Updated Feb 24, 2026 • ~10 min read
POV: Blair
Cal’s surgery took four hours, and Blair spent all of them in the surgical waiting room. She told herself it was professional concern—she was his PT, she needed to understand the full scope of the repair—but really, she was worried about a man she barely knew, a patient who was going to be her entire world for the next year.
Dr. Tobias emerged at 11:30 AM, still in scrubs and looking exhausted. “It went well,” he said. “Better than expected, actually. Full ACL reconstruction using patellar tendon graft. Repaired the MCL. Cleaned up the meniscus. No additional damage discovered.”
Blair exhaled with relief. “Timeline?”
“Still nine to twelve months. But if anyone can beat that, it’s Cal. He’s young, fit, motivated. With proper PT…” He looked at Blair meaningfully.
“I’ll get him there.”
“I believe you. But Blair? He’s not going to make this easy. The psych consult this morning flagged moderate depression, anger issues. He’s grieving his career.”
“I can handle it.”
“You’ll need to. Because Coach Preston is putting everything on this. Cal’s recovery determines the team’s future. That’s a lot of pressure for a first assignment.”
Don’t remind her, Blair thought.
She found Cal in recovery, still groggy from anesthesia. His knee was heavily bandaged with an ice machine attached and a pain pump running. He looked young like this, vulnerable—not the cocky franchise player, just a scared guy with a destroyed knee.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Surgery went great. Dr. Patel is optimistic.”
Cal’s eyes fluttered open. “Blair?”
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“Hurts.”
“I know. Pain meds will kick in soon.”
He reached for her hand, instinctive, seeking comfort, and Blair took it without thinking. His hand was large and calloused, warm despite the anesthesia. She told herself it was just patient care, but her heart rate picked up anyway. Professional distance, Blair, she reminded herself.
Cal fell back asleep, and Blair sat with him for another hour, watching monitors and checking vitals. It wasn’t her job—nurses handled this—but she couldn’t seem to leave. Finally, one of the nurses, Jennifer according to her badge, gently suggested Blair go home. “He’ll be out for hours. We’ll call if anything changes.”
“Right. Of course. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“You’re dedicated. He’s lucky to have you.”
Blair hoped that was true.
Back at the Serpents facility, there was a mandatory staff meeting for all new hires, orientation day two. Blair had missed most of it dealing with Cal’s surgery, and Coach Preston didn’t look pleased when she arrived.
“Ms. Sutton. Nice of you to join us.”
“I was at the hospital. Cal’s surgery—”
“Is not your responsibility until he’s cleared for PT, which won’t be for another week. Your responsibility is being here, learning protocols, understanding expectations.”
“Yes, Coach. I apologize.”
She took a seat and Preston continued the meeting. Halfway through, he got to a section that made Blair’s blood run cold.
“Now, the fraternization policy. This is non-negotiable. Zero tolerance.” He clicked to a PowerPoint slide that read: TEAM POLICY: NO ROMANTIC OR SEXUAL RELATIONSHIPS BETWEEN STAFF AND PLAYERS. “Last season,” Preston continued, his voice hard, “a trainer had an affair with a player. It destroyed team chemistry. Caused locker room division. Cost us a playoff spot. That will NOT happen again.”
He looked around the room. “Any relationship between staff and players results in immediate termination for the staff member. The player faces suspension or trade. We don’t care if it’s true love. We don’t care if it’s consensual. It’s forbidden. Period.”
Blair’s stomach twisted. Why was she even thinking about this? She had just met Cal. He was her patient. Nothing more. But the way her heart raced when he held her hand… No. Professional. That’s all this was.
“Questions?” Preston asked, and no one spoke. “Good. Sign the acknowledgment form on your way out. You’ve been warned.”
Blair signed the form. Binding agreement. Fraternization strictly prohibited. Her dream job depended on following this rule. Cal’s career depended on her focusing on rehabilitation. Nothing else could happen. Nothing would happen. She was professional. Always had been.
That night, she told Sienna about the policy. “So basically, don’t sleep with the players.”
“Don’t even think about sleeping with the players. It’s a fireable offense.”
“Seems extreme.”
“Apparently last year was bad. Coach is paranoid.”
“Is this about Cal?”
“What? No. Why would it be about Cal?”
Sienna gave her a look. “Because you’ve talked about him nonstop since the injury. You sat through his four-hour surgery. You held his hand in recovery.”
“That’s professional concern.”
“Uh huh.”
“It is! He’s my patient. My responsibility. The franchise’s entire future depends on his recovery. Of course I’m invested.”
“Keep telling yourself that. I’m just saying, be careful. He’s not just a patient. He’s a person. And from what I’ve heard, a very attractive person.”
Blair had seen pictures—Instagram posts, sports media coverage. Cal Montgomery was objectively gorgeous: six-foot-two, athletic build, dark hair, ice-blue eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass. But that was irrelevant.
“I don’t care what he looks like. I care about fixing his knee.”
“Sure. But just remember the policy. Forbidden for a reason.”
Blair remembered. Signed the form. Made the promise. No fraternization. No matter what.
Day three post-surgery, Blair visited Cal at the hospital. He was awake, alert, and angry. “Finally. I’ve been calling for PT for two days.”
“You weren’t cleared for PT yet. Still healing from surgery.”
“I don’t care. I need to start moving. Sitting here is driving me insane.”
“Rushing recovery causes reinjury. Trust the process.”
“Easy for you to say. It’s not your career on the line.”
Blair pulled up a chair. “You’re right. It’s not. But my job is on the line. Coach Preston made it very clear. Your recovery determines my success. So we’re in this together, whether you like it or not.”
Cal’s anger deflated slightly. “Preston’s putting that on you? That’s not fair.”
“Professional sports aren’t fair. But I knew that when I took the job.”
“Still. You shouldn’t have to carry that.”
“We both carry it. That’s how this works. Partnership. You do the work. I guide the process. We get you back on the ice. Together.”
He studied her. “You really think we can do this?”
“I don’t think. I know. But it requires you trusting me. Can you do that?”
There was a long pause before Cal answered. “I’ve never been good at trust.”
“Start practicing. Because this won’t work otherwise.”
Another pause, then: “Okay. I’ll trust you. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t.” She hoped that was true.
Day five post-surgery, Cal was discharged from the hospital. The team had arranged recovery housing—a condo downtown with accessibility modifications—and Blair helped coordinate the transfer. It wasn’t her job, but Cal’s regular assistant had quit last week and no one else was available, so she was doing it: making sure medications were organized, equipment delivered, home health aide scheduled.
Cal was quiet during the drive, staring out the window. “You okay?” Blair asked.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Whether I’ll ever play again. Whether this is all for nothing. Whether I should just retire now and save everyone the trouble.”
“Cal—”
“Don’t. Don’t give me the motivational speech. I’ve heard it from the doctors, from Preston, from my teammates. I’m tired of hollow promises.”
Blair pulled the car over and turned to face him. “I’m not going to lie to you. Recovery will be brutal. You might not make it back to your previous level. The statistics aren’t encouraging. But you know what? Statistics are just numbers. They don’t account for determination, for discipline, for people who refuse to quit. And I don’t think you’re someone who quits.”
Cal’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know me.”
“I’m getting to know you. And what I see is someone who’s scared. But scared doesn’t mean weak. It means you care. And that’s what will get you through this.”
He was quiet, then asked, “Has anyone ever told you you’re annoyingly optimistic?”
“Daily.”
“It’s exhausting.”
“Get used to it. You’re stuck with me for the next year.”
He almost smiled. Almost. Progress.
They got him settled in the condo—second floor, elevator access, modified bathroom, everything he needed. The home health aide, Carl, a retired marine with a no-nonsense attitude, took over. “I’ve got it from here,” he told Blair. “You look exhausted. Go home.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’ve been here for six hours. You’re not his keeper. Go home. Rest. He’ll still be here tomorrow.”
Cal was already asleep on the couch, pain meds having knocked him out. Blair left reluctantly. Carl was right. She wasn’t his keeper. She was his PT. There was a difference, and she needed to remember that.
Week one post-surgery, Blair started formal PT sessions. The team facility had a private rehabilitation room with state-of-the-art equipment, everything she needed. Cal’s first session was basic: range of motion exercises, gentle flexion, no weight bearing yet. He hated every second.
“This is pointless. A five-year-old could do this.”
“You’re rebuilding from scratch. We start slow.”
“I don’t do slow.”
“You do now. Unless you want to reinjure and start over.”
He glared, but he did the exercises, complaining the entire time. Blair hid her smile. Complaining meant engagement. Engagement meant healing. She’d take it.
The second session, he was worse—more hostile, more resistant. “I don’t see the point of this. My knee’s still swollen. I can barely move it.”
“That’s why we’re doing this. Movement reduces swelling.”
“Bullshit.”
“Medical fact. But feel free to ignore decades of research.”
He did three reps and stopped. “I’m done.”
“You’re scheduled for thirty reps.”
“I said I’m done.”
They were at an impasse. Blair considered pushing, but his face was pale and sweating, pain levels clearly high. “Okay. We’ll stop for today. But tomorrow, we’re doing the full set.”
“We’ll see.”
She was starting to understand why Cal had gone through three PTs already. He was impossible.
That night, Nash Calloway showed up at her office. Six-foot-one, athletic, with a friendly smile—the complete opposite of Cal. “Hey. You’re Blair, right?”
“That’s me.”
“Nash. I texted you last week. Cal’s best friend and teammate.”
“I remember.”
He sat down uninvited. “How’s it going with Cal? Honestly.”
“Honestly? He’s the most difficult patient I’ve ever had.”
Nash laughed. “Yeah. That tracks. He doesn’t like being vulnerable. Doesn’t like needing help. This injury is killing him psychologically.”
“I noticed.”
“But he needs you. Even if he won’t admit it. Please don’t quit on him.”
“I don’t quit.”
“Good. Because the last three PTs did. Couldn’t handle his attitude. But I think you’re different.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re still here.”
Fair point. “I care about him,” Blair admitted. “As a patient. As a person. I want him to recover.”
“Be careful with that.”
“With what?”
“Caring. Cal’s… complicated. He pushes people away. Especially people who care. It’s a defense mechanism. Don’t take it personally.”
“I won’t.”
But Nash’s warning stuck with her. Don’t care too much. Keep professional distance. Remember the fraternization policy. This was a job, not a relationship. Cal was a patient, not a friend, and definitely not anything more.
She repeated it to herself all week: professional, distant, clinical. But it was hard when Cal looked at her with those blue eyes, when he trusted her with his pain, when he showed her glimpses of the person beneath the anger. It was getting complicated, and Blair had no idea how to uncomplicate it without breaking the rules—or her own heart.
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