Chapter 6
Elephants in the Room
Sam had been at it for nearly a week, and his patience was at a breaking point.
Same stupid routine with the same stupid exercises every day, and little Miss Ice Princess telling him he wasn’t ready for anything more taxing yet.
She refused to get it through her head that he was much stronger than she gave him credit for.
The swelling had gone down, and his ankle didn’t hurt. Well, not as much anyway.
Today they were going to have some words.
He had arrived at the arena early to catch his teammates streaming off the ice after practice. They had been on their way to the showers, getting ready to hop on the charter flight that would wing them away on a four-game West Coast road trip. Without him.
Being with the boys, trading terrible jokes, and hearing them razz one another about missed shots was the best kind of medicine.
He needed some of that energy. Needed to feel like he was still part of the team, even if he wasn’t contributing on the ice.
He needed to know they hadn’t forgotten about him.
And after spending time in the locker room taking their barbs about slacking off, he knew they hadn’t.
Yeah, he still belonged. He was still part of the family. This injury was a blip on the radar.
Never mind that a phenom from their minor league affiliate was joining them on the trip.
He’d been tearing it up, and Coach wanted a closer look.
The kid would be replacing Toby on the fourth line, and Toby would take Sam’s place on the second.
Was Sam selfish for hoping neither guy shone so brightly that the personnel shift would become permanent?
Team first, he reminded himself. But damn it! He’d worked long and hard to get here, and now he was stuck in this damn boot. Not for much longer, though. He’d show Angie he knew more about the way his body worked than she did.
He had three minutes to make it to his PT appointment on time, but his crutching skills had improved in the last six days, and he was riding a cloud after spending time with his teammates, so he wasn’t too worried.
As he was making his way down the hall toward the elevators, Coach Marty LeBrun came out of his office and intercepted him.
“Hey, good to see your face, Durby.”
“Good to be seen, Coach.”
Coach pointed at his ankle. “How’s it coming?”
“Great! Real good. I’ve been keeping up with my exercises, doing everything they tell me, and the therapist and I agree I’m out of the boot after today.”
Coach’s eyebrows rose to his hairline.
Shit! Coach didn’t have to say anything to convey his disbelief.
He was good at silent communication like that.
Sam had embellished, but did Coach know that?
Sure he would because the Ice Princess was meticulous about putting every damn note in his damn report every damn day.
If the trainers were reading that shit, they were reporting it to Coach.
Didn’t keep Sam from running his mouth, though, because there was a chance they weren’t reading all that closely.
“The sprain isn’t as bad as they originally thought. The swelling is down, and most of the bruising is gone.” The first part of his statement was debatable—until he could have that little confab with Angie, that is—but at least the last part was true.
“Don’t rush it,” Coach cautioned. “Injuries like yours take time. We want you back at a hundred percent so you’re healthy and ready to go.”
To which Sam unwisely blurted, “There’s a good chance I’ll make it back before the playoffs.”
Coach let out a noncommittal grunt. “Let’s see how it goes before you start making plans. That’ll be entirely up to your therapist and the training staff.”
Coach LeBrun never minced words, and you always knew where you stood with him. It was one of the many reasons Sam respected the hell out of him. Right now, though, Sam wasn’t too keen on LeBrun’s candor. That particular trait was shooting a deflating dart through Sam’s grand plans.
As he made his way to PT, Sam reminded himself to keep Coach’s warning in perspective.
The man had been there once himself, except Coach’s stint in the bigs hadn’t lasted nearly as long as Sam’s before an injury annihilated his NHL career.
So Coach totally got it, but maybe he was bending over too far backward, thinking he was managing Sam’s expectations.
Sam barged his way into PT and barely escaped the door slamming him in the ass. Attila the Bun scowled at him.
“Hey, why don’t you guys put in a patient-friendly door? It’s hard to maneuver through it as it is without it swinging back on you.”
“If you showed up a few minutes early, Mr. Durbin, you would have enough time to carefully maneuver through the doorway,” Attila sniffed.
“Not all of us have the luxury of arriving early, especially when the office is the farthest door from the elevator. Who designed this layout anyway?”
“We have one of the most state-of-the-art physical therapy departments in this city. But if it makes you feel better, this office is temporary. We are changing locations in the next six months.”
“Ha! Hopefully I won’t be visiting this office in six months.”
One corner of her mouth lifted. “One can only hope.” She gestured toward the open room. “Miss Rossi is ready for you.”
Oh, Miss Rossi was most definitely ready. She stood on the other side of her table, her arms folded like battle armor across her chest, and her brows cinched so tightly together he could count the pleats from here.
“I know. I’m late,” he huffed as he lifted his crutch and hopped the rest of the way to her table.
“That’s not what I’m concerned about.”
“No? What is it this time?”
She took his crutch from him as he hoisted himself onto the vinyl. “Where’s your second crutch?”
“At home, holding back a curtain.” He pivoted and brought both legs onto the table.
“It would do you more good tucked under your other arm. And how much hopping are you doing?”
“Outside of my apartment? That’s my first try at hopping. No, that’s not true. I was hopping in the locker room just now too.” He flashed her a humorless smile. “Impressed?”
She removed his boot. “Not in the least. Your gait is off. I think you’d better go back to two crutches until we both decide you’re ready to go with one.”
He flopped backward. “Christ, you’re really good at crushing a guy’s spirits, you know that?”
“This is therapy, not preschool.”
“Haha. And what’s with all the kid jokes anyway?”
She slid off the protective liner and began examining his ankle. “Well, when you act like a toddler, I have to treat you like one.”
“Oh goodie. Does that mean I get a sticker today?”
Her gaze remained fixed on his ankle. “Yes, as soon as I’m done here, I’ll get you a sticker.” She lifted icy eyes to his. “For your mouth.”
He let go a chuckle. A sincere one this time. “Jesus, you’re sassy. You don’t date, do you?” When she didn’t respond, he prodded. “I say that because I’m not sure what kind of guy would ask you out … unless he’s into sadomasochism.”
“Interesting,” she mumbled.
He sat up on his elbows. “What? What do you see?”
She stood back and leveled him with a withering gaze.
“I’m not talking about the ankle. I was referring to the fact that you asked me out at least once.
Something you want to share about your …
proclivities?” She held up her hand. “Never mind. That was unprofessional. Besides, I don’t want to know. ”
She spun on her heel before he could muster a protest. When she returned moments later with the Game Ready machine, he still hadn’t come up with a clever jab. How come he could hurl perfect retorts without batting an eye when it came to his teammates, but with her, he sputtered?
After sliding on the sleeve, she fired up the machine.
It inflated around his ankle and began circulating cold water.
She fetched a pillow, and he obediently lifted his shoulders from the table so she could stuff it beneath his head.
He lay there, hands folded over his belly, eyes staring up the acoustic-tile ceiling while he fumed.
As she turned away, he called to her. “What, no twenty questions today?”
Her voice was as cold as the sleeve surrounding his ankle. “Twenty-three. And like I said, I already know everything I need to know. This would be a good time to—”
“Grab my earbuds. Got it.” He extracted the tiny case from his pocket to show to her and promptly stuffed it back in.
“No photography lessons today?”
“Not in the mood,” he groused.
“It’s your party.” She turned, and her ponytail slashed across her shoulders.
Before she could walk away, he caught her by the wrist. Without flinching, she looked down her nose at where his hand encircled her wrist. It was so slender she could have wriggled out of his grasp.
Instead, she let it hang limply while she raised a haughty eyebrow. “Can I help you?”
“What’s up with my ankle?” He had to be breaking some kind of rule, but he didn’t release his hold on her.
“I’ll know more after our exercises today.” She slid her hand from his grasp and went to work on the keyboard at her standing station.
The woman was infuriating, so why was he even trying to engage?
He’d blown Charlotte off without a second thought the other night, but something about Angie was like a festering thistle between his toes.
Not that Charlotte and Angie were in the same category.
Charlotte was a good time, if he wanted it, and Angie was a bad time he didn’t want any part of.
He eyed her. “Are we ever going to talk about the elephant in the room?”
Her eyes flicked to his. She reached behind her and swiped something from a basket sitting on her desk. She held it up. It was the stupid bright pink stress ball. “This elephant? Is that why you’re so grumpy today?” A mischievous smile played over her lips as she lobbed it at him.