Chapter 9 - Theo
Theo
“How’s it looking, Doc?” No answer. She hadn’t said much after telling me to lie down on the exam table. “I’ve been feeling a lo—”
The subtle change in pressure on my shoulder shut me up immediately. Then her weight shifted and suddenly she wasn’t standing beside the table anymore.
I bit my tongue as she climbed up onto the table, my words vanishing the second her knee landed across my hip. Straddling me. My brain pitched and scrambled to process the proximity, the warmth of her body against mine. Jesus.
Every sarcastic remark stalled in me. There was nothing more than the blinding awareness of it. The steady balance of her thighs, the pressure of her hands. The table creaked beneath us as she moved.
“Needed a better angle, sorry,” she muttered under her breath.
Her thumbs pressed into my deltoid, holding the muscle firm. Then the tape unrolled with a loud rip and slid across my skin. She worked without words or fuss, her precision tugging at the constant ache in my joint until it flared in protest at the correction.
“You’re not gonna be able to fake it for much longer.” Her breath brushed my neck, and I flinched. A fraction of a shift that betrayed the tiny spike of tension coiling in my gut.
“Hopper…”
But she didn’t know how hard I was fighting to keep control, so ignored the start of my objection.
Her hands moved along the tape, circling, anchoring.
I could feel the gentle pull of her fingers as they adjusted, pressing the strip down along the line she’d drawn every other time, the one that kept my joint from losing its shit during body checks.
“I don’t have to tell you this isn’t healing up the way it should.” More pressure, and this time it was curious instead of probing. It was as if I could hear the cogs in her brain clicking over.
She was right—an annoying habit of hers I was coming to not like so much. But I didn’t want to hear it.
“I’m fine,” I said, trying to mask the spike of heat in my shoulder. My teeth ground against it. “Stronger than ever, actually. Shoulder’s holding.”
Her incredulous silence made me want to roll out of her grasp just to prove a point. I felt her unmoving stare burn into the back of my skull, sure that if I turned around, the look in her eyes would floor me.
“Every game just adds to the damage,” she said, readying another strip. “Without a scan, there’s no way to tell what we’re working with.”
I’d survived worse than this, taken shifts that would have left someone else limping off the ice. I’d held myself together while the team floundered last season, felt the weight of every goal scored against us like a chain around my ribs. I could handle this. I had to handle this.
“Scan, my ass.”
Her thighs squeezed tighter, and I lost the thread of my thought over the faint brush of her chest above me. Why the hell did she have to do that? This was hard enough without having her heartbeat thrumming against my back.
The answer came a second later, when a searing pain shot through my arm right down to my fingertips.
“See?” Because of course she noticed it. There was no getting anything past this one. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I said I’m fine,” I repeated, this time with more force behind the words to make my tone match my insistence. “I’m not some kid who needs to be micromanaged, thanks.”
She huffed an impatient sigh, and rocked back so her chest no longer wreaked havoc with me. “Honesty, Bouchard. That was the first rule. Total honesty. You can’t just will your shoulder back to full function because it’s convenient.”
I let the words simmer, kept my jaw tight. “I’m being honest, okay? You’re just paranoid. I can feel it holding. It’s fine.”
“You’ve been feeling ‘fine’ since last season.
And look where it got you.” She pressed a little more, just enough to anchor my upper arm, to keep the joint aligned.
My body reacted despite my fight for calm, hand clenching the edge of the table.
I gripped the vinyl like it could tether me to a reality where I wasn’t in pain.
I hated it. Hated that she saw too much. That I couldn’t respond without sounding weak. Also that she insisted on pushing buttons that didn’t need pushing.
“You don’t understand,” I said, sounding stupid and defensive and exactly like the little kid I just swore I wasn’t. And as soon as her weight shifted, I pushed to sit up. Without waiting for her to find even footing.
She was pissed off, but so was I. “You’ve never had to carry a whole team, a whole cup run on your back.”
“I never said I did.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to play with a huge loss tattooed on your face. With everyone watching and waiting for you to screw up again. So maybe butt out and let me do my job.”
Her face had turned a dangerous shade of red. “Butt out? I’m the only thing keeping you on that ice. Or have you forgotten?”
My arm was numb and raging at the same time. Fucking idiot. I shouldn’t have pushed off the table that hard.
But I was done being treated like some invalid.
“Quit acting like we don’t both have stakes in this, Hopper.”
“Oh, you don’t have to remind me,” she said, matching me beat for beat.
“I know why I’m doing this, but can you say the same?
” Her voice was strangely cold. It hurt almost more than my fucking arm.
“You’re putting your body on the line for a game.
A game! Never mind that it could wreck your career and probably affect strength and mobility for the rest of your life. It’s—”
“It’s none of your goddamn business what I do, or how I do it.” I fumbled with my compression shirt. Thanks to my little tantrum, it was impossible to do without wincing. I caught the way she almost reached over to help me, but then forced her hands into the pockets of her track pants.
“You were stupid to push yourself this far, this badly,” she said, seething.
“I guess that’s not your problem anymore, now is it?”
“Bouchard—”
My hand froze on the door handle, but I didn’t turn around.
“I know the body like you know hockey,” she said, coming over to me. “I know what I’m talking about when I say you have to get that shoulder scanned, or risk doing irreversible damage.”
I swallowed. She was right. And that fact was infuriating. I wanted to tell her to leave me alone, to step off, to let me handle it my way. Instead I jerked my shoulder in a slight shrug, just enough to indicate movement without betraying weakness, and wrenched the door open.
“I’m not gonna tell you again. I’m fine.” Then I left the med bay, stalking down the Delta Center hallway, back to our locker room.
*
The rink lights hit me like a spotlight the second I stepped onto the ice.
Utah had been rattled the last few games, but no team in the playoffs could be taken lightly.
I tucked my chin and skated through the warm-up, letting the chatter from my teammates roll past, a mix of ribbing and last-minute strategy.
Reese hadn’t been subtle in getting under my skin earlier, and it was still there, a tight coil I couldn’t unwind. I shoved it aside for the time being though, focusing on the puck and the boards and the ice beneath my skates.
The first faceoff, and Mason darted up the left wing, eyes on the crease. He called for a pass. Grayson angled toward the net while Shawn cut across the slot, drawing the defense wide. I held the line just inside the blue, ready to intercept.
But it wasn’t necessary. Not just yet. Because Mason slotted the puck hard and low, right in the left corner.
“Booyah!”
Game on.
I pivoted a little too sharply, shoulder flaring in protest, but my skates stayed steady.
“Okay there, Bouchard?” Hunter smacked his pads with his stick. “Looking a little weak in the knees.”
“What can I say? Your mom always has this effect on me.” I skated behind his net with a cackle I knew would add insult to injury.
“Suck it.” He flipped me off when I came back around.
“That’s what I told her last night,” I replied without missing a beat. “Made her day.”
He lunged for me with his stick, but the whistle went again and put an end to the fun and games for the moment.
Utah tried to push back harder than I’d expected. A winger barreled into the boards, and I met him with a shoulder check, grunting through the impact. My stick smacked against his as I tried to steer the puck away, and I barely managed to stay upright.
Hunter’s voice cut across the crease. “First time, big guy?”
I twisted to block a cross-ice pass, and got rid of my winger once and for all. My arm screamed, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t gonna stop moving unless the damn thing fell off, like Reese said.
Second period kicked off like a shot to the gut.
Utah wasn’t just going to lie down, even if we’d outclassed them so far.
Mason and Grayson were already barking at each other, circling, pointing, jabbing sticks at passing lanes.
I stayed tight on the blue line, eyes scanning, arm buzzing under the tape.
“Got any room?” Tucker handed off a Utah winger and went zooming after the two forwards making a line for Hunter.
I back-slammed the winger into the boards and watched him sink to the ice. By the time I turned back to help Tucker, he’d cleared the zone. The puck was already gliding back toward the Utah goal. Shawn lost a turnover, but fought back to turn it over again. Back up the ice.
Mason snatched the loose puck and ripped it toward the net. Utah’s goalie lunged, blocked it with a glove, but the rebound ricocheted into Mason’s stick again. He snapped it past the goalie with a low, precise flick. Goal. Bench erupted, teammates hollered, and I grinned even if my shoulder didn’t.