"Please, Emma. I'm desperate here."

Emma leans back and props her feet up on her desk, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. "You're not desperate. There are any number of physical therapists in New York that you could call who are just as if not more qualified than I am."

"You're plenty qualified," Elsa counters. "What's that new certification you finished in the fall? The one that's like acupuncture?"

"Dry needling. And attempted flattery isn't going to get me to come work for you."

She and Elsa have had this same conversation on and off for years, dating all the way back to the time when her friend had gotten her father, the patriarch of the ultra-wealthy Arendelle family, to offer Emma an internship with the New York Rangers. Now Elsa's the one running the head office and every once in a while she tries to recruit Emma to join the training staff. But Emma didn't put herself through two degrees at Columbia just to take hand-outs from her rich friend. She loves Elsa like a sister, but she's built her own practice on her own terms and she isn't going to give that up for anyone.

"My physical therapist consultant practically fell down the rabbit hole, Emma!"

"And you have multiple athletic therapists on staff who can pick up the slack until you find a replacement."

"Athletic therapy isn't going to cut it for injury rehab. I need someone more qualified."

"Injury rehab?" Emma repeats, realization hitting her. "Killian Jones. You're sending me Killian Jones."

The Rangers' star right-winger went down a week and a half ago after blocking a shot in a game against the Islanders. Emma had seen the clip on youtube and he'd definitely broken a couple fingers on his left hand.

"I'd like to," Elsa says. "And I would send him to you, you wouldn't have to come out to Tarrytown. It would be your clinic, your terms, everything. I swear."

"I do this," Emma says, setting her conditions carefully, "And you never bring up me coming to work for you again."

"Deal," her friend agrees immediately. "I'll have Dr. Whale send you the file and I will send Jones to you first thing in the morning."

"Nine o'clock," she corrects, her mind already working up the start of a treatment plan. She's rehabbed similar injuries before, but with athletes the timetable is always more of a concern. "I have an opening at nine o'clock."

"Nine o'clock for number nine," she can practically hear Elsa's smile through the phone. "I'll let him know."

Elsa and her general manager signed Killian Jones in the off-season, picking him up as a free agent after failing to secure him as a rental when Toronto had tanked the year before. The outspoken right-winger made waves in the NHL right from the start of his rookie season and even fans of his own team either love him or love to hate him. When his relationship with the head coach in Toronto soured and his production slumped, he'd lashed out at the press and has been vilified in the media ever since. Elsa was forced to do a bit of damage control when she signed him, but the critics retreated back to their holes once the regular season started up.

Killian plays just on the edge of dirty, talks trash in the press, and promotes himself as much as he does the team — his accent and good looks drawing the attention of entertainment outlets that usually ignore the NHL — but he also leads the Rangers in scoring and until his injury had been a contender for both the Maurice Richard and Art Ross trophies. Hockey has never been Emma's sport — she was a midfielder for the Columbia Lions women's soccer team during her undergraduate years — but she's been to a few games this season up in the owner's box and even she can admit that his play is electrifying.

She does her research after talking to Elsa. In addition to reading over the file from the Ranger's head physician she also goes back and looks up clips of the injury. Watching the video again, it's his anger that strikes her more than the zooming in or the various gruesome angles the cameras catch. Jones drops his glove and stick as soon as the puck hits him, cradling his hand close to his body as he tries to get back into position while the play continues around him. As soon as the whistle blows he throws his other glove off in frustration and leaves the ice fuming, heading straight for the dressing room. He went in for surgery the next day, and the scans show multiple fractures on both his fourth and fifth fingers.

Killian Jones is the best thing to happen to the Rangers in a year where they've been plagued by slumps, injuries, and inconsistency. Despite his antics and controversial nature, he's one of those players who can pick up a team and drag it to something resembling success all on his own. But it can take anywhere from six weeks to three months for that sort of injury to heal and a couple weeks into March, she'll be lucky to get him back on the ice in time for the playoffs.

Assuming, of course, that without their star forward the Rangers still manage to make the post-season at all.

True to Elsa's word, Killian Jones is in her office at nine o'clock on the dot. She'd gone to the kitchen to get her second cup of coffee and come back to find him sitting in one of the chairs opposite her desk, playing with the yellow VW bug that she keeps there as a tribute to her first car. Clearing her throat, she can't help but smirk when he jumps a little and quickly parks the model car back in its spot before rising and offering her one of his signature dimpled grins.

"Emma Swan?" he asks.

Emma nods and switches her mug to her other hand so she can take his proffered one. "Killian Jones."

He laughs, his face lighting up as his hand tightens ever-so slightly around hers. "Feels like we're doing this a bit backwards," he says with a wink.

"We're also doing it with the wrong hand," she replies, gesturing to his splint with her coffee mug.

Killian gives a little wave with it and she smiles, ending their awkwardly long handshake to step around him and grab her notebook off the desk. He's hopped up onto the exam table and is grinning at her when she turns back around. It's enough to make Emma furrow her brow a bit — rarely are patients so pleased to be coming to her for physical therapy — but she brushes it off.

"You got the hard cast off yesterday, right?" she asks, getting down to business and taking off the splint. It's unsettling, the way he watches her like he knows something she doesn't, and Emma tries to ignore the feel of his gaze as she sets the splint aside. She doesn't know what Elsa told him about her or about the clinic and she's not entirely sure that she wants to ask.

"Aye," he answers. "They put in some plates and a bunch of little screws. Said it would take at least six weeks to heal up."

"Sounds about right." She turns her attention to the twin lines of stitches running down his ring and pinky fingers. Dr. Whale's work makes them look a bit Frankenstein-ish, but Emma knows that Elsa only hires the best.

When she glances up his face is suddenly grim and she straightens, crossing her arms over her chest. "Expecting to hear something else?"

He shakes his head but doesn't drop the frown. "Six weeks is the end of the regular season," he explains. "And we're in a tough fight to make the playoffs."

"I know." Stuck in Toronto until recently, Killian Jones has never really been on a team that was in playoff contention, let alone made a run for the cup. The Rangers, on the other hand, made it to the finals last year and the conference finals the year before that. The chance to play for a contender is a big part of why he signed with Elsa (the money helped too, she's sure) and if not for the team being hit hard by injuries this year they would almost certainly be in a better spot in the standings.

Emma flips open her notes and picks up his hand again, getting to work on the mobility assessments. "You let me do my job, Jones, and I'll get you back to doing yours."

Killian twists his hand around to squeeze her fingers and she lifts her gaze back up to his face. "I'm going to hold you to that, Swan," he says quietly, the softness in his eyes belying the intensity of his words.

Emma just stares back, unable to come up with a proper response while her brain is too busy thinking how unfair it is that he's so good looking even in person. His wink startles her and she huffs, looking back down at his hand and hoping that she didn't get caught blushing.

"So was that Killian Jones I saw come into the clinic this morning?"

They're at Granny's for lunch and Emma rolls her eyes at the slight note of awe in David's voice. They've both worked on professional athletes before, but her business partner has always been big into hockey — what with his stories about skating on backyard rinks growing up and his ability to rattle off statistics for players who retired well before he was even born. Emma's offered to give him a recommendation to Elsa more than once but he always refuses, insisting that he'd never leave the practice they started together.

"I'm doing a favour for Elsa," she answers simply.

"You sure she's not doing a favour for you?"

Emma looks up to find their regular waitress Ruby leaning against the table with her hip.

"What, you think she's outsourced personnel recruiting to her players now?" David asks.

Ruby scoffs and taps her pen on her notepad. "I think it's been five months since the breakup with Walsh and that Elsa might just be providing a very attractive horse to get back on. So to speak."

Her eyes go wide at the suggestion and David almost chokes on his drink. "I'm not going to sleep with Killian Jones, Ruby," she protests.

Technically, the thought has crossed her mind. Briefly. But thinking about it and acting on it are two entirely different things and Emma has no desire to be one in a string of girls on Jones' arm, their late night escapades caught on camera and splashed in the tabloids for everyone to see.

"Shame. I hear hockey's not the only thing he's great at."

"This is really not a conversation I need to be a part of," David sputters.

"That makes two of us."

Ruby just rolls her eyes at them. "One of these days, you're gonna take my advice. And then you're going to regret all the other times that you didn't."

Emma folds her arms on the table and looks up at her. "And what's your advice today? Switch it up and go for the special?"

Ruby walks away exasperated, knowing full well that both she and David always order the same thing, and Emma counts it as a victory. The whole idea is ridiculous anyhow. Besides the fact that Elsa is the last person on earth who would try and set her up with somebody, Emma has a long-standing rule of not dating clients.

And just because Killian Jones would probably be worth bending that rule for — and that what Ruby's suggesting wouldn't even count as dating to begin with — doesn't mean it's ever going to happen. Her newest patient may have a reputation for how he handles his hockey stick, but he also has a reputation for trouble. And trouble is the last thing Emma wants.

Killian shows up for his next appointment bright and early and the door hasn't even closed behind him before Ruby yanks it back open so hard it almost comes off the hinges. Emma's mouth hangs open in aborted greeting as the waitress practically sashays past him, carrying a tray of piping hot coffees up to the front desk.

"Delivery from Granny's Diner!" she announces cheerfully, eyes sliding as unsubtly as possible over to where Killian is taking his jacket off.

Emma sends up a silent prayer for patience before walking over to her seemingly bemused client. "Mr. Jones," she says, keeping her voice even and professional as she touches his elbow to lead him away. "Why don't you go ahead in? I'll be along in a second."

Killian gives a slight nod and heads into her office, but she can see the smile hiding in the corner of his mouth and goddamn it — she is going to kill Ruby for this.

"Granny's doesn't do delivery," she hisses rounding on the other woman as soon as the door to the office clicks shut.

Ruby nonchalantly picks up a cup marked 'HC' and offers it to her. "Can you blame me for wanting to check out the goods?"

She gives her a look that says yes, I can and Ruby rolls her eyes, waving her away dismissively.

"Oh relax," she says. "He wasn't interested. While I was looking at him, he was busy looking at you."

Emma shoots her a glare even as she takes a sip of her hot chocolate. "I'm not paying for this," she states, rather than indulge Ruby in her fantasies. "And stop flirting with my clients."

Ruby waits until she's halfway across the waiting room before she calls out, "I'll just leave that to you then!"

It takes tremendous effort not to slam the office door behind her and she leans against it instead, shutting her eyes for a second to regain her composure.

"Sorry about that," she starts. "It won't happen—" Again, she wants to say but as she looks up for the first time to where Killian is leaning against her work table the word dies in her throat. His arms are crossed over his chest, there's a deadly smirk on his face, and a glint in his eye that makes him look like the cat who caught the canary.

He should be playing for Nashville, she thinks, he looks much more like a predator than a ranger.

A really hot predator, Ruby's voice chimes in in her head.

"You know," he says, pushing off the table and stalking towards her. "If you wanted to gauge my interest, you could have simply asked. No need to call for a second opinion."

Killian comes to a stop right in front of her and Emma swallows thickly. "I…"

"Not to worry, love," he murmurs, voice husky. He's leaning in towards her and he smells so good… Emma licks her lips without thinking and doesn't miss how his eyes drop to follow the action. "I don't mind mixing business with pleasure."

"I…" God, what the hell is wrong with her? Killian lifts his good hand to twirl a lock of hair around his finger and he's standing so close that their heads are only a hair's breadth apart.

"I do," she manages finally. Emma tries to sound firm but the words come out choked instead, like there's a frog stuck in her throat.

Killian pulls back a fraction of an inch. "Pardon?"

"I do mind." Her voice is still a little shaky but it doesn't break and he steps back, the confident seducer act disappearing immediately.

"I'm sorry," he says, reaching up to scratch behind his ear. "I overstepped. I, uh—"

"It's fine." Emma brushes past him to set her hot chocolate down on her desk, more than willing to put some space between them and pretend he didn't almost just kiss her up against the door of her office. "A misunderstanding, that's all."

She takes advantage of having her back to him to collect herself, taking a deep breath and tucking her hair back behind her ears. When she turns around he's gaping at her and she knows that seeming unaffected will be her best ticket out so she raises an eyebrow and gestures to the work table between them.

"Let's just get to work?"

He looks like he wants to say something but clamps his mouth shut and gives her a tight-lipped, apologetic smile instead. "Aye. As you wish."

Killian is on his best behaviour after their almost-kiss. So much so that the change from his brash public personality (and from the swaggering seducer who backed her up against the door) almost gives her whiplash. He still flirts and teases — Emma doesn't think he knows how to switch that off — but he's always cognizant of the line she drew between them.

Sometimes, just to throw her off her game when she starts teasing him back, he'll say something so genuine that she wonders how he's even the same person as the ego indulging superstar she sees in the press. And then he'll grumble about not being allowed to play videogames and her perception snaps back to normal.

"Swan," he says as she walks into the office. He's her first appointment of the day, and she has to admit, it's not terrible seeing him first thing in the morning. Especially when he brings donuts for the entire staff. He's whittled down the selection over the weeks and Emma's not going to complain when it means there's more than one bear claw in the box for her.

She's not going to read into it either.

Killian's standing at the wall, studying the team photo from after she won the national championship in her junior year at Columbia. His phone is out and there's a smile on his face that tells her he needs zero help in picking her out from the lineup.

"You never told me about your feats in the NCAA, love."

Emma shrugs but she knows exactly what he's stumbled across. "Are you googling me now?"

"You force me to stoop to such lows when you're not forthcoming with crucial information."

She smiles a little and puts her hands on her hips, waiting for him to pry himself away from the record of her past achievements. "It was years ago. Forgive me if I don't consider it relevant to fixing your hand."

"You scored the golden goal!" he exclaims, coming over to hop onto the table. "Championship winning goals are always relevant. Always."

"I was good," she concedes. "But I wasn't national team good."

"Never thought about league play?"

Emma shakes her head. "I decided I wanted to stay in the city. I wanted to build something for myself."

"And you did," he says with a soft surety. "You should be proud."

"I am."

It's past time that they stopped talking about her though, so Emma removes the splint and gets to work, positioning his hand and "bending his fingers backward" as he put it to the press. Killian, though, is not deterred.

"Have you ever gone back and soaked in the glory of where it happened?"

"Did you miss the part where I said I quit soccer to start my own practice?" she answers dryly. "I've been too busy to re-live the good old days. Besides, it's not like it was a home game."

Emma's uncomfortable with nostalgia. The picture wouldn't be in her office if she weren't proud of it, but reminiscing has always been a foreign activity to her. She didn't have anything worth looking back on for most of the time she was growing up and hasn't fallen into the habit in the years since.

"I still remember my first tournament winner," Killian says, apparently perfectly content to continue the conversation on his own. "My brother was an assistant coach when I was in peewee. He knew nothing about hockey, actually, but he helped at every game and practice. After we won, he bought a massive cheesecake from the grocery store and we ate it for dessert every night for a week. When I think of winning the cup, I think about eating cheesecake out of it."

He sounds impossibly sincere for how ridiculous a fantasy it is, she thinks. "When we won, I got drunk."

Killian barks out a laugh. "Aye, I'll probably do that too. Point is, I like to go back to where it happened the week before training camp. Reminds me why I do it."

"Why's that?"

"You should know, Swan," he chides. "There's no feeling like it."

He has to reschedule their next appointment for just before lunch and then insists on taking her out to eat after she gives him permission to start practicing with the team again. It's just a stepping stone — he hasn't been cleared for contact or anything — but Emma can't really come up with a good reason to say no.

It's the dimples, she thinks. They suck her in.

She leads him around the corner to Granny's Diner and orders her usual grilled cheese and onion rings, grateful that it's Ashley and not Ruby working for once. Killian gets the lunch special and then calls the blonde waitress back before she reaches the kitchen, suddenly deciding that they both need milkshakes.

"You're going to have a milkshake with lasagna?" Emma says incredulously.

"It says they're world famous, love."

"Does the internet know about your weird food pairings?" There's been a growing disconnect lately between the Killian Jones she hears in interviews and the one who comes to her office multiple times a week.

He winks and fiddles with the straw for his water. "The internet knows all sorts of things about me. Some that I don't even know myself."

Emma recognizes an opening when she sees one and she leaps on it, curious which Killian will answer. "What bothers you most about all the things people say about you?"

"That I lack honour," is the immediate response. His words are visceral and hard and Emma's brows shoot up even as he puts on a bright smile for Ashley when she delivers their shakes. She leans back in the booth while he takes a sip (he got chocolate, she went for strawberry), and waits for him to elaborate.

He doesn't seem to want to, if his dramatic slurping is anything to go by, but eventually gives in with a sigh. "There are lots of people out there that brand me a disgrace to the game, just because I don't fit the same mold as everybody else," Killian explains. "God forbid not all seven hundred players sound identical in their interviews."

"You don't go even a little bit out of the way to get on people's nerves?" she teases skeptically. She's seen him play. He seems to take special pleasure in being an agitator.

"I do a lot of things that piss people off," he admits. "Mostly after goals. But if they don't want me to celebrate then they shouldn't let me score. I'm not going to change who I am for them. I can't. It's what got me here in the first place."

Emma hums because while he's got a point, she can't help but wonder what the general opinion of him would be if he showed a little bit more of the person behind the persona. She gets it — the obnoxious, ego-centric, outspoken superstar is part of who he is but at the same time it's clearly something that he's given a lot of thought to. Killian Jones knows exactly how he comes across to most people and he's made a conscious decision not to try and change it.

He's not going to let anyone tell him who he is or how he should act and Emma respects that immensely. She knows how hard it can be to stubbornly stand your ground when people expect you to be someone you're not. She had to do it her whole life growing up in the system. She can't imagine also doing it in the spotlight of the NHL.

Killian holds the door for her as they leave the diner and Emma pulls her beanie onto her head. It's warm enough now to not need a winter coat, but the wind can still be brisk.

"Thank you for agreeing to have lunch with me," he says as he joins her at the bottom of the steps.

"Thanks for buying," she smirks, turning to head up the sidewalk. She only gets a few steps when she realizes that he's not following and stops to turn back towards him.

Killian's hands are shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket and there's a tight-lipped smile pasted on his face. "I was wondering," he starts, taking a step forward. "Perhaps I could take you to dinner as well."

"Maybe once you're cleared to play," she laughs but his head ducks down and she suddenly feels terrible as realization hits. "You're serious."

"I should have asked sooner," he says, shaking his head. "Back at casino night maybe, before I made a fool of myself trying to kiss you in your office."

"Casino night?" The Rangers' annual charity event was held in the fall, and she'd attended with Walsh as one of Elsa's guests. It may have been six months and a breakup ago, but she's pretty sure she would have remembered Killian Jones being her blackjack dealer.

"I would have asked Elsa for an introduction, but it seemed you were on a date."

"You remembered me when we didn't even speak to each other?"

Surprised doesn't cut it to describe how she feels. Shocked would be better. Amazed, even. And warm. Definitely warm.

He shrugs. "You were stunning, Emma."

"I…" Emma hesitates, unsure how to respond. She's never been good at figuring out what to say when people are being so sincere. Normally she'd make some sort of quip but, well… no one's ever called her stunning before they'd even seen her naked.

Except Emma has rules. And she has rules for good reasons.

"I don't date clients," she says finally.

Killian looks down at the ground in brief disappointment before he meets her eyes again. "Probably a smart policy," he says. "I won't be your patient forever, you know."

"I know," she says, pressing her lips together in an attempt to hold back a smile. "I guess you'll have to ask me again then."

The standings get even tighter once April hits and the playoff race enters the final week. The Rangers are barely hanging on in eighth but they're in control of their own destiny on the last day of the regular season. A win against Boston would guarantee them a spot and depending on the results of the other games could even move them up to seventh. Killian's been almost ready for a few days now, and so Emma makes the trip over to Tarrytown to give her final consultation to the team's medical staff.

It's her first time at the Ranger's practice facility, and it gives her a chance to watch some of the morning skate. She's already inspected the extra padding on Killian's new glove, but it's the first time she's been able to see how well his mostly-recovered hand holds up.

He looks good. As a right-handed shot, his injury doesn't really effect the power of his release, but rather the amount of control and accuracy that he has. It's why she worked so much on mobility before trying to improve the strength in his fingers. She watches him take shots from the slot and works on his stickhandling in between drills and it's clear that he's ready. She's known he would be for about a week now actually but dodged off his persistent queries every time she's seen him.

The thought of not seeing him anymore puts an unwelcome twinge in her chest and she's of half a mind to just blurt out that she'll go out with him. But she's not a hundred percent sure he hasn't changed his mind since she turned him down (again) and… well, it's a big game tonight. She doesn't want to be a distraction.

Elsa brings Dr. Whale over and they each confirm the other's decision: he's good to go. She winds up hanging around until after the press conference and Killian finds her once he gets the news, jogging up to her with a grin on his face.

"So you're coming tonight, then?" he says, as if they were just picking up an earlier conversation.

Emma raises her brows. "I hadn't planned to."

"Saturday night, last game of the season, win-and-we're-in, and you hadn't planned to come watch?" he asks incredulously. "Don't you want to see your hard work pay off?"

She shrugs and he steps closer. "Come to the game tonight, Swan," he says, his voice dropping low. "I'll score a goal for you."

As it happens, Elsa invites her to watch from the owner's box and Emma brings David with her as her 'plus-one.' The buzz in the Garden ramps up as the lights go down and the highlight montage starts up on the scoreboard. Emma's just got her drink from the bar when Killian is announced as a starter and a cheer goes up, filling the arena and sending goosebumps down her arms.

She has a feeling about the game, some nebulous sense that it's going to be a memorable night; the kind you watch highlights of later and think I was there. It's not a playoff game, but it might as well be. Hell, the Bruins are ahead of them in the standings and a possible first round opponent, depending on how the chips fall once all the results are in.

"Good work," David says, nudging her with his shoulder as she sits down next to him.

Emma hides her smile behind her beer as she watches Killian stand at the blue line, restlessly shifting back and forth on his skates. She wonders if it's nerves, but dismisses the idea. She has nerves. Killian is probably just anxious to get going.

"Let's win first," she replies. "Then we can take all the credit."

Killian and his line mates set a fast pace right out of the gate but a few shifts in and the Bruins get an early lead, one of their guys tapping in the puck from the crease when the goalie loses track of a rebound. The Rangers get called for a tripping penalty soon after and the crowd nearly has a collective heart attack when Killian goes down to block a shot. He pops right back up afterwards and David laughs when Emma releases the breath she'd been holding.

She retaliates by elbowing him in the ribs only to have Elsa tap on her shoulder.

"Pretty sure that's a penalty," she says, handing her another drink.

"Only on the ice."

The team gets some momentum back afterwards, but despite several good chances can't put one in the back of the net and the period ends with them trailing 1-0. David spends intermission the checking scores of other games while some executive starts peppering her with questions about her work on Killian's hand. Thankfully, the teams coming back out to start the second give her a polite excuse to end the conversation.

Seven minutes into the period and Killian, parked in the crease, bats a puck out the air and into the net. It's about as messy a goal as you can get but it counts and the arena jumps to life while the team celebrates. Jones, surprisingly, doesn't indulge in his usual theatrics but he does point up at the owner's box as he skates over to the bench and Emma bites her lip to hide her smile.

The goals start coming quick after that. Boston takes the lead again when their ogre of a captain blasts a one-timer from the point and the Rangers get another equalizer with less than a minute to go in the period while on a powerplay.

There's an ugly hit to start the third by some rat-faced Bruin people have been booing all night and the crowd gets angry when no penalty is called. Killian picks a fight with the guy but winds up being the only one sent to the box and the Bruins score with the man-advantage to take the lead for the third time. Jones is seething on the bench afterwards, chewing the ref out when he skates by.

"Somebody tell him to shut up before he gets ejected," Elsa mutters from behind her.

It doesn't come to that, thankfully. In fact it's practically the opposite. Instead of getting derailed even more by the hit and the goal, Killian finds another gear — as if he's decided that they're going to win even if he has to do it entirely by himself. He turns relentless, and not a shift goes by where he doesn't either hit someone or register a shot on net.

He scores the tying goal by going top corner after a dazzling play where he picks up the puck in the neutral zone, splits the Boston defense, and then passes the puck to himself through his legs while moving at top-speed. Emma doesn't usually watch the games, but she's seen enough highlight reels to know that the play is absolutely ridiculous. More than that, it's good enough to get them to overtime, but they still need a second point to lock in their spot.

She's not surprised when it happens — if you had asked her to bet on who would score the winner, he would have been her pick — but Emma still gets swept up in the elation that sweeps the arena when Killian makes it a hat trick less than a minute into extra time. The team pours off the bench, caps get thrown onto the ice, and no matter what the results of the other games, the Rangers are through to the post-season. Killian, unsurprisingly, gets named the first star, and Emma gives a sharp whistle when he comes out to acknowledge the crowd.

"You sure you don't want a job?" Elsa asks, nudging her.

Emma just smiles and shakes her head. "Nah, I think I'm gonna let him take me to dinner instead."

Later, after the press conference and the locker room scrums, Emma finds him in the empty stands, sitting just a few rows up from the bench, staring out at the ice. Soaking in the place where it happened, she thinks. Soaking in the chance for something even greater.

Taking a deep breath to settle her butterflies, she climbs up over the rail and he shoots her a grin when she sits down next to him. His hair is still wet from the shower and she has to resist the urge to brush away a stray bead of water that's trailing down his neck.

"So which of those goals were mine?" she asks instead, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.

"Whichever one you like," he replies. He's leaning back in his seat and she has to turn her head more to look at him.

"You pointed for the first one, but it was a mess. I fixed you so you could play hockey, not baseball."

Killian chuckles. "I wasn't sure there'd be another. You can pick the pretty one instead, it was a good move if I say so myself."

"I think I want the winner, actually. Third time's the charm and all."

"Aye, the winner's a good choice." She leans back in her chair to bump him with her shoulder and Killian dips his head, scratching behind his ear. "I wanted to thank you, Emma," he says, his voice cautious but sincere. "Coming back tonight was always the best case scenario and you made it happen — even though you had every right to dump me after the first week."

"I just did my job, Jones. Neither one of us is in control of how fast you heal. And anyways, you kind of grew on me."

A smile spreads slowly across his face and she closes her eyes as he leans over the armrest between them.

"Have dinner with me tomorrow night," he murmurs into the space between their lips.

Emma just grins and closes the last of the distance between them.

Disclaimer: Killian Jones would never be #9 playing for the Rangers. But this is ficland and as a Habs fan, I gave him that number in honour of The Rocket. Also, he will never, in any fic I write, win a Cup playing for the Rangers. (Why? Because fuck Chris Kreider, that's why.)