Chapter 22 Joelle
JOELLE
Istorm down the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Impossible. Stubborn. Reckless man. He's going to destroy that shoulder.
I saw the way he winced when I pressed the posterior joint, and felt the instability in the ligaments as I watched his face go white with pain. And he wants to play through it. Idiot.
The treatment room lights are harsh after the dim corridor. Mike's at the supply cabinet, his back to me as he organizes rolls of tape by size. The familiar smell of antiseptic and athletic liniment fills the space.
"How's Black?" His voice is casual, like he already knows the answer.
I let out a frustrated sound. "Grade 2 AC sprain. Possibly Grade 3."
He turns to look at me and his eyebrows shoot up. The easy expression vanishes, replaced by the focused look of a man who's been doing this for a long time. "That bad?"
My jaw clenches. "He took a massive hit in the second period.” The image is burned into my brain, the sickening crunch, the way he stayed down for just a second too long before forcing himself to stand.
"Posterior shoulder is compromised. Limited range of motion.
Significant pain on palpation of both the anterior and posterior joints. "
Mike sets down the tape roll, giving me his full attention now. "What's his mobility like?"
"Can't do internal rotation at all. External is severely compromised. He struggled through ten minutes on the bike and tried to hide it." I cross my arms, nails digging into my palms. "His face was white. Sweating. Not from exertion."
"Shit." Mike runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "What'd he say?"
My laugh is bitter. "That he's fine. That he's playing in two days."
Mike snorts, a sound that's equal parts amusement and resignation. "Of course he did."
"I'm recommending he sits out one game. Minimum." My voice is firm, steady, even though my insides are churning.
"Good luck with that." He laughs.
"I'm serious, Mike." I step closer, I need him to understand. "If he plays on this injury, he could tear those ligaments completely. That's not a couple of weeks of recovery. That's surgery. Reconstruction. Four to six months before he's anywhere near game-ready."
Mike's expression softens, he leans back against the cabinet, studying me with those sharp eyes that have probably seen every iteration of this exact conversation. “I know. But Black is stubborn, you can’t tell him what to do. He’s also fiercely loyal to his team and will put their needs above his own.
Railroading him won’t get him to do what you want. Have you told Coach?"
"I'm filing the report tonight.”
He nods slowly. "Black's not going to be happy."
Heat crawls up my neck. "I don't care if he's not happy. I care that he heals properly." The words come out sharper than I intended, harsher.
Mike's eyebrow raises, and I feel exposed under his gaze, like he can see right through me. "First day on the job and you're already butting heads with the captain?"
"He's being stupid," I argue.
"He's being a hockey player." Mike shrugs. "They all play through pain, Jo. It's the culture, part of what makes them who they are."
"It's reckless."
"It is." He starts packing his medical bag, the routine motions of someone who's done this thousands of times. "But it's also why he's captain. The guy’s respect that he won't sit out, that he leads by example."
My chest tightens. I know he's right. I've seen it already. The way the team looks at Emmett. Defers to him and follows his lead. "File your report," Mike says, softer now. "I'll talk to Coach in the morning. But don't be surprised if Black fights this every step of the way."
"Let him fight. I'm trying to protect him and the team."
Mike smiles, a genuine warmth in it. "You're going to fit in just fine here.”
I grab my things from my locker, fingers fumbling with the combination lock, the residual adrenaline making me clumsy.
I strip off my team polo, the fabric clinging to my skin, damp with sweat from the tension of the night.
I pull on jeans, a vest, and my Mavericks fleece jacket.
The facility is emptying out around me, and I can hear the distant sounds of the locker room, the banging of doors, the rumble of male voices, players heading home, staff wrapping up, and the night shift janitors starting their rounds.
Collette's waiting outside the media wing when I emerge. She's in a burgundy blazer that makes her look effortlessly put together. Her camera equipment is slung over one shoulder, and her phone is in her other hand. She looks up when she sees me.
"Ready?" she asks, tucking her phone away.
"Yeah."
We start walking, the night air hits like a slap, cold and sharp, and I suck in a breath, letting it burn my lungs.
The city sounds filter in around us, distant traffic, voices, the wail of a siren blocks away.
My footsteps echo on the pavement, my shoulders are tight, and my jaw aches from clenching.
"How was your first game?" Collette's voice is light.
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
"It was good. Busy." The words feel automatic.
"You pulled Emmett off the bikes," she states.
I glance at her, her expression is neutral, but her eyes are sharp. Watching me. "You saw that?"
"Everyone saw that. Felix was texting me about it." A grin tugs at her mouth. "Said you looked scary."
"His shoulder is injured.”
"And?"
"And he's refusing to rest it."
"Shocking." Her tone is dry as dust. "A hockey player being stubborn about an injury."
We walk another block in silence. The sidewalk is cracked under my feet, uneven, and I focus on not tripping, on putting one foot in front of the other. But I can feel Collette's attention on me like a physical weight.
"You're really worked up about this," she says finally.
"I'm not worked up."
"Jo." She stops walking and turns to face me, her hand catches my elbow, gentle but firm. "You're practically vibrating."
I am. I can feel it, the tension coiled in every muscle. "I'm frustrated."
"Why?"
"Because he's being an idiot. He could seriously hurt himself." The words burst out of me. Too fast. Too heated.
Collette's head tilts, that look she gets when she's reading people. "You've dealt with stubborn athletes before, in London, this is no different." I pull my arm free and start walking again, ignoring her words. "This is about him," Collette says behind me.
"No. It's about a patient ignoring medical advice."
"Bullshit."
I stop walking and face her, the look on her face is all too knowing, my sister sees everything.
"What do you want me to say?" I ask her.
"The truth."
"The truth is, he's reckless. He's going to tear his shoulder and ruin his season or possibly his career." My voice cracks on the last word.
"The truth," Collette says slowly, stepping closer. "Is that you care more than you should."
My chest constricts, my throat feels tight. "I'm his physio. I'm supposed to care."
"Not like this."
"Lettie ..."
"You like him." She smirks.
"I don't."
"Yes, you do." Her voice is gentle now. Not accusing. Just understanding. "And it scares you."
The words land like a punch, because she's right.
I do care more than I should. I start walking again, needing to move, needing to burn off this energy before it consumes me.
Collette keeps pace beside me, silent now, giving me space.
My mind won't stop replaying it. Him on that treatment table.
Shirtless. The heat of his skin under my palms. The way his breath hitched when I pressed on the injury.
The stubborn set of his jaw. Those green eyes holding mine, challenging me.
The way I wanted to kiss him and kill him in equal measure.
The apartment is warm when we step inside. I drop my bag by the door and kick off my shoes.
"I'm going to have a shower," I tell Collette.
"I'll pour us some wine."
In the bathroom, I strip off my clothes and turn the water as hot as I can stand, letting it beat down on my shoulders and neck, trying to wash away the tension.
But it doesn't work. My phone buzzes on the counter.
I ignore it, enjoying my quiet. When I step out of the shower, it buzzes again.
I pick it up, look at the screen, and my stomach drops.
Unknown Number: Coach benched me for Friday’s game.
Unknown Number: This is Emmett. Felix gave me your number.
My jaw clenches, fucking Felix.
Joelle: Good. You need rest.
Emmett: I don't need rest. I need to play.
Joelle: You need to heal.
Emmett: One game won't make a difference.
I want to throw my phone, he makes me so angry.
Joelle: One game won’t make a difference to your team, but it will to your shoulder.
Joelle: What don't you understand about that? Maybe I should have written down possible concussion in my report as well because you are not thinking clearly.
Emmett: I don't have a concussion, and I only have a sore arm. Maybe you're used to working with men who can't handle themselves, but this is how we handle things here.
I want to scream.
Joelle: Or maybe you have had one too many hits to the head and you can't comprehend such big words. It's a Grade 2 sprain. If you keep playing, you'll tear it. And at your age, it could mean no cup.
Emmett: I'm not old. I've still got years left in me before I fucking retire.
Joelle: You're not young either. When you hurt yourself, you need extra time to heal. It's not me having a go at you. It's fricken biology.
Emmett: I've played through worse.
Joelle: Then your medical staff haven't cared.
Emmett: No, they understand the game.
My breath comes faster now, shallow and sharp. The steam from the shower still hangs in the air, making it hard to breathe.
Joelle: I don’t understand the game? The girl whose brothers are playing right beside you. I have no option but to understand hockey. You just don't understand science.