She forced her gaze to sweep the ice. She was supposed to be monitoring all the players in the rink, not just the sexy captain who dominated her thoughts and made her rethink her rule about keeping business and pleasure strictly separate.
"Fraser looks good out there," Peter commented. "What do you think?"
She swung her gaze from the opposite end of the ice. Dylan, for as big as he was, moved with grace. "Strong skating. No hesitation on the play. His timing isn't off."
Hopefully, he would remain symptom-free.
"Doc and I will evaluate him after practice."
"Let me know if you need me." She stood and headed to the training room to prepare for post-practice treatments. By the time she'd finished setting the temperatures on the whirlpool baths and setting out the ice packs and electrolyte drinks, the players had filed in.
Dylan moved off to a quiet corner with Peter and Dr. Bisson. She kept an eye and ear on them as she taped Vince's knee.
"He seemed fine out there today." Vince's voice startled her. "I know we were all worried, but he seems okay. You think so too, right?"
She concentrated on smoothing the blue tape in place, wishing she could smooth out her worries as easily. "I can't say until the evaluation is finished. There's always a chance he could regress a bit, but from what I saw, he looked good."
After she finished with Vince, she worked with Rod to stretch out his hip flexors, then evaluated Slater's wrist where a puck had glanced off the bone.
She loved her job. She'd grown up going to games to watch her dad play, spending hours at rinks, and the trainers and conditioning coaches had captured her interest. They could fix or treat almost anything. Her dad had always said that the training staff was the reason he'd been able to keep playing for as long as he did.
Maybe she had gotten the job with the team because of her last name, but in the past three years, she'd made a name for herself through hard work, dedication, confidence, and communication. The players trusted her advice and treatment plans.
She was in the middle of a discussion with Celek about the science behind cold tub treatments when Dylan headed their way. His smile was infectious.
"Well? What's the word?" Celek moved toward him, hand outstretched.
He high-fived the winger. "Cleared for tomorrow's game."
Celek pulled him into a one-armed hug. "Our line's gonna kick some ass."
The remaining players gathered around Dylan offering their congratulations. Blair focused on cleaning up the extra tape, towels, and ice packs and restocking the training room. Rather than being happy about the diagnosis, an alarm in her brain shouted that he was coming back too soon. In a perfect world, she'd make him stay out longer, a least a few more weeks of being symptom-free before his return rather than just a few days. But she wasn't the one in charge. And with the team favored to win the playoffs, everyone from the fans to the front office was desperate for Dylan's return.
"Hey." Dylan approached as she placed folded towels into the closet.
"Hey." She set down the last of the linens and closed the door. "So you're cleared."
"Cleared."
After a peek to make sure Peter and the doctor and the other players weren't within earshot, she motioned him closer. His icy blue eyes reminded her of winter and frozen lakes. His thick, dark brown hair, so dark it was nearly black, was mussed from his helmet or his hands. His six-foot-three frame towered over her own five-foot-five.
"You didn't have any lightheadedness or dizziness or a headache?"
"No, no, and no."
"Your balance is good?"
"Yes." His lips twitched. "They went through the whole checklist. I promise."
"I know." She sighed and adjusted her ponytail. "I can't help it."
Her mind kept flashing back to Dylan sitting in his darkened living room weeks earlier, suffering from concussion and whiplash symptoms, spirits low, as she sat by his side and stroked his hair and tried to soothe his worries.
He caught her hand on its way down to her side. "I like that about you. You care."
"Maybe I care a little too much." Caring about her players was deeply ingrained. Dylan's injuries had made her realize how deep her feelings were for him. But maybe getting involved wasn't smart. She had too much baggage.
His thumb traced over her fingers. "That's not a bad thing."
"It depends." She liked the way his touch zinged like lightning along her skin. Showing emotions was a fine line to straddle, especially as the only woman on the training staff. Too much emotion made her seem like she was coddling the players, but not enough made her seem cold and unfeeling. The guys who knew her didn't feel that way, but proving herself to new players and new coaches was a continual challenge.
Dylan kept up the slow, steady rhythm. "I'm supposed to head home to take a nap and watch game film in prep for tomorrow. Do you want to grab dinner somewhere later? Just you and me."
Did she? Yes. Could she? No. Should she? The jury was still out. "I'm supposed to have dinner with my dad tonight."
Dylan's face creased in sympathy, and the caress on her hand shifted until he'd linked their fingers together and gently squeezed. "How is he?"
"Good days and bad days. You know, the same old story." She drew strength from his touch. Dealing with her dad could be awesome or draining, depending on the day. He'd proudly played for years with the distinction of being the only remaining player in the league to not wear a helmet. Twenty years after he'd retired, he still suffered headaches, depression, mood swings, and had difficulty with his vision and short-term memory, all things attributed to the multiple concussions he'd sustained as a player. Things she worried about Dylan having to endure.
He tucked a
