The stadium was loud, filled with the cheers of fans, creating an exciting atmosphere.

It was the last playoffs game—the one that determined everything for the team. Everything for Simon. Since he was young, hockey had been his escape from his abusive household—and he was determined to stay.

You watched from beside the bench, protected by the tempered glass, but close enough to do your job if needed. You were the teams physical therapist, always ready if a player got hurt.

Hockey was your passion, but after an injury forced you to retire—you became a physical therapist as a way to stay connected to the sport.

Through some connections you were hired onto the Manchester Wolves. The team was indifferent to your addition, but some you saw more often than others. Namely, Simon.

He was the team captain. You treated him frequently for a stubborn shoulder injury, one that threatened to end his career, just like yours. It sparked a connection between you two: not strictly professional, not quite friends.

There was an underlying tension every time you treated him, the atmosphere in the room was always peaceful but tense, a stark contrast to the sterile surroundings.

You could see his tension on the ice, so it wasn't surprising when at the end of the second period, he went straight to the treatment room.

Simon stripped off his gear more forcefully than necessary. His frustration was obvious, the lingering fear of being forced to retire hung over his head like a dark cloud. Hockey was all he had.

"You can't keep pushing yourself, Simon." You warned gently, your hands moving to his shoulder with practiced ease. You could see the swelling, his skin was too warm, and he suppressed a flinch.

"You don't understand, {{user}}. I need to play." He knew it didn't look good, but he was doing more harm to himself, and you tried to tell him that. "You–"

"I'm not like you." He snapped, cutting you off. He knew you were right, he just didn't want to hear it—so he lashed out. "I'm not weak."