Chapter 8 #2
I laugh, picturing a pint-sized kindergartner flanked by four older brothers.
“It sure makes a statement to the other kids. Lyla’s brave.
And resilient,” I add. “I drop her off at the college’s daycare in the mornings, and then they take her to the elementary school a few hours later.
My mom is retired, so she picks Lyla up from school. So far, it’s a good system.”
“Right. You haven’t lived in Northridge Village for very long?” He questions, and I don’t like that I’m pleased he remembered me mentioning that a few weeks ago.
I pick up the iPad on the roller tray to have something to do with my hands. “We used to live with my parents, but I thought us having our own space would be a good idea now that she’s in school.”
“Multi-generational homes are very much a thing in other parts of the world. And they’re becoming more popular in the United States with the rise in cost-of-living.”
I open my mouth and then shut it again. God, he’s full of surprises.
But more than anything, it’s just really nice to have an adult conversation that doesn’t center around hockey (if I’m talking to other people on the coaching staff) or my dating life (if I’m talking to my mom).
“I think I just wanted Lyla to know that the two of us, together, are a family, too.”
I look away, embarrassed. I didn’t mean to tell him that last part.
“So, it seems like there’s no Mrs. Chase in the picture?” he asks, his head tilted upward so that I feel forced to meet his stare.
There’s another look that he has sometimes–curiosity.
I can see it written across his face. And I know that it shouldn’t, but it sends a thrill through me.
Regardless, I don’t get into the details about Lyla’s mom with almost anyone.
It’s just easier that way. “We met when I played in Seattle, but she’s not in the picture.
I’ve had full custody of Lyla since she was born. ”
I can see that he has other questions, but my tone makes it clear that I’ve told him all that I’m willing to share.
He nods. “She’s lucky to have such a great team of people around her.”
“How are you feeling about the first game coming up?” I ask, changing the subject from my flailing attempts at creating stability for Lyla.
“You mean the one where I’ll be riding the bench?
” He lengthens his uninjured leg and arches his back, his fingers brushing his sneakers.
He holds the stretch in place. “I’ve been a starter since halfway through my freshman year, so it’ll be an adjustment for sure.
Until this season, I hadn’t missed a single game.
” There’s a hint of pride–and sadness–in his voice.
“You’ve never missed a game?” Sure, players push through illness and light injury all the time, but life happens. It’s unavoidable–especially in a high contact sport like hockey.
He nods, shifting backward as his hand runs along his shin, knee, and then thigh.
I track the movement with my eyes but only so that I can make sure that he’s not overworking his muscles.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. “I guess the fates decided to stockpile all my missed time for my senior year.”
And we both know that it will make heading into a semi-pro or pro league straight after college almost impossible.
If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to play the second half of the season and then any playoff games, if the Renegades make it.
Which is a tall order with their starting center having just graduated and Asher riding the bench.
Sure, hockey’s a team sport, but with only five skaters on the ice–plus the goalie–at any given time, one person missing can really mess up the rhythm of a line.
“Let’s do some leg raises.” I put my hand on his knee, hoping to distract him from going too far down this path.
“Lay back down.” Fluidly, he extends back onto the mat.
“Now, we’ll start with your healthy leg first so that you can get a sense of your normal range of motion.
Bend your knee and put your left foot against the mat.
” He does as instructed. “Now, tighten your quad muscles on your straight leg.”
“Like this?” He looks at me for confirmation.
I place my hand on his thigh, feeling the strength of the muscles even with his lack of exercise over the last few months.
God, when did I become so unprofessional?
I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ve never had a response like this before to the fifty-plus players that I’ve treated during my physical therapy career.
I push out a quick exhale, hoping that he doesn’t notice.
“That’s good. Now, lift your leg six inches off the floor. ”
He does, and I can see the effort written across his face. The muscle mass that he has left, which is impressive all things considered (clinically, obviously), hasn’t been worked in any meaningful way since his injury. The focus has been on mitigating atrophy.
I rest my hand underneath his calf like I’m spotting him. Instead of holding any of the weight, I provide a guide with my fingertips to extend the stretch by lifting his leg higher. “How does that feel?” I ask.
“Good,” he grits out before a puff of laughter escapes with his lie. His leg drops back to the ground, the movement pinning my arm underneath it. The motion drags me from the medicine ball down on one knee.
It brings us closer together, and with the arm not trapped, I dig my fingertips into the carpeted floor. If I don’t, I’ll crash into him.
And that would be very bad both professionally and personally. Especially with the playful glint in his eye that I’ve never seen before.
“Hey, Wyatt–” I don’t notice Zane walking into the sports medicine room until he’s looking between me and Asher, studying us in a way that I don’t like.
I twist my neck, looking backward toward the door.
It’s hard to pry my focus away from the sly smile on Asher’s face.
I wonder if he has any idea what he’s doing to me?
I don’t have time to consider it because Zane, out of anyone, knows that there’s no therapeutic reason for us to be positioned like this.
From his vantage point, it looks like I’m about to drape my body over Asher’s and kiss him.
Even though I’m not doing anything wrong, I still feel unease wash over me. I keep my voice even when I ask, “Hey, Zane. What’s up?”
He’s still glancing between us when he finally responds, “I had a question about the taping protocol for Carter.”
Why isn’t Asher letting my hand go? I look at him, my eyes pleading.
Sure, I could wrestle my arm from underneath him, but it’s like he’s made of concrete.
Finally, he must see the anxiousness written across my face.
He lifts his leg the slightest bit so that I can retract my hand, which I do immediately.
I sigh with relief. In a second, I’m on my feet, hands braced on my hips.
What was I doing? Right. Zane has a question about Carter’s taping protocol.
I grab my iPad off the table and look toward Zane.
“I’ll come with you to the locker room.” I spare Asher a quick glance. “Let’s wrap for today. Good work.”
As I follow Zane out of the medicine room, I try not to think about how I’m going to handle the effect that my most challenging patient has on me.
I’m hoping that Zane doesn’t mention what he saw in the sports medicine room, even if he didn’t technically see anything. It’s not like he can read my mind. Thankfully.
He’s one of the less friendly members of staff which is a bummer since I work the closest with him. There’s probably some political reason that I haven’t been here long enough to understand yet, so I’ve been continuing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“So, what was that about?” he asks once we hit the main hub of the hockey complex.
I groan inwardly. “What was what about?”
“You and Reynolds looked like you were about to get into a wrestling match. Can’t be good for his recovery.” This isn’t the first dig Zane’s made about my recovery plans. Honestly, the most shocking part of him walking into the room is that he’d want my feedback on anything.
“Asher knows what he can and cannot handle from a therapeutic standpoint,” I defend. But also, fuck this guy. “And so do I.”
“Oh, Asher is it?” he says with a tone that raises the hair on the back of my neck.
“Have I been calling the guy by the wrong name? That’s embarrassing,” I chuckle. I’m trying to play this weird conversation off the best that I can, but he’s not making it easy.
“To the team, he’s Dutch. Do you two have some special relationship or something?” Now, there’s no mistaking the tone.
I halt on the tile flooring, my shoes squeaking with the quick stop. I square up to him. “Are you implying something, Zane?”
“I play in a beer league with Damian Harris. The college hockey world is a lot smaller than you think, Chase.” His face is impassive. Frustratingly so.
I flex my fingers but keep my hands down at my side. I don’t need this asshole making trouble for me when I haven’t actually done anything to warrant it. Plus, last I saw Damian, he was so far in the closet that he was practically in Narnia.
Maybe that’s changed. Either way, it’s none of my damn business who he’s decided to come out to since then. I put my hands in my pockets and rock back on the balls of my feet. “I hope that Damian’s doing well.”
He looks me up-and-down. “Clearly not as well as you’re doing. A D1 physical therapist with only two years of collegiate experience. That’s really something special.”
“So, are you mad on behalf of Damian or because you think some version of my job should have been yours?” I don’t mention that Zane’s not even qualified to do the role that they hired me for. It’s clear that he doesn’t see it that way.
“You better watch your step, Chase.”
“Noted.” I glance at my watch. “Now, I’d rather not keep Carter waiting.”