Page 6 of Hat Trick Daddies

CHAPTER THREE

Ally

Dennis,the general manager, meets me in the main lobby of the rink.

He’s an older man, balding with a thick mustache, and his handshake is firm but impersonal. “Welcome aboard, Dr. Perry,” he says briskly, already turning toward the hallway leading deeper into the rink.

“Thank you,” I say, following close behind. It’s strange, almost surreal, to see the behind-the-scenes areas of the rink, a place that always seems so unreachable from the stands.

Dennis leads me through a series of hallways that open into larger, specialized spaces. The players’ lounge is the first stop: a sleek room with leather couches, flat-screen TVs, and even a foosball table tucked into one corner.

I nod appreciatively as Dennis points out the training room next door.

“This is your office,” he says, gesturing to a small but well-organized space just past the training room.

I peek inside, noting the modern desk, ergonomic chair, and the neat rows of medical supplies already in place.

Beyond that is the crown jewel: the physical therapy wing. High-tech equipment fills the room, treadmills with harnesses, resistance machines, and even cryotherapy chambers.

I whistle under my breath, genuinely impressed.

“They don’t spare any expense for their players, do they?” I ask.

Dennis chuckles. “The owner wants results. He makes sure we have what we need to get them.”

As we move back toward the hallway, Dennis glances at me sideways. “You’re a local, right? Minneapolis born and raised?”

I nod. “Yes, sir. It’s good to be back after taking some years away for college and med school. This city is still home, even after all that time.”

He hums thoughtfully, his eyes scanning me. “If I’m being honest, you look a little young to be working on becoming a doctor.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes but keep my tone polite. “I get that a lot. But my residency went well, and I’m more than prepared for this fellowship.”

He scratches his chin. “Well, I’ll give you this: you came highly recommended. We wouldn’t have hired you otherwise. Dr. Martins doesn’t give out praise lightly.”

I nod, keeping my face neutral even as the lump in my throat tightens. It’s good to hear, but I know this is a trial by fire. Still, I’m ready for it, or at least I hope I am.

“I’m twenty-four,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended. “More than old enough to be in a fellowship.”

Dennis raises his hands in mock surrender. “No offense meant. It’s just that you all keep getting younger every year. Makes me feel ancient.”

I relax slightly, though his comment still rubs me the wrong way. He checks his watch, then gestures for me to follow him.“We’d better get downstairs. The players are about done with practice. Time to meet the team.”

As we walk, the hallway seems to stretch forever, a long tunnel lined with team banners and photographs of past victories.

I adjust the strap of my bag, gripping it tighter to steady myself. My face remains neutral, professional, but beneath the surface, my nerves buzz like static electricity.

The hum of fluorescent lights above only amplifies the tension in my chest.

We pass a familiar corner, and something in the air shifts.

Memories hit me like a slap, stopping me mid-step. I glance at the vending machine tucked into the alcove, its once-bright paint now dulled and scratched from years of use.

I can still see us there, me at barely eighteen, starry-eyed and so painfully naïve, leaning against the wall while he grinned down at me.

His hockey stick rested casually against the corner, forgotten in the haze of post-practice adrenaline.

The rink had been quiet then, the sounds of practice fading as the arena emptied out.

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