Chapter 7
seven
. . .
Amelia
Work settles into a routine. This is my third hockey team; I’ve got the basics down. Each morning, I meet with Derek, the head athletic trainer, Dr. Hudson, the team orthopedist, and Trevor, the rehabilitation director, plus the two other PTs, Zac and Graham.
Is it unnerving being the only female on the team?
A little. But I grew up with a single father and a brother.
I’ve always thrived in male-dominated environments, and I’m not about to let something as simple as nerves get in my way.
If it takes sheer spite to succeed in this world, by damn, I’ll do it.
We go over the known injuries on the team, the things we’re watching out for, and Trevor gives us directions.
For the most part, I have flexibility to assign my patients exercises, but all the PTs have to run our long-term treatment plans past him.
It’s not personal, even if being micro-managed rankles.
At least it’s all three of us and not just me being singled out.
Dr. Hudson heads back to his clinic—he comes in for our daily meeting, and then examines anyone who needs seeing to before returning to his daily gig. Trevor goes back to his desk. Derek divvies up the caseload between me, Zac, and Graham.
Larsson is usually my first patient of the day. His right ankle is bugging him, and he likes to get it worked on before morning skate, and then focus on strength training and recovery. He can skate through the pain, but it still needs a bit of attention.
The quiet Swede is a joy to work on. He flinches when I touch him, so I make sure to warm my hands first, and then he does the exercises I select without griping. If only all my patients were as amenable as him.
After Larsson, my morning is a flurry of activity. Reynolds, Jenkins, and Sinclair all get treatments, and I’m just typing up the notes on Henry’s shoulder when there’s a knock on the door. Zac is on the ice with MacGregor and Graham is taking a coffee break, so I’m alone for once.
“Hm?” I glance over my shoulder at the noise, and then freeze.
Jason McKittrick is in the doorway, a stricken look on his face. For such a bold man, I’m surprised he’s so skittish around me.
“How can I help you?” I ask, putting aside my work tablet.
“My, uh, knee. It’s sore.”
“Hop on up.” I pat the exam table, pulling a fresh sheet of paper over it, and then grab a new pair of gloves.
McKittrick looks at me, then at the table, and then back to me. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I can wait for someone else.”
Hands on my hips, I glare at him. “Do you have a problem with me working on you?”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “No?”
“Because it seems like you do.”
“I don’t,” he says quickly. “It’s only…”
“What?” Is this because he’s seen me naked?
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he finally says.
“Right now, you’re just pissing me off,” I mutter under my breath. I pat the table again. “Come on, let me work out your issue and get you on your way.”
And out of my way.
He grunts as he steps up onto the table, stretching out. Even with our extra-long exam tables, he hangs off the edge. After all, he is the tallest player on the team at six-foot-six.
I start with a visual inspection. The skin isn’t broken or bruised; no acute injury. Leading with a soft tissue massage, I palpate the knee, watching his face closely for any hint of pain.
McKittrick grimaces when I touch him, and instead of backing off, I go deeper. His soft grunt gives me immense satisfaction.
“It’s your osteoarthritis,” I tell him. “We can get it straightened out.”
“Great. Awesome,” he grunts, as I continue to stimulate the area. “How about now?”
Finishing my exam, I offer him a hand, and he swings into an upright position. I take a seat on my stool and pick up my tablet, flicking to his file.
“You’ve had four surgeries on that knee.”
“Well, one was in high school,” he says. “Does it still count?”
“Yes, even last century still counts,” I tease.
He makes a face. “I’m not old.”
“Didn’t say you were.” Although the streaks of gray in his hair do lend him a distinguished air.
“You’re just a child.” He scowls, as if personally offended.
“I’m twenty-seven.” Not that my age has anything to do with him.
His swallow echoes loudly. “Fuck.”
“Are we going to talk about how old you are? Because at thirty-seven—”
“I’m far from the oldest player in the league. There are guys five years older than me still playing,” McKittrick says with a petulant scowl, as if the expressions makes him seem younger.
There are three players over forty in the league. A few more in their late thirties. They’re an anomaly, not the norm.
“You’re the oldest player on this team.” I shrug. “I’m not complaining, though. You should play as long as you’re able. And if we take care of your knee, I don’t see why you can’t have another few seasons.”
“Few.” He turns the word over, distaste clear on his features. “Not five. Not ten. A few.”
“Nobody’s career is guaranteed. I don’t have a crystal ball. How many more seasons is up to you and your agent. But we can work together to keep you in shape, to keep your knee performing at its best.”
Slowly, he nods. “Okay.”
“Good. Let’s get to work.”
We focus on stabilizing his knee and doing some stretching exercises. He's a fairly good sport, all things considered. His earlier hesitation with me aside, I think we can work together. Maybe. Possibly.
If I don’t give in to tearing off his clothes first.
This job means too much to me to throw it all away on a casual fuck. I don't get lasting, forever vibes from McKittrick. He's too focused on hockey. He's too focused on the here and now. He's not ready for a future.
And frankly, me neither. I'm only twenty-seven.
I have enough on my plate, starting over in a brand new city with no friends, aside from my brother and his husband.
I love them dearly, but they're fuckheads.
And they're starting their own family. They don't need me crashing in their apartment.
They deserve to start their own life without me in it.
Even if the thought of more distance from Tyler anymore makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry.
Brandon never makes me feel less than for needing my big brother.
If anything, he supports me and encourages my relationship with Tyler.
He really is the best possible partner for my brother.
I couldn't be happier that the two of them get their happily ever after.
Even if it means I probably need to find a new place to live.
For now, though, I'll focus on work. I'll make new friends, even if I have to go outside my comfort zone. I can totally make new friends. I've done it before. I'm sure I'll have to do it again. I can do hard things. That's the story of my life, isn't it? We all have to do hard things.
McKittrick won't meet my eyes as I help him stretch his hamstring.
He lets out a satisfying grunt when I press on the back of his leg, testing his mobility.
It's an incredibly intimate position, me leaning on his leg, pressing into his body.
Our faces are close, his breath puffing on my lips.
But then I hit that point, the angle that gets to him, and he lets out a sigh, going pliant. He gives in. He submits.
He might not submit in any other aspect of his life, but here on my table, I'm the one in control. I'm the one in charge. And I fucking love it.