Updated Feb 24, 2026 • ~9 min read
POV: Blair
Playoffs started. First round. Seattle versus Colorado. High stakes. High tension. Cal was playing phenomenally, back to elite level, maybe better. Blair watched every game online. Vancouver was also in playoffs, different bracket. She was busy with her own team. But she always made time for Cal’s games.
Game three. Tied series 1-1. Critical game. Blair was watching from her apartment. Laptop open. Heart racing. Every hit made her nervous. Cal’s knee. Always worried about the knee.
Third period. Score tied 2-2. Cal was on the ice. Defensive zone. Going for the puck in the corner. Then a check. Massive hit from behind. Cal went down hard. Into the boards. Awkward angle. He didn’t get up.
Blair’s stomach dropped. No. No no no. Not again. Please not again. Trainers rushed onto the ice. Surrounding him. Blocking camera view. Blair couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. What happened? Was it the knee? His head? Please be okay. Please.
Commercial break. Three minutes of agony. Blair was texting Nash frantically. What happened? Is he okay? No response. Game was still going. He was probably on the bench. She switched to Twitter. Fans posting updates: Montgomery down. Not moving. Trainers helping him off ice. Looked bad. Fuck not again. Blair was crying. Helpless. Four hours away. Couldn’t do anything.
Game came back. Cal wasn’t on the ice. Announcer: “Montgomery’s in the locker room being evaluated. No word yet on his status.”
Blair called the facility. Got the front desk. “I need information on Cal Montgomery. I’m his—” What was she? Girlfriend sounded trivial. “—I’m family. I need to know he’s okay.”
“I’m sorry, we can’t give out player information—”
“I’m a PT! I know his medical history! Please—”
“I’ll have someone call you back.”
They wouldn’t. She knew they wouldn’t.
Ten minutes later, Nash texted. He’s okay. Bruised ribs. Nothing broken. Getting X-rays to confirm.
Blair collapsed with relief. Okay. He was okay. Not the knee. Not his head. Just ribs. Painful but fixable. She could breathe again.
Cal didn’t call until after the game. Seattle won 3-2 in overtime. Cal didn’t return.
“Hey,” he said. Voice tight with pain.
“How are you?”
“Been better. Three cracked ribs. No breaks. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You have cracked ribs.”
“I’ve played through worse.”
“Cal—”
“I’m okay. Really. Just hurts to breathe. And move. And exist.”
“When can you play again?”
“Doctor says two weeks minimum. Preston wants me back for game six if necessary.”
“That’s five days away!”
“I heal fast.”
“Not that fast. You need rest—”
“I need to help my team win. We’re up 2-1 in the series. If we close it out, I can rest.”
Blair knew that tone. Stubborn. Determined. Stupid. He was going to play hurt. Nothing she said would change his mind.
“I wish I was there,” she said quietly.
“Me too. Could use your magic hands.”
“My magic hands can’t fix cracked ribs.”
“They make everything better. Trust me.”
“I could drive down tomorrow. Help with PT—”
“You have your own playoffs. Can’t abandon your team.”
“They have other PTs. You only have me.”
“Blair—”
“Let me come. Please. I need to see you. Touch you. Make sure you’re really okay.”
Cal was quiet. Then: “Okay. Come. But only if you can spare the time.”
“I’ll make time.”
She drove down the next morning. Told Amanda she had a family emergency. Not technically a lie. Cal was family now. In every way that mattered. Four-hour drive felt like forever. Finally pulled into Seattle. Cal’s apartment building. She had a key now from last visit. Let herself in.
Cal was on the couch. Shirtless. Torso wrapped in bandages. Bruising visible. Dark purple spreading across his ribs. Blair’s heart clenched.
“You said you were fine.”
“I am fine.”
“You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Just a very large hockey player.”
She sat carefully. Didn’t want to hurt him. Examined the bruising.
“This is bad, Cal. You shouldn’t play on this.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“Not when my team needs me.”
Classic Cal. Sacrificing his body for hockey. She knew this about him. Accepted it. Didn’t make it easier.
She stayed for two days. Helped with PT. Gentle stretching. Breathing exercises. Anything to ease the pain. Sleeping carefully. No pressure on his right side. Cal hated being injured. Hated being limited. Took it out on himself.
“I’m useless like this.”
“You’re healing. That’s not useless.”
“I should be practicing.”
“You should be resting.”
“Rest is for after we win.”
Stubborn idiot.
Day three, he was cleared to practice. Limited contact. Just skating. Blair watched from the box. He was in pain. She could see it. Every breath. Every movement. Grimacing behind the tough facade. But he pushed through. Because that’s who he was.
After practice, Preston pulled Blair aside. First time they’d spoken since the firing.
“Ms. Sutton.”
“Coach Preston.”
“Thank you. For coming. For helping with Cal.”
Blair was surprised. “You’re welcome.”
“He’s important to this team. Your work with him… it’s made a difference.”
“He did the work. I just guided.”
“Regardless. We appreciate it.”
This felt like an apology. Sort of. As close as Preston got.
“If you ever want to return to Seattle—”
“I’m happy in Vancouver.”
“Of course. But the offer stands. Should circumstances change.”
“They won’t. But thank you.”
She told Cal later. “Preston apologized. Kind of.”
“He feels guilty. As he should.”
“He offered me my job back.”
Cal’s face lit up. “That’s great!”
“I turned him down.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I like Vancouver. My team. My life. I’m not coming back just because he’s having regrets.”
“But if you came back, we’d be in the same city—”
“For now. Until you get traded. Then what? I uproot again? We’re trapped in Seattle under Preston’s thumb?”
Cal deflated. “You’re right. It’s not a solution.”
“The solution is your trade. To Vancouver. Like we planned.”
“And if that doesn’t happen?”
“Then you retire. Move to me. Like you promised.”
“I did promise, didn’t I?”
“You did. And I’m holding you to it.”
Game four. Cal insisted on playing. Doctor cleared him. Reluctantly. Ribs taped. Pain meds on board. Blair watched from Preston’s box. Special invitation. Courtesy of the apology. Every hit made her flinch. Every collision near Cal made her hold her breath. He was in pain. Obviously. But playing through it.
Second period. Cal took another hit. Same side. Same ribs. Went down. Slow to rise. Blair was on her feet. Ready to run down there. Preston stopped her.
“He’s okay. He’ll shake it off.”
“He’s hurt—”
“He’s Cal Montgomery. He plays hurt. Always has.”
Not comforting.
Cal stayed in the game. Scored the game-winner. Third period. Power play goal. Arena erupted. Seattle won 4-2. Series lead 3-1. One more win and they advanced.
Post-game, Cal was limping. Trying to hide it. Failing. Blair confronted him in the hallway.
“You’re making it worse.”
“We won.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m fine.”
“Stop saying that! You’re not fine! You’re hurt and playing anyway and it’s going to cause permanent damage!”
“I’ve had worse—”
“I don’t care! I care about you! And watching you destroy your body is killing me!”
She was crying. Full breakdown. All the fear from the past days exploding. Cal pulled her close. Carefully. Favoring the ribs.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was affecting you this much.”
“Of course it is! I love you! Watching you get hurt—watching you STAY hurt—it’s torture!”
“I’ll be more careful—”
“No you won’t. You’ll play until your body gives out. Because that’s who you are.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It is when I have to watch it happen.”
They were quiet. Blair calming down. Cal thinking.
Finally: “What do you want me to do?”
“Sit out game five. Let your ribs heal properly.”
“We’re one win away from advancing—”
“And you have teammates. Let them close it out.”
“Blair—”
“Please. For me. Sit one game. Heal. Then come back stronger.”
He didn’t want to. She could see it. But he nodded.
“Okay. I’ll talk to Preston. Request sitting out game five.”
“Really?”
“Really. You’re right. I need to heal. And you need peace of mind.”
Blair kissed him. Carefully. Mindful of his ribs. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Preston might say no.”
Preston said yes. Surprisingly.
“Take game five off. We’ll close it out without you. Be ready for round two.”
Cal was relieved. And restless. Hated sitting out. But did it. For Blair.
Game five, Seattle won 5-3. Series over. Advancing to round two. Cal watched from the press box. Blair beside him.
“See? They won without you.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
“I should’ve been out there.”
“You should’ve been healing. Which you are. Which is why you’ll be ready for round two.”
He took her hand. “Thank you. For making me sit.”
“You needed rest.”
“I needed you. Same thing.”
That night, Blair drove back to Vancouver. Cal’s ribs were healing. Team was advancing. Everything was good. But the scare changed something. Made Blair realize how fragile this was. Cal’s career. His body. Their time. None of it guaranteed. She needed to appreciate every moment. Stop taking it for granted.
Cal texted when she got home. Made it safe?
Yes. How are the ribs?
Better. Doctor says I should be full contact by round two.
That’s good. I’m glad you sat out.
Me too. Gave me time to think.
About?
About what you said. About playing until my body gives out. You’re right. I’ve been reckless.
Cal—
No, really. I’ve treated my body like it’s expendable. Like hockey’s more important than health. Than you. It’s not. I’m going to be smarter. More careful. I promise.
Thank you.
Thank you. For caring enough to call me on it.
Always.
Blair went to bed reassured. Cal was okay. Healing. Being smart. The scare was over. But it reminded her. Life was fragile. Time was precious. They needed to stop wasting it on distance. On waiting. On someday. Someday needed to be soon. Really soon.
She texted him one more thing. I love you. The forever kind.
His response was immediate. I love you too. The marry-you-kind. Soon. I promise.
Blair smiled. Fell asleep happy. Scared. But happy. This injury scare reminded her what mattered. Not hockey. Not careers. Not distance. Just Cal. Healthy. Happy. Hers. Everything else was details.
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