Updated Feb 24, 2026 • ~8 min read
POV: Blair
Week three became week four, and the daily PT sessions continued. Every afternoon, two hours, Blair and Cal alone in the rehabilitation room. Touch was mandatory. Proximity was unavoidable. Chemistry was undeniable. It was torture—beautiful, agonizing torture.
Cal stopped being hostile around day fifteen and started actually trying. He followed protocols, completed full rep counts, and even asked questions about the exercises.
“Why do we do this exercise before that one?”
“Muscle activation sequence. We warm up supporting muscles before stressing the primary joint.”
“That actually makes sense.”
“Most of PT makes sense. When you actually listen.”
“I’m listening now.”
He was. Eyes focused on her. Attention complete. It was unnerving and flattering and dangerous.
His teammates noticed the change. Nash visited during a session and watched Cal work with an expression of genuine surprise. “Wow. Cal’s actually working. Miracles do happen.”
“He’s motivated,” Blair said.
“He’s something.” Nash gave her a knowing look. “And it’s not just about hockey.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you don’t.”
He left before Blair could argue, but he was right. Something was shifting. Cal wasn’t just complying with therapy—he was engaging, connecting, opening up. And Blair was letting him, despite every warning, despite the policy, despite common sense.
Week five, day twenty-eight, Cal hit a milestone: ninety degrees of flexion, double where he started. Enough to climb stairs, get in and out of cars, return to some normalcy. He was ecstatic.
“I did it! Did you see that?”
“I saw. Great work.”
Before Blair could step back, Cal pulled her into a hug. Full body. Tight. Celebrating. For three seconds, she let herself feel it—his strength, his warmth, his joy. Then professionalism kicked in and she stepped back.
“Cal. Boundaries.”
“Right. Sorry. I just—I’m excited.”
“I know. Me too. But we have to be careful.”
“Because of the policy.”
“Exactly.”
He nodded, but his eyes lingered on her, and Blair’s pulse wouldn’t slow down. That hug had felt too good. Too right. Too dangerous.
They were more careful after that, maintaining distance and keeping touch clinical, but it was harder now. Now that they knew how good it felt. Now that the wall was cracking.
Week six brought more changes. Cal made a joke during a session while Blair was demonstrating an exercise. He mimicked her pose badly.
“Like this?”
“That’s terrible. Are you even trying?”
“I’m trying to make you laugh. Is it working?”
She smiled despite herself. “Maybe.”
“Progress. You’re too serious during sessions.”
“Someone has to be.”
“Not all the time. We can have fun while working.”
“Fun doesn’t rebuild ligaments.”
“No. But it makes the torture bearable.”
He was right. The sessions had become less torturous, actually enjoyable sometimes. Which was its own problem, because Blair looked forward to them—to seeing Cal, talking to Cal, being near Cal. Not professional. Not safe. Not smart.
“You’re too cheerful,” Cal observed one day during week seven. Blair was in a particularly good mood.
“Is that a problem?”
“For someone who enjoys causing pain? Yes.”
“I don’t enjoy causing pain. I enjoy healing.”
“Same result. Daily torture.”
“Daily progress. There’s a difference.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“We’re quite a pair.”
The words hung between them. We’re a pair. Not patient and therapist. A pair. Blair’s heart skipped.
“We’re a professional team,” she corrected. “That’s all.”
Cal’s expression shifted to something like disappointment. “Right. Of course. Professional.”
They finished the session in uncomfortable silence.
That night, Nash cornered Blair again. He’d started doing this, checking in, making sure she was okay. She appreciated it. Mostly.
“He likes you. You know that, right?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb. Cal. He likes you. Like, really likes you.”
“That’s inappropriate.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
“It doesn’t matter. The policy—”
“I know about the policy. Everyone knows about the policy. But feelings don’t care about policies.”
Exactly what Sienna had said.
“Nothing’s going to happen. We’re both professionals.”
“You are. But Cal’s not known for following rules. Especially when he wants something.”
“He doesn’t want—”
“He does. I’ve known him for eight years. I’ve seen him with women. This is different. The way he looks at you? That’s not casual. That’s… intense.”
Blair’s stomach flipped. “Even if that’s true—which I’m not agreeing to—it doesn’t matter. I won’t risk my job. He won’t risk his career. So nothing will happen.”
“Famous last words.”
Nash left her with that ominous prediction, and Blair couldn’t shake it. What if he was right? What if something did happen? What then?
Week eight brought remarkable progress. Cal was ahead of schedule, exceeding expectations. Dr. Tobias was impressed. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. He’s recovering faster than any patient I’ve seen.”
Blair knew why. Cal was motivated—not just to play again, but to see her, to work with her, to spend time with her. It was mutual. She was motivated too: to help him, to heal him, to be near him. They were both in trouble.
The sessions grew more charged. Every touch lingered slightly too long. Every glance held slightly too much meaning. They were dancing around something, neither willing to name it, both unable to ignore it.
Week nine, Blair was adjusting Cal’s knee during a stretch, her hands on his thigh, close proximity, focused work. Cal was watching her—not his knee, her.
“You’re staring,” Blair said without looking up.
“You’re beautiful when you concentrate.”
Her hands froze. “Cal—”
“I know. Inappropriate. But it’s true. You get this little crease between your eyebrows. And you bite your bottom lip. It’s distracting.”
“You’re supposed to be focusing on the exercise.”
“I’m focusing on you. Same thing.”
“Not remotely the same thing.”
She stepped back, creating distance, safety. “We can’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Whatever this is. The flirting. The looks. The… chemistry.”
There. She said it. Chemistry. Acknowledged. Named. Real.
Cal sat up. “What if I don’t want to stop?”
“It doesn’t matter what you want. The policy—”
“Screw the policy.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re the star player. They’d never fire you. But me? I’m replaceable. One violation and I’m done.”
“You’re not replaceable. Not to me.”
His voice was low, intense. Blair’s heart raced.
“Cal. Please. Don’t make this harder than it is.”
“What if I want to make it easier? What if we just admitted this thing between us and dealt with it?”
“There’s nothing to admit.”
“Liar.”
“Professional boundaries exist for a reason.”
“So do feelings.”
“Feelings can be ignored.”
“Can they?”
He stood and stepped closer. They were inches apart now, and Blair should have stepped back but couldn’t.
“I think about you constantly,” Cal admitted. “During sessions. After sessions. When I’m home alone. When I’m with the team. You’re always there. In my head. Under my skin. And I know you feel it too.”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“It’s the only thing that matters.”
He was close enough to kiss, close enough that Blair could see the silver flecks in his blue eyes, close enough that she was losing her mind.
“I could lose my job,” she whispered.
“I could lose my career. We’re both risking something. Maybe it’s worth it.”
“Or maybe it’s insanity.”
“Best kind.”
He leaned in. Blair’s breath caught. This was happening—the kiss she’d been dreaming about, the line she’d sworn she’d never cross. His lips were an inch away. Half an inch.
Then the door opened.
Coach Preston walked in. Blair jumped back, guilty and obvious. Cal turned slowly, defiant. Preston looked between them, assessing, suspecting.
“Montgomery. Sutton. How’s the recovery going?”
“Good,” Blair managed. “Great, actually. Ahead of schedule.”
“Glad to hear it. Cal, the team needs you in the locker room. Media availability.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Cal hesitated and looked at Blair. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t. Too much had happened. Almost happened.
“I’ll be there,” Cal said finally.
Preston left, and Cal and Blair were alone again.
“That was close,” Blair said.
“Too close. He suspects.”
“So we stop. Now. Before this destroys everything.”
“Is that what you want?”
No. God, no. But it was what was necessary.
“It’s what has to happen.”
Cal’s jaw tightened. “Fine. Professional only. From now on.”
He left, and Blair sank into a chair, her heart pounding and hands shaking. That almost-kiss. That near-disaster. That was when she knew for certain: she was falling for Cal Montgomery, and it was going to destroy everything.
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