Page 2 of Hat Trick Daddies

But after years away I’m finally ready to dig into my roots while also starting fresh as the sports medicine fellow for my favorite team.

The Marauders aren’t just a hockey team to me; they’re a piece of my history here as a Minnesotan.

Hockey has always been part of my life.

I can still feel the sensation of skates strapped tight around my ankles and the satisfyingclinkof a puck meeting the sweet spot of my stick.

My brother, Jesse, was always there, guiding me, challenging me, showing me how to wield the sport like a weapon and an art form.

But things changed.

Jesse’s charm turned to arrogance, his guidance into condescension. His careless treatment of people, especially women, carved a rift between us that feels insurmountable.

I can almost hear his voice now, smooth but cutting, and my stomach twists with a mixture of regret and disappointment.

My dad remains my one anchor to family.

I imagine him in the stands, the scent of his aftershave mixed with buttered popcorn. His booming cheers echo in my memory, his unwavering support has been a comfort I’ve leaned on my entire life.

And then there’s my mom.

My throat tightens as I think about her absence, the space she left behind impossible to fill.

Snapping out of my daydream, I realize I’ve been standing outside for too long and step into the rink.

The icy air envelopes me instantly, sharp and invigorating against my skin, drawing goosebumps along my arms beneath my jacket.

The large entryway greets me with a soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Off to one side, the skate rental counter isa cheerful hub of activity, its cubbies filled with silver blades dulled from endless laps around the rink.

A team banner behind the counter, painted in the bold blue and gold of the Marauders, feels like a welcome home sign.

Wooden benches line the walls, their surfaces worn smooth from generations of skaters sitting to tie laces. I reach out and trail my fingers over one as I walk past, feeling the scratched wood beneath my fingertips.

An attendant steps out in front of me, clipboard in hand, breaking my reverie.

His brow furrows as he glances up, his voice steady but firm. “Sorry, the rink’s closed for local practice today.”

I dig into my pocket, pulling out my badge. “I’m with the Minnesota Marauders. I’m the new team doctor,” I say, keeping my tone light but confident. The badge feels cool in my hand.

He studies it briefly before his expression softens, nodding and stepping aside. “Welcome aboard, Miss Perry. Head on in.”

“Thank you,” I reply, a smile playing on my lips as I continue down the corridor. My nerves bubble beneath the surface, but I tamp them down.

This is my chance. My dream. All I have to do is make the most of it.

That is, if I can survive working under Dr. Martins.

The old curmudgeon has barely begun overseeing my fellowship, and he’s already made it clear this isn’t going to be a walk in the park.

Even before my official start, he’s been snapping at me for trivial things and calling at all hours with reminders or nitpicks.

I can’t believe he’s still working at his age; he’s got to be close to retirement.

I know Dr. Martins isn’t going to make this easy, but I’ve never shied away from hard work. I’ll prove myself, no matter how tough he makes it.

Before heading deeper into the rink, I duck into the bathroom, needing a quick moment to collect myself.

I grip the faucet handles as I try to steady myself while looking into the mirror.

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