Chapter 21 Emmett
EMMETT
She steps into the workout area, scans the room, and says hi to her brothers before those hazel eyes land on me.
Her expression shifts as she looks me over.
Not in a lustful way but in a clinical way.
Studying me. Shit. She's noticed the shoulder.
My heart rate picks up, and it's not from the bike.
She walks toward me, and I watch as her ponytail swings back and forth.
The way her tits bounce against the cotton fabric of her polo shirt.
Fuck. She is beautiful. She stops directly in front of my bike and doesn't look happy.
"You're in trouble." Sully chuckles as he gets off his bike.
My legs slow down as I look up at her.
"Emmett." She says my name sternly.
"No."
She sighs as if she knew this was going to be a fight. "You're favoring your left side."
"I know."
"You're grimacing every rotation," she adds quietly so as not to alert the guys, which I appreciate.
I force my face to relax. "I'm fine."
She steps closer, arms crossed, those eyes locked on mine. Joelle is the physio now, not the girl who melted in my arms yesterday.
"Get off the bike," she states.
"I'd do what she says, Cap. Don't let the quiet disposition fool you, Joelle can be scary," Felix teases as he gets off the bike, wipes the sweat from his face, and moves on.
"I've got three more minutes," I argue.
"Now," she demands, there's no room for argument. I hear a couple of oohs and aahs from the boys. "Don't think I won't do the same to any of you guys," she warns the room. They quickly all shut their mouths.
I step off the bike and my legs feel shaky, she notices.
"Treatment room, let's go." Her voice is professional.
Detached. But her eyes aren't, I see the worry there, hidden beneath the clinical mask.
She cares. Not sure why that makes my insides do somersaults, but it does.
I follow her out of the workout area, down the corridor, away from the noise of the locker room.
My shoulder throbs with each step. The adrenaline from the game is wearing off, now it's just pain.
Sharp. Constant. She walks ahead of me and doesn't look back, doesn't speak.
But I can see the tension in her shoulders.
Her treatment room is empty as she flips on the lights and gestures to the table. "Sit."
I do as I'm told, the padding cold against my thighs. I'm still in just the compression shirt and shorts from cool-down, damp with sweat.
She washes her hands at the sink, then turns to face me. Those hazel eyes meet mine, for just a second, I see it, the worry, then she blinks it away.
"Which shoulder?" she asks.
"Right."
She steps closer, right between my legs. The heat of her body radiates toward me. I can smell her. Vanilla and something floral. The same as yesterday. The same as when she was beneath me on my couch. Fuck. My dick twitches to life. Down, boy. Now is not the time.
"Show me where it hurts."
I lift my right arm, try to rotate it, and pain shoots through the joint, I hiss through my teeth.
Her jaw tightens. "Don't move it. Just point."
I drop my arm and point to the front of my shoulder. "Here. And back here."
She nods and steps even closer, her thigh brushing mine. "I need to take your shirt off."
My heart hammers, not from pain but from fear my body is going to react in a non-professional way. She reaches for the hem, her fingers brush my stomach, bare skin on bare skin. I tense.
"Relax," she says quietly, but her voice is tight, almost strained as if she's as affected as I am by the situation.
She lifts the shirt, slowly, carefully, over my injured shoulder first, the movement makes me wince.
Then over my head and over my good shoulder.
Now I'm shirtless, sitting on the table, her standing between my thighs, trying to tell my dick it's not time to play.
Her eyes scan my shoulder, assessing it, I watch the way her chest rises and falls faster than it should.
"I'm going to examine the joint. Tell me if anything hurts.
" I nod, not trusting my voice. Her hands land on my shoulder.
Bare. Warm. Gentle. The contact sends electricity through me as her fingers press into the muscle.
Probing. Searching for the problem. I grit my teeth from the pain and from the feel of her touching me.
"Here?" She presses the front of my shoulder.
Pain flares white-hot. Making me flinch. "Yes." I groan.
Her fingers move to the back and press again, deeper this time.
I nearly come off the table. "Fuck."
"Sorry." She winces, but her hands don't leave my skin, they trace the muscle, the bone, mapping the damage.
Every touch is calculated. Methodical. And yet it sets me on fire.
I'm hyperaware of everything. The warmth of her palms against my skin.
The way she's biting her bottom lip in concentration.
How close she is. Her scent. The memories of yesterday flutter through my mind.
Her fingers slide down to my collarbone, sending goosebumps against my skin, a hard press but I barely feel it through the haze of wanting her.
"Can you lift your arm? Slowly," she asks.
I try to get it about halfway before the pain stops me cold. She catches my arm, her hands wrap around my bicep, supporting the weight. Then she lowers it gently back down. Her touch lingers, just a second longer than necessary. Our eyes meet, the air between us crackles.
She swallows. "Can you rotate it? Internal rotation."
I try to move my arm behind my back but I can't, the pain is too much. She's watching my face, reading every expression.
"External?" I try to rotate it outward. It's better but still hurts. "Limited range of motion," she says, more to herself than me. Her hands are still on my arm, still touching me. "AC joint is compromised. Grade 2 sprain. Possibly Grade 3 if you keep playing on it."
"In English, Trouble," I say, throwing in her nickname.
Her eyes snap to mine. "Your shoulder is injured. The ligaments are stretched. Not torn yet ..." Those hazel eyes land on me. "You need rest."
"Can I play through it?" I ask.
"Yes but ... Emmett." Her hands drop from my arm, she steps back, putting distance between us. "You need rest. Ice. Anti-inflammatories. If you keep playing, you could tear it completely. That's surgery."
"It's just sore, I’ve had worse." I moan.
"It's injured. There's a difference."
"I'll be fine."
"You won't." Frustration bleeds into her voice. "I watched you struggle through ten minutes on a bike. You can barely lift your arm. Your face went white when I pressed on the posterior joint."
"I'm the captain. I don't sit out games."
She raises a brow at me. "Even when you're hurt?"
"Especially when I'm hurt."
We're staring at each other, too close despite the space she put between us, it’s too intense. Her hands clench into fists at her sides.
"You're being stubborn."
"I'm looking out for my team."
"You're being reckless."
"It's hockey. We're all reckless," I joke but it doesn't land.
"That doesn't mean you should be."
The silence stretches between us.
"I need to file a report," she says finally. "Document the hit."
"Fine."
"And I'm recommending missing one game for rest."
"Also, fine. Doesn't mean I'll take your recommendation," I answer snarkily.
Those hazel eyes flare with anger. "But coach will." She turns on her heel to leave, shoulders tense, she's frustrated with me.
"Joelle," I call out to her. She stops at the door but doesn't turn around, she's really upset with me. "Thank you. For checking on me."
"It's my job," she says before storming out.