Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~17 min read
Chapter 21: New Season
POV: Priya Kapoor
Summer ends the way it began—with Priya trying desperately not to think about Carter Vaughn—and now it’s August and training camp starts tomorrow and the dread that’s been building for weeks finally crystallizes into the unavoidable reality that she’s going to have to see him again, work with him again, pretend everything’s fine when nothing has been fine since she walked away from him in that parking lot and told him it was too late.
Four months have passed since that last devastating conversation—four months that Priya spent actively avoiding Carter in every way possible, taking vacation time strategically to miss the end-of-season team events, declining Iris’s suggestions to go to any bars or restaurants where Blades players might congregate, basically restructuring her entire social life around not accidentally running into the man she’s still hopelessly in love with despite knowing better—and the avoidance worked beautifully right up until the moment when her job requires her to be in the same building, working with the same team, treating the same captain who broke her heart repeatedly.
“You okay?” Kevin asks during their pre-camp prep meeting on Monday afternoon, clearly noticing the way Priya’s been staring at the training schedule with unfocused eyes, her brain too occupied with dreading tomorrow to actually absorb information about injury protocols and conditioning plans.
“Fine,” Priya lies automatically, the response so practiced after months of people asking if she’s okay when she’s absolutely not. “Just—thinking about the season ahead.”
“It’ll be good to have everyone back,” Kevin says, oblivious to Priya’s internal panic. “Quiet summer. Ready for some action.”
Priya nods like she agrees even though the last thing she wants is action, even though she’d be perfectly happy if training camp got delayed indefinitely, even though the thought of seeing Carter tomorrow makes her want to call in sick despite knowing that’s not a realistic long-term strategy when her job literally requires daily interaction with the team.
She goes home that night and tries to prepare herself—practices maintaining professional composure in the mirror like some kind of psychological rehearsal, imagines various scenarios for their first interaction and plans neutral responses, basically attempts to emotionally fortify herself against the impact of seeing Carter again after four months of carefully maintained distance—but knows deep down that no amount of preparation will actually make tomorrow easier.
“He’s just another player,” Priya tells herself while getting ready for bed, the lie so obvious she doesn’t even believe it herself. “You treat him professionally. Keep boundaries. Don’t engage personally. Simple.”
Except nothing about Carter has ever been simple—not their arrangement, not her feelings, not the way he managed to become the most important person in her life while simultaneously being completely incapable of giving her what she needed—and Priya knows that seeing him again is going to hurt regardless of how well she’s prepared.
Sleep doesn’t come easily—Priya lies awake replaying memories she’s spent months trying to suppress, remembering the way Carter looked at her like she was everything he wanted but couldn’t let himself have, remembering his parking lot confession that came too late to matter, remembering the specific ache of loving someone who was too scared to love her back—and when her alarm goes off Tuesday morning she feels exhausted before the day has even started.
Training camp begins at nine—Priya arrives early because she always arrives early, because being punctual and prepared is how she maintains professional credibility, because showing up late and flustered would signal that something’s wrong and she’s determined to project competence even if internally she’s falling apart—and spends the thirty minutes before players start arriving organizing her PT station with unnecessary thoroughness, keeping her hands busy so her brain can’t spiral into anxiety about the inevitable moment when Carter walks through that door.
Players trickle in gradually—rookies first because they’re nervous and overcompensating with earliness, then veterans who know the rhythm of training camp and arrive with comfortable confidence—and Priya greets each one with professional warmth, falls into the familiar pattern of checking in about summer conditioning and any minor injuries that need monitoring, lets the routine of her job provide structure against the chaos of her emotions.
Jamie enters around eight-forty—catches Priya’s eye across the facility and gives her a look that’s equal parts sympathetic and concerned, clearly aware of the history between her and Carter, clearly wondering how today’s going to go—and Priya offers him a small smile that she hopes conveys I’m fine even though they both know she’s not.
Tyler follows a few minutes later, then Marcus, then the rest of the team filling in until the facility buzzes with the energy of a new season starting, with players reconnecting after summer break, with the anticipation that comes with fresh starts and championship hopes—and Priya maintains her professional demeanor through it all, greeting everyone normally, projecting calm she doesn’t feel, waiting for the shoe to drop.
Carter walks in at eight-fifty-five—exactly five minutes before the official start time because of course he does, because Carter’s always precisely punctual in that captain-level responsible way—and the first thing Priya notices is that he’s different.
Not different in appearance exactly—still tall and broad-shouldered and objectively gorgeous in ways that make Priya’s traitorous body respond despite her brain’s firm instructions not to—but different in demeanor, in the way he carries himself, in some fundamental energy that Priya can’t quite articulate but registers immediately as changed.
He’s calmer somehow—not the tightly-controlled tension that used to characterize Carter’s presence but actual calm, the kind that suggests internal peace rather than suppressed anxiety—and when he scans the facility his gaze is steady and present in ways Priya doesn’t remember from before.
Their eyes meet across the room—inevitable given that Priya’s been hyperaware of his presence from the second he entered—and instead of the panic or avoidance or desperate longing she expected to see in Carter’s expression, there’s just… acknowledgment.
He holds her gaze for a long moment—not challenging, not pleading, just seeing her with the kind of centered presence that feels completely unlike the Carter she knew—and then he nods slightly, a gesture of recognition that doesn’t demand anything, doesn’t push for interaction, just acknowledges that they’re in the same space and that’s okay.
Then he looks away—not in discomfort or avoidance but simply because the eye contact has served its purpose—and moves to greet his teammates with the kind of easy engagement that suggests he’s genuinely present rather than performing captain duties while internally spiraling.
Priya stands frozen by her PT station trying to process what just happened—trying to understand why Carter seems so different, why that eye contact felt nothing like the desperate intensity of their last interaction, why he’s projecting this aura of someone who’s done serious internal work rather than someone who’s been suffering through their separation—and finds herself more off-balance than she expected despite all her preparation.
“He looks good, right?” Kevin comments quietly, appearing at Priya’s shoulder and clearly tracking her line of sight toward Carter. “Had a good summer apparently. Came back different.”
“Different how?” Priya asks before she can stop herself, the question revealing more interest than she intended but needing to understand what Kevin’s observed.
“Dunno exactly.” Kevin shrugs. “Just—lighter maybe? Less intense? Whatever he did over the summer seems to have agreed with him.”
Priya nods like this is casual observation rather than information that’s currently rearranging her entire understanding of Carter—like she’s not desperately trying to figure out what could have changed in four months to transform him from the panicked, desperate man who showed up at her apartment to this centered, calm person who can make eye contact without falling apart—and forces herself to refocus on work before Kevin notices how affected she is.
The morning progresses with standard training camp activities—fitness testing, medical evaluations, position drills that ease players back into game conditioning—and Priya stays busy enough that she can almost ignore Carter’s presence, can almost pretend his new demeanor isn’t occupying ninety percent of her mental processing power, can almost convince herself she doesn’t care why he seems so different.
Almost.
He doesn’t approach her—not during the morning session, not during the lunch break when players scatter to the cafeteria or their cars, not during the afternoon conditioning work—and his distance is respectful in ways that surprise Priya because the Carter she knew was possessive and jealous and incapable of giving her space when he wanted her attention.
This Carter maintains professional distance—nods politely when they pass in hallways, doesn’t manufacture reasons to need PT assessment, doesn’t try to engage her in conversation beyond brief professional exchanges—and his respect for her boundaries is so completely unlike his previous behavior that Priya finds herself more suspicious than relieved.
“What’s his angle?” Priya asks Iris that night over dinner at their apartment, having spent the entire day trying to figure out Carter’s game and coming up empty. “He’s being too respectful. Too calm. Too—different.”
“Maybe he’s actually changed?” Iris suggests practically, poking at her pad thai with the kind of rational perspective Priya desperately needs but doesn’t want to hear. “Maybe the summer apart did him good.”
“People don’t just change like that,” Priya protests, even though she witnessed the change firsthand, even though Carter’s new demeanor is undeniable. “Not fundamentally. Not in four months.”
“They do if they do the work,” Iris counters. “Therapy, self-reflection, genuine effort—people can transform pretty dramatically if they’re serious about it.”
Priya wants to argue—wants to insist that Carter’s incapable of the kind of growth that would result in this level of change, wants to protect herself from hoping that maybe he’s actually become someone different, wants to maintain her walls against the possibility that his transformation might be real—but she can’t deny what she saw today, can’t pretend Carter’s new energy isn’t completely unlike the man she walked away from.
“Even if he has changed,” Priya says carefully, voicing the fear underneath her skepticism, “that doesn’t mean anything for us. Doesn’t mean I should give him another chance. Doesn’t mean his growth obligates me to revisit something that hurt me repeatedly.”
“No one’s saying it obligates you to anything,” Iris agrees gently. “But Pri, if he’s genuinely different—if he’s done real work to become someone capable of what you need—don’t you at least want to know? Don’t you want to understand what changed?”
The question sits heavy because yes, obviously Priya wants to know—has been consumed with curiosity since the moment Carter walked into training camp radiating this completely unfamiliar energy—but knowing feels dangerous in ways she can’t fully articulate, feels like opening a door she’s worked so hard to close, feels like risking her heart again when it’s barely healed from the last time Carter destroyed it.
“I’m scared,” Priya admits quietly. “Scared that he really has changed and I’ll have to decide whether to risk it again. Scared that he hasn’t and this is just better performance of the same patterns. Scared that I want him to have changed so badly that I’ll convince myself he has even if he hasn’t.”
“Those are all reasonable fears,” Iris validates. “But Pri, you’re going to see him every day. Work with him all season. You can’t avoid finding out what’s different. So maybe instead of being scared about it, you just—observe. Stay professional. Protect yourself. But pay attention. Let his actions over time show you whether the change is real.”
It’s good advice—measured, rational, protective while still leaving room for possibility—and Priya knows Iris is right that avoidance isn’t sustainable when her job requires daily interaction with Carter, knows that she’s going to find out eventually whether his transformation is genuine or performance, knows that she might as well approach the discovery with intentionality rather than just reacting.
“Okay,” Priya agrees. “I’ll observe. Pay attention. See if the new demeanor holds or if it’s just first-day-back politeness that’ll fade once we’re deeper into the season.”
Training camp continues through the week—daily sessions that blend conditioning, strategy, and team-building, the rhythm of new season preparation that Priya knows well after three years with the Blades—and Carter’s changed demeanor doesn’t fade, doesn’t reveal itself as temporary politeness or strategic performance, just continues being this new baseline of calm, centered presence that Priya finds increasingly difficult to dismiss as fake.
He respects her space consistently—never manufactures reasons to need her professional attention beyond legitimate injury concerns, never tries to corner her for personal conversation, never does any of the boundary-pushing behaviors that characterized his previous attempts to win her back—and his consistent respect is almost more unsettling than if he’d reverted to desperate pursuit because at least desperate pursuit would be familiar.
This Carter—respectful, boundaried, genuinely present rather than performing—is someone Priya doesn’t know how to categorize, doesn’t know how to protect herself against, doesn’t know how to reconcile with the man who panicked and pushed her away repeatedly.
She catches him watching her sometimes—brief glances across the facility during team sessions, momentary eye contact in hallways between meetings—but when she meets his gaze he doesn’t look away in panic or hold it in desperate intensity, just acknowledges the connection and releases it without drama, without pressure, without any of the fraught energy that used to characterize every interaction.
“He’s different,” Priya finally admits to Kevin on Friday afternoon after a week of observation has confirmed that Carter’s transformation seems genuine rather than performed. “Really different.”
“Told you,” Kevin says with satisfaction. “Whatever he did this summer—therapy maybe, or just time alone to figure his shit out—it worked. He’s better.”
Better. The word sits complicated in Priya’s chest because yes, Carter seems better—calmer, healthier, more integrated—but better doesn’t automatically mean better for her, doesn’t obligate her to revisit what they had, doesn’t erase the months of pain his fear caused before he finally decided to change.
Training camp ends with a scrimmage Saturday afternoon—the traditional conclusion to preparation week before the season officially starts, a low-stakes game that lets coaches assess roster decisions and players shake off summer rust—and Priya watches from the PT bench with professional focus, tracking movement patterns and injury risks and all the technical details her job requires.
But she’s also watching Carter—can’t help watching Carter—and notices the way his play reflects the same centered calm that characterizes his off-ice demeanor, the way he leads the team with steady presence rather than intense pressure, the way he seems genuinely engaged rather than using hockey as escape from internal chaos.
He scores midway through the second period—a beautiful goal off a feed from Jamie that showcases Carter’s speed and precision—and when his teammates celebrate his expression shows satisfaction rather than the desperate relief Priya used to see whenever Carter succeeded at something, like he’s enjoying the moment rather than using achievement to validate his worth.
The scrimmage ends with Carter’s team winning—not that anyone’s keeping real score, but the competitive energy remains regardless of official stakes—and players filter off the ice toward the locker room while Priya packs up her PT supplies and tries not to think about how watching Carter play still makes her chest tight with feelings she’s worked so hard to suppress.
She’s loading equipment into the storage room when she feels someone’s presence behind her—turns to find Carter standing in the doorway still in his gear, clearly having detoured on his way to the locker room—and her heart rate spikes with the kind of nervous anticipation that four months of separation hasn’t diminished at all.
“Hey,” Carter says quietly, and even his voice sounds different—steadier, less weighted with desperation or fear.
“Hey,” Priya manages, her own voice less steady than she’d like. “Good scrimmage.”
“Thanks.” Carter stays in the doorway, doesn’t step closer, his body language respectful of her space in ways that feel carefully intentional. “I wanted to—I know you’re working. I’m not trying to interrupt. Just wanted to say it’s good to see you. That’s all.”
The simplicity of it catches Priya off-guard—no desperate declarations, no attempts to convince her of anything, just honest acknowledgment that seeing her is good, that he’s aware she’s working, that he’s not trying to push for more than this brief interaction—and she doesn’t know how to respond to Carter being this straightforward without ulterior motive.
“Okay,” Priya says, the response inadequate but all she can manage while her brain tries to process this new version of him. “Thanks for—saying that.”
Carter nods like that’s sufficient—like he didn’t need her to reciprocate or validate or give him anything beyond accepting his simple statement—and steps back from the doorway with clear intention to leave.
“Carter,” Priya hears herself say before she’s consciously decided to speak, before she’s figured out what she wants to ask, just knowing she can’t let him walk away without—something.
He pauses, looks at her with patient attention that doesn’t demand or pressure, just waits for whatever she needs to say.
“You seem different,” Priya says carefully, voicing the observation that’s been building all week. “I don’t know if it’s real or—I don’t know. But you seem different.”
“I am different,” Carter says simply, the acknowledgment offered without defensiveness or false modesty. “I’ll prove it if you let me. But I understand if you can’t. Either way, I respect whatever you need.”
Then he’s gone—heading toward the locker room before Priya can formulate a response—and she’s left standing in the storage room with her heart racing and her mind spinning with the impossible reality that Carter Vaughn just demonstrated more emotional maturity in two minutes than he managed in their entire previous relationship.
“I’ll prove it if you let me.”
The words echo through Priya’s head for the rest of the day, through the evening at home where Iris can tell something happened but doesn’t push, through the restless night where sleep comes in fragments interrupted by memories and curiosity and the dangerous, terrifying possibility that maybe Carter really has changed.
New season starting.
Carter different—calmer, centered, healed.
Respecting her space but offering to prove his transformation if she’ll let him.
And Priya caught between protective self-preservation and the undeniable curiosity about what he’d do with permission to show her who he’s become.
The tension of not knowing sits heavy in her chest—the question of whether his change is real, whether it’s enough, whether she’s brave enough to find out—and Priya falls asleep Saturday night with no answers, just the awareness that avoiding Carter isn’t an option anymore, that discovery is inevitable, that the new season brings more than just hockey.
It brings the possibility—however small, however dangerous—that the man she loves might have finally become someone capable of loving her back.
And she has no idea what she’s going to do about it.
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