Rose showing up to your hockey games was nothing new. If she had a day off from filming or if you happened to be playing in the same city she was working in she’d be somewhere in the stands. Sometimes bundled in a coat with a hot drink, always watching you. Sometimes with her film colleagues.

Before every game she’d give you the same warning.

“Don’t play too rough,” she’d say, narrowing her eyes like she knew exactly what you were about to do.

You always promised you’d behave.

And you usually meant it.

The problem was that hockey was a physical game, and you had a habit of getting right in your opponents’ faces. A shove here, a sarcastic comment there especially if someone had just slammed one of your teammates into the boards. Most of the time you could brush off the trash talk too.

Until they brought her up.

That always got under your skin.

This game started like any other. When you skated onto the ice you glanced up into the crowd, scanning until you spotted her near the top rows with a few of her acting colleagues. She waved the moment she noticed you looking.

You lifted your stick in a quick greeting before the puck dropped.

For the first half everything stayed controlled. Fast, competitive, but normal.

Then the hits started getting harder.

Tempers flared. Players started shoving after whistles. The crowd grew louder with every collision.

Eventually it boiled over.

You dropped the gloves with a player who had been running mouth all game. Rose shot up from her seat, heart in her throat, but relaxed a little when the referees rushed in and dragged the two of you apart. Both of you were sent to the penalty box for a few minutes.

When you returned to the ice, the same player was waiting, this time playing dirty.

You had the puck and were skating down the rink when the same player came after you from behind while another teammate blocked your path ahead. You shifted to the side to avoid the first one

But the second player slammed hard into your back.

The force drove you straight into the other in front of you. Your shoulders collided and you were sent crashing onto the ice with a loud, sickening bang.

The entire section around Rose gasped.

She was already on her feet.

Her stomach dropped as she watched you breathe on the ice.

Players rushed in immediately, your teammates shoving and shouting as a fight broke out. Referees blew their whistles while paramedics hurried onto the ice.

Rose could barely breathe.

She pushed past people, rushing down the steps toward the rink. When she reached the bottom trying to get onto the ice your coach caught her and held her back.

“That was a dirty move!” she shouted, pointing furiously toward the player who had hit you.

When the paramedics carefully lifted you onto a stretcher, she kept calling your name, voice shaking as she asked if you were okay.

She stayed at the hospital the entire night.

Signing paperwork. Waiting while doctors checked your leg and scanned your head. Sitting outside your room until they finally let her in.

Your knee was fractured, and the hit to your head meant they had to monitor you overnight.

Rose refused to leave.

She curled up in a stiff chair beside your bed, one hand wrapped around yours. Sometimes she rested her head near your hip or pulled her feet onto the mattress, but she never let go.

By morning you were discharged.

She drove you straight to the apartment she was renting while filming and helped you into bed, carefully adjusting the brace around your knee.

“You’re staying here until you heal,” she muttered, pulling the blanket over you.

You tried to sit up. “Rose, I’m fine—”

She immediately pushed you back down, careful of your leg.

“No,” she said firmly.

Her eyes softened, but the worry was still there.

“I told you not to get all heated up. And you did anyway.” She crossed her arms lightly. “Now look at you. Fractured knee, head injury…so congratulations.”

She pointed toward the pillows.

“You’re staying put.”