Page 44 of Smitten Pucking Orc

What I hadn’t written was: Your goalie is an idiot who thinks his feelings are bigger than anatomy.

My phone rang as I was unlocking the office. Coach Beecham.

I answered. “Morning, Coach.”

“Give it to me straight.”

I ran through the findings again, including the timeline and the reality of what we were looking at. He listened without interrupting. When I’d finished, he was quiet for a long moment.

“So we’re playing Drachmar in game one,” he said.

“And game two. Maybe even game three, unless you want to risk Brashe tearing it completely and losing him for the season.”

“Damn.” He exhaled hard. “Right. Do you think you can have him ready for game three? That’s our first home game. We need him.”

“I’ll do my best, but I make no promises. It depends on how he responds to treatment.”

“He’ll respond. He doesn’t have a choice.”

I wanted to tell him that everyone had a choice. Brashe had already made his when he decided a rookie’s education mattered more than his own body. But the coach had already hung up.

Later, I sat in the treatment room, staring at the MRI images on my computer. The inflammation showed up bright white against the dark muscle tissue. I traced it with my finger on the screen.

Uneven footsteps rang out in the hallway. Limping.

I closed the file and pulled up Brashe’s treatment schedule, locking my professional face in place.

He appeared in my office doorway, looking like he hadn’t slept either. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and his jaw was tight with pain he was trying to hide. As usual, he wore compression shorts and a team hoodie.

“Sit,” I said, pointing to the second chair I’d dragged over beside mine. “We need to talk about your MRI results and how this is going to work from now on.”

I walked him through the images, pointing out the inflammation and explaining in detail what he’d done to himself.

When I finished, he said, “I’m sorry.”

“That won’t fix torn muscle fibers.”

“You’re right.”

I gave him the new schedule. Twice-daily sessions, aggressive manual therapy, pool therapy, and targeted exercises that would hurt. “No exceptions. We can’t take shortcuts. And absolutely no more ice time.”

He nodded.

“I mean it. I can’t keep working with you if you don’t meet me halfway.”

“I will.”

We went to the treatment room, and I began all over again.

When it was time for lunch, I walked to my car to eat rather than going to the break room. I’d meal-prepped on Sunday, trying to be responsible, and the container sat in a cooler on my backseat. The parking lot was full now, players and staff coming and going.

Brashe’s truck sat in the far corner, a few spaces over from mine. As I got closer, I tried to look casual, though I doubted I succeeded.

He’d reclined in the driver’s seat, and his eyes were closed, his jaw clenched. The instruction sheet sat on the dashboard.

I suspected he was icing the limb in his truck because he didn’t want anyone inside to see him doing it. I wanted to knock on his window and tell him he didn’t have to hide in his truck like he was doing something shameful. Icing an injury wasn’t weakness. But my feet had stopped moving and my hand was already on my car door. If I walked over there, he’d know I was checking on him.

Two hours later, while walking to the treatment room for Fedor’s knee assessment, I passed the gym.