Updated Feb 24, 2026 • ~9 min read
POV: Blair
January brought a new year and new season. Everything was good, great even. Cal was playing phenomenally—leading scorer, MVP candidate, on track for another deep playoff run. Blair was proud, and worried. He was playing too much.
She noticed during video calls. Dark circles under his eyes. Weight loss. Fatigue. “Are you sleeping?” she asked.
“Some. Between games and practice.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I’m fine. Just busy.”
“Cal—”
“Don’t PT me right now. I’m managing.”
He wasn’t. Blair could see it. But he wouldn’t listen.
Mid-January brought a home game against Boston. Blair was watching online. Cal looked exhausted, skating slower, reacting late. Not himself. Second period, he was at the bench, drinking water, catching his breath. Then he stood to jump on for a line change and collapsed.
Blair’s heart stopped. No hit. No contact. Just dropped. Teammates rushed over. Trainers came running from the tunnel. The camera cut away. Blair was on her feet, screaming at the screen. What happened? Is he okay? Please be okay.
Commercial break. Longest three minutes of her life. She was calling his phone—no answer. Texting Nash: What happened?? No response. She was about to drive to Seattle right then when Nash called.
“He’s okay. Collapsed from dehydration and exhaustion. They’re taking him to the hospital. Precautionary.”
“I’m coming.”
“Blair—”
“I’m coming. Text me which hospital.”
She drove through the middle of the night. Four hours. Speeding, crying, terrified. Cal collapsed. Just fell. What if it’s serious? What if it’s his heart? What if— She forced herself to stop. He’s fine. Nash said he’s fine. Dehydration. Exhaustion. Treatable. Fixable. Fine. She repeated it like a mantra.
She arrived at the hospital at 2 AM and found Cal’s room. He was awake, sitting up, IV in his arm, monitor beeping. Looked terrible.
“Blair? What are you doing here?”
“What do you think? You collapsed!”
“I’m fine—”
“Stop saying that! You’re in a hospital!”
She was crying. Full breakdown. All the fear releasing. Cal reached for her. She went to him, careful of the IV, and held him. Felt him breathing. Alive. Safe. Here.
The doctor came in and explained: severe dehydration, exhaustion. “Your body shut down. Forced you to stop.”
“When can I play again?” Cal asked immediately.
“Not for at least a week. You need rest. Fluids. Recovery time.”
“I have a game tomorrow—”
“You’re sitting out. Minimum three games. Non-negotiable.”
Cal argued, but the doctor was firm. Finally Cal agreed, reluctantly.
They discharged him at dawn. Blair drove him home to his apartment, helped him to bed.
“I’m fine. You don’t need to babysit me.”
“You literally collapsed twelve hours ago. I’m babysitting.”
“I have team doctors—”
“And now you have me. Deal with it.”
He was too tired to argue. Asleep in minutes. Blair watched him, this stubborn man working himself to death for hockey, for perfection, for validation. It needed to stop.
She called his team doctor and got the full story. Cal had been playing through illness—a minor flu. Should’ve sat out. Didn’t. Pushed through. Got dehydrated during the game. Body finally said no.
“This is a pattern,” the doctor said. “He doesn’t rest. Doesn’t listen to his body. Eventually it catches up.”
“What do I do?”
“Make him rest. Actually rest. He won’t listen to us. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”
Cal slept fourteen hours. Woke disoriented. “What time is it?”
“Evening. You slept all day.”
“I have practice—”
“You’re benched. Doctor’s orders. Remember?”
He groaned and tried to sit up. Blair stopped him. “Stay in bed. I’ll bring food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re eating anyway. You’ve lost ten pounds.”
“Have not.”
“Have too. I notice these things.”
She made soup. Homemade. From scratch. Cal watched from bed. “You’re going full nurse mode, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. Get comfortable. You’re stuck with me for the week.”
“I have obligations—”
“Which the team will handle. You’re resting.”
“Blair—”
“Non-negotiable. I didn’t drive four hours in the middle of the night to watch you kill yourself.”
Cal was quiet. Finally: “I scared you.”
“Terrified me. Watching you collapse… I thought…” She couldn’t finish. The words stuck. Cal reached for her hand.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how bad it was.”
“You never do. You push until you break. It’s not sustainable.”
“I know. My therapist says the same thing.”
“Then maybe listen. To both of us.”
The week of recovery passed. Blair worked remotely from Seattle, doing video sessions with Vancouver players, taking care of Cal between. He was a terrible patient—restless, bored, irritable.
“I should be at practice.”
“You should be healing.”
“I am healing. Look, I’m fine.” He stood to prove it, wobbled. Blair caught him.
“Super fine. Very convincing.”
“Shut up.”
Day three, he was better. Color returning. Energy improving. They sat on the couch watching film, Cal analyzing plays. “I could’ve done better here.”
“You were dehydrated and dying. Cut yourself slack.”
“I’m supposed to be the best. Best players don’t collapse.”
“Best players take care of their bodies.”
Cal was quiet, processing. “I hate that you saw that. The collapse. Must’ve been scary.”
“It was terrifying. I watched you just drop. No reason. No hit. Just gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Just learn from it. Please.”
“I will. I promise.”
Day five, the doctor cleared Cal for light skating. No contact. Just movement. Cal was thrilled. Finally. Blair went to the rink with him, watched from the box. He was slower, cautious, but happy. This was his home. The ice. She got it now. Hockey isn’t just a job—it’s who he is. But it can’t be everything.
That night, they had a serious conversation. “We need to talk about this. The collapse. The pattern.”
“I know. I’m working on it in therapy.”
“What does your therapist say?”
“That I use hockey to avoid dealing with emotions. That I push my body because I can control that. Unlike feelings.”
“Is that true?”
“Probably. Hockey makes sense. Linear. Work hard, see results. Emotions are messy. Unpredictable.”
“But necessary.”
“I know. I’m trying. It’s hard.”
Blair took his hand. “I know it is. But you can’t keep doing this. Pushing until you break. One day it won’t be dehydration. It’ll be something worse.”
“You think I don’t know that? I’m scared too. Of breaking. Of failing. Of not being enough.”
“You’re already enough. You don’t have to earn worth through hockey.”
Cal was tearing up. “My therapist says that too.”
“Then believe it. You’re enough. Just being you. No hockey necessary.”
“Even if I retire tomorrow?”
“Even then. I love you. Not Cal Montgomery the hockey player. Cal. The person.”
He broke. Full crying. Months of pressure releasing. Blair held him, like he’d held her countless times. This was partnership—supporting each other through the hard stuff.
Later, lying in bed, Cal said: “Thank you. For coming. For staying. For caring enough to force me to rest.”
“That’s what love is. Showing up. Even when it’s hard.”
“I’m going to do better. Listen to my body. Rest when needed. Not just push through everything.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Fair. But I mean it. This scared me too. Collapsing like that. Losing control.”
“Good. Fear can be motivating.”
“Or paralyzing.”
“Not if we face it together.”
Day seven, the doctor fully cleared Cal. Back to normal activities. He was cleared for the next game. Blair was nervous. “You sure you’re ready?”
“Positive. I feel good. Rested. Strongest I’ve felt in weeks.”
“Okay. But promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“If you feel off. Tired. Anything. You sit. No pushing through. No being a hero.”
“I promise. Scout’s honor.”
“You weren’t a scout.”
“Hockey honor then.”
Game day. Blair was in the stands, wearing Cal’s jersey. Nervous but proud. He skated out looking good, strong. Played smart. Not overdoing it. Listening to his body. Two goals. Three assists. Dominant but controlled. Perfect.
Post-game interview, a reporter asked about the collapse. “How are you feeling after last week’s incident?”
“Good. Really good. I learned a valuable lesson about taking care of myself. My girlfriend reminded me that health comes first. Hockey second.”
Public acknowledgment. Blair was in the stands smiling. He learned. Actually learned.
After, they went home. Cal was exhausted but happy. “Good game.”
“Thanks. Felt good. Different.”
“Different how?”
“Usually I’m playing angry. Desperate. Proving something. Tonight I just played. For fun. For love of the game.”
“That’s growth.”
“That’s you. Your influence.”
“I’ll take credit.”
That night, Cal said something new. “I’m retiring after this contract.”
Blair sat up. “What?”
“I’ve been thinking. I have maybe five more good years. Probably less. And I don’t want to spend them destroying my body. Resenting hockey. Missing life.”
“What will you do instead?”
“Coach maybe. Train players. Stay in hockey but differently. Healthier.”
“You’re serious.”
“Completely. This collapse was a wake-up call. Life’s too short. I want to spend it with you. Actually with you. Not just stolen weekends and video calls.”
“We have a plan. January next year—”
“What if we moved it up? To summer?”
Blair’s heart raced. “Summer’s six months away.”
“I know. But we could do it. I could request early termination. Buy out my contract. Move to Vancouver now.”
“Cal, that’s millions of dollars—”
“I don’t care. You’re worth more than money.”
Blair was crying. “You’d really do that? Walk away early?”
“In a heartbeat. If it means we’re together.”
“But hockey—”
“Will still be there. In some form. But you won’t wait forever. I almost lost you twice. I’m not risking a third time.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. So what do you say? Want to move in together? For real? This summer?”
“Yes. Absolutely yes.”
He kissed her, sealing the promise. This was really happening. Together. Soon. Finally.
Next morning, Cal called his agent and started the contract buyout process. It would take months—legal wrangling, negotiations—but it was happening. He was walking away from Seattle, from the Serpents, from this chapter. Toward Blair. Toward their future. Toward life beyond hockey.
Blair could barely believe it. This man giving up millions, ending his career early, for her. For them. It was the most romantic thing ever. And terrifying. What if he resents her? What if he regrets it?
“Stop overthinking,” Cal said. “I see your face. I’m not going to resent you. This is my choice. My decision. You’re not taking anything from me. I’m choosing you. Actively.”
“But hockey’s your life—”
“You’re my life. Hockey’s just what I did. You’re who I am. Big difference.”
She believed him. Had to. Because he was right. They were choosing each other. Finally. Completely. Forever. And it was terrifying. And perfect. And everything.
Reader Reactions