Chapter Text
The arena was empty in a way that made it feel bigger.
Olivia stood near the boards, the smell of cold air and disinfectant filling her lungs, and listened to the echo of her own footsteps. No crowd. No music. Just the hum of the lights above the ice and the distant scrape of skates somewhere deeper in the facility.
This was better.
She preferred arenas like this quiet, honest. Before adrenaline and noise turned them into something reckless.
She adjusted the strap of her medical bag on her shoulder, even though she didn’t need to. It was a grounding habit. Everything inside was where it should be. It always was.
“Staff orientation is in Conference Room B.”
Olivia turned at the sound of a voice. A man in a Senators jacket stood a few steps away, clipboard tucked under his arm, eyes flicking down to her badge and then back up again. His brows pulled together slightly.
“Thank you,” she said. “I was just getting oriented.”
He nodded, still looking at her in a way that made her stomach tighten not curious, not hostile. Evaluative.
“How old are you?” he asked, then winced. “Sorry. I mean...”
“Twenty-four,” Olivia replied.
His mouth opened, then closed. “Right. Of course.”
Of course what, she wondered, but didn’t ask.
Conference Room B was already half full when she arrived. Trainers, assistants, coaching staff. Familiar faces she recognized from press photos and broadcasts. Conversations slowed when she entered.
Then stopped.
A man near the back leaned toward his neighbor. “That’s the medic?”
“No way.”
“She looks like she should be interning.”
Olivia took a seat near the end of the table, folded her hands neatly in front of her, and waited.
She had learned patience early. Learned how to make herself small when needed, invisible when useful. Being underestimated was a currency she knew how to spend.
The head trainer cleared his throat. “Alright. Before the players come in, let’s introduce new staff.”
He gestured toward her. “Dr. Olivia Addison. She’ll be taking over as our lead on ice medic this season.”
Silence.
Then a laugh, quickly smothered.
Olivia didn’t react.
She stood when mentioned, shoulders back, chin level. “It’s a pleasure to be here,” she said. “I look forward to working with all of you.”
No embellishment. No justification.
She sat back down.
Someone near the door muttered, “Must have connections.”
“Hope none of the players get hurt.”
Olivia stared at the grain of the table and thought, not for the first time, So do I.
The players filtered in next, taller, louder, filling the room with an entirely different kind of presence. Ilya Rozanov came in laughing, arm slung around Shane Hollander's shoulders, both of them already half in uniform.
Legends, the room seemed to think, straightening unconsciously.
Shane’s gaze landed on Olivia and paused.
Ilya’s lingered.
“Who’s that?” Ilya murmured to Shane.
“Medic, I think,” Shane said quietly.
“She is very small,” Ilya replied.
Olivia felt his eyes on her, like pressure, but she didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. She already knew what he saw.
Not experience. Not competence.
Risk.
Introductions went around the room. When it reached her again, she met their eyes briefly. Shane nodded, polite, reserved.
Ilya smirked.
She held it together until the meeting ended. Until she was alone again by the ice, watching players skate drills, bodies slamming into the boards with careless confidence.
She pressed her palm lightly against the glass.
I won’t fail you, she thought. Not to them, but to someone else entirely.
Not again.