Updated Feb 24, 2026 • ~7 min read
POV: Blair
Week fourteen brought intensified skating for Cal: full laps, power drills, edge work. No contact yet, but soon. His physical progress was perfect. His mental progress was less so.
Blair noticed the shift. Cal was quieter during sessions, going through the motions but distant, like his mind was elsewhere. She didn’t push—everyone processed recovery differently—but she was worried.
On Thursday afternoon, a particularly brutal PT session revealed the problem. Cal was pushing too hard, overcompensating. Blair could see it in his form.
“Slow down. You’re favoring the good leg.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re compensating. That causes new injuries.”
“I said I’m fine.”
He wasn’t fine. Blair stopped the exercise.
“Take a break. Sit.”
“I don’t need a break—”
“Sit. Now.”
He did, jaw tight, frustration radiating. Blair sat beside him.
“Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Cal.”
“I said nothing!”
He stood abruptly and paced, agitated. Blair waited, knowing he’d talk when ready, that he couldn’t be forced.
Finally: “What if I never get back?”
“Back where?”
“To where I was. Before. Elite level. Franchise player. What if I’m just… mediocre now?”
“You won’t be.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you. So why assume the worst?”
“Because that’s reality. ACL tears change players. Everyone says they’ll come back stronger. They don’t. They come back different. Slower. Less explosive. Less effective.”
“Sometimes. Not always.”
“Enough to worry.”
He sat again, head in hands, defeated. “I’ve been dreaming about it. Nightmares. I’m on the ice, going for a breakaway, then my knee gives out. Just collapses. And I’m done. Career over. Everything gone.”
“That won’t happen.”
“It might. The statistics—”
“Screw the statistics. You’re not a statistic. You’re Cal Montgomery. Most determined person I know. If anyone can beat the odds, it’s you.”
“What if determination isn’t enough?”
“Then we adapt. Find new strategies. New techniques. But giving up before trying? That’s not you.”
“Maybe it should be. Maybe I should retire now. Save myself the humiliation.”
Blair’s heart clenched. This was depression talking. The injury had broken more than his knee.
“Cal. Look at me.”
He did. Eyes red. Face pale. Clearly suffering.
“You’re catastrophizing. Creating worst-case scenarios that haven’t happened. Might never happen. That’s your fear talking. Not reality.”
“Fear feels pretty real.”
“It is real. But it’s not fact. Fear is your brain trying to protect you. But sometimes protection looks like sabotage. You’re sabotaging yourself before anyone else can.”
“That’s a lot of psychology for a PT.”
“I care about your whole recovery. Body and mind. And right now, your mind needs work.”
“How do I fix it?”
“Therapy. The talking kind. Not the physical kind.”
“I don’t need a shrink.”
“Everyone needs therapy sometimes. Especially after trauma. And this injury was traumatic. You almost lost everything. That leaves scars. Mental ones.”
Cal was quiet, processing. “Will you come with me? To therapy?”
“If you want. But it’s your work to do. I can support, but I can’t fix this for you.”
“You fix everything.”
“Not this. This is internal. You have to do it.”
The dam broke. Cal started crying—not quiet tears but full sobs. Blair had never seen him like this, completely undone, vulnerable, raw. She pulled him close and held him while he broke.
“I’m so scared,” he choked out. “All the time. Terrified I’ll never play again. That I’m wasting your time. The team’s time. Everyone’s time.”
“You’re not wasting anything.”
“What if I can’t do it? What if my knee’s not strong enough? What if I’m not strong enough?”
“You are. I promise you are.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can. Because I know you. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. Not physically. Mentally. You’ve survived this long. Done the work. Pushed through pain. That’s strength. Real strength.”
He clung to her like she was the only thing keeping him together. Maybe she was.
They stayed like that for minutes—Blair holding him, Cal crying. Finally, he calmed, pulled back, wiped his face.
“Sorry. That was—”
“Human. Normal. Healthy even. You needed to release that.”
“I feel like an idiot.”
“You’re not. You’re brave. It takes courage to cry. To admit you’re scared. To ask for help.”
“I’ve never done that before. Asked for help.”
“I know. But you did today. That’s progress.”
He smiled weakly. “You really think I can do this?”
“I know you can. But more importantly, you have to believe it. That’s the work.”
They sat in silence, Cal’s breathing steadying, color returning. Healing. Slowly.
Finally: “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Not judging. Not running. Not making me feel weak.”
“You’re not weak. You’re healing. There’s a difference.”
“I love you. You know that?”
“I know. I love you too.”
He kissed her, soft, grateful, tender. Not passionate. Emotional. Blair kissed him back, pouring reassurance into the contact. You’re okay. We’re okay. Everything’s okay.
The moment shifted from comfort to need. Cal deepened the kiss, and Blair responded. They were in the PT room where anyone could walk in, but right now, neither cared. Months of tension, weeks of hiding, all breaking down. Cal’s hands in her hair, her hands on his chest, kissing like they were drowning, like each other was oxygen.
They broke apart, breathing hard, foreheads together.
“We should stop,” Blair whispered.
“Probably.”
Neither moved.
“Anyone could see.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“I don’t. Not anymore. I want the world to know. That you’re mine. That I’m yours. That we’re together.”
“Preston—”
“Can fire me. Trade me. I don’t care. You’re more important than hockey.”
“Don’t say that—”
“It’s true. I spent my whole life believing hockey was everything. But you’re everything. Hockey’s just what I do. You’re who I am.”
Blair was crying now. Happy tears. Overwhelmed tears.
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“It’s the truth.”
He kissed her again, and Blair let herself believe. That this might work. That love might be enough. That they might actually survive this.
They didn’t have sex—not here, not yet—but the almost was electric. Charged. Promising. Soon. When it was safe. When they could take their time. When the world wasn’t threatening to tear them apart.
When the session ended, they cleaned up and acted professional. Anyone watching would see patient and therapist. Colleagues. Not lovers clinging to each other like lifelines. Not two people breaking down walls. Not the truth.
Walking to their cars, Cal took Blair’s hand. Public lot, anyone could see, but he didn’t let go.
“Therapy. I’ll do it. Find someone. Talk about the fear.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Will you really come with me? Sometimes?”
“If you want. But it’s your work—”
“I know. But having you there would help. Knowing I’m not alone.”
“You’re never alone. Not anymore.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He kissed her forehead, sweet and tender and public. Someone definitely saw. Probably multiple someones. Blair didn’t care. Let them see. Let them know. This was real. This was worth it. This was love.
That night, Cal called after therapy, after dinner, after everything.
“I found a therapist. First session tomorrow.”
“That was fast.”
“I’m motivated. You were right. I need this. Can’t keep spiraling.”
“I’m glad.”
“Will you still love me if I’m broken?”
“You’re not broken. But yes. I’ll love you regardless. Broken. Healed. Everything in between.”
“Even if I never play again?”
“Even then. You’re more than hockey, Cal. You’re… everything.”
He was quiet, then: “I needed to hear that.”
“It’s true.”
“I know. But I needed to hear it anyway.”
They talked for an hour about everything and nothing, just existing together even apart. It was nice. Comfortable. Right. This was what Blair wanted—not just the passion and the intimacy, but this easy connection. The trust. The vulnerability. The real thing.
She fell asleep smiling despite the uncertainty, despite Preston’s threat, despite everything at stake. Smiling. Because Cal Montgomery loved her, trusted her, needed her. And she felt the same.
That was worth fighting for. Worth risking everything. Worth whatever came next. Together. Always together.
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