs rested just above my hips. He did not yank me closer, but the invitation was obvious.

So was the privacy.

A closed treatment room.

No parents.

No scouts.

No Madison.

I caught both his wrists.

Jace tensed.

I removed his hands from my waist and placed them on the edge of the table.

“You don’t get private privileges after a public denial.”

He went very still.

The words landed harder than I expected.

He looked at his hands, then at me.

“Ivy—”

“No.”

I stepped out from between his knees.

“You don’t get to decide I’m real only when the door is shut.”

His throat worked.

For once, he had no argument ready.

“I understand,” he said.

I did not trust the answer.

But I finished the tape.

When I stepped back, Jace rolled the shoulder once and stopped when I gave him a look.

“What?”

“You’re testing it.”

“I’m checking it.”

“That is what the post-game exam is for.”

He lowered his arm.

“I came off for two shifts tonight,” he said.

I looked up.

“Coach wanted me back out. I told him no until the ache settled.”

That was new. Jace usually treated pain as an insult to be defeated in public.

“Lauren will be thrilled you discovered self-preservation.”

“You told me one game wasn’t worth the next ten years of my shoulder.”

“I say a lot of brilliant things.”

His mouth curved.

“Apparently.”

The smile lasted only a second, but the exchange mattered. He had listened to something I said when I wasn’t touching him, threatening to report him, or standing between him and a game.

That was harder to dismiss than the bond.

I wrote the reduced pain score on his chart and circled the note for Lauren. The numbers mattered because they gave me something objective to hold on to. Jace could charm, argue, or make my wolf forget its own name, but a shoulder either improved or it did not.

Trust should work the same way, I decided. Not promises. Not chemistry. Evidence.

A minute later, footsteps thundered down the hallway.

“Callahan!” someone shouted. “Coach wants the press photo. You alive in there?”

Three of his linemates burst through the door before I could answer.

Jace had already moved.

He pulled on his shirt and sat on the bench across the room, leaving a clear, professional distance between us before anyone entered.

“There he is,” one of the defensemen said. “Golden boy lives.”

“Give me a minute,” Jace replied. “Parker just finished the tape.”

Nobody looked twice at us.

That was the point.

Jace had not scrambled away because he was ashamed to be caught near me.

He had moved because I had asked him not to blur the line.

His teammates started arguing about a missed call in the second period.

Jace stood and joined them.

Before he left, he looked back at me.

No secret smile.

No loaded comment.

Just a brief nod.

I returned it.

One decent choice did not erase the courtyard.

It did not repair trust.

But it was the first time Jace had respected a boundary without making me fight him for it.

That should not have mattered as much as it did.