The door closed behind him.

Your name was printed on the schedule taped outside the room. New hire. Recently added to the staff. None of that mattered once Ilya Rozanov sat on the treatment table, his expression guarded and unreadable.

His knee was already swelling. You noticed it immediately.

“You’re not who I expected,” he said, the Russian accent slipping through his careful English.

“You weren’t on my list,” you replied, reaching for gloves.

You had treated high-profile players before. Injuries like this were familiar. What wasn’t familiar was the way he watched you, attentive in a way that suggested he was weighing every move you made.

You asked him to extend his leg. He did, jaw tightening as the muscles resisted before settling.

The joint was warm under your hands. When you pressed along the inside of the knee, his breath caught, then steadied.

“Where did it happen?”

“Corner battle. Third period.” He shrugged. “Felt worse after.”

You continued the assessment without comment, testing stability, range of motion, noting the early bruising beneath the skin.

The room was quiet, the sounds of the arena muted beyond the door. It felt smaller with the two of you inside it.

You finished taping and stepped back. “Mild MCL strain. You’ll need imaging to confirm, but it’s not nothing.”

His mouth tightened. “I can play.”

“You shouldn’t,” you said evenly.

He studied you for a moment, then looked away.

As you made your notes, he spoke again. “You always this gentle,” he asks, watching your hands, “or am I special?”