Chapter 23 Emmett
EMMETT
Iwake up angry. I'm going to be a grump all day today.
The shoulder aches, a dull, constant ache.
A reminder of why I'm not playing on Friday. I grab my phone from the nightstand, it’s nine A.M. The guys will be gathering at the facility in an hour, training as normal while I'm skating in the neon vest of shame.
It's the vest that lets your teammates know that you're injured and to go easy on you.
I throw off the covers and head to the shower.
The hot water does nothing to ease the tension in my shoulders.
The good one or the bad. I test the injured shoulder under the spray, rotating it slowly.
I wince. It still hurts, it's still tight. I pout like a toddler.
I get dressed, pulling on sweats and a Mavericks hoodie, and grab my gear bag, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror and the dark circles under my eyes. I look like I feel, pissed off and powerless.
My phone buzzes, it's the group chat.
Sully: Morning, Cap. You coming to practice?
Emmett: Yeah. Non-contact.
Fish: Damn, that sucks.
Felix: It could be worse.
Of course, he is going to have his sister's back.
Sully: See you there.
The locker room is loud when I arrive with the normal pre-practice energy. Guys taping sticks, joking around while getting ready. I go through my routine and suit up. But when I reach for my jersey, there's the neon vest of shame hanging in my stall. I stare at it for a long moment. Fuck.
"At least it matches your eyes," Sully teases as he walks past.
"Fuck off."
He grins.
I pull the vest over my gear. The fabric is bright, like really bright. I've forgotten what it's like to wear it. Thankfully, the guys don't say anything. They've all been here, too, all worn the vest at some point.
We file out to the ice, the cold air hits, and I take in a deep breath, centering myself before I skate around. I test out the shoulder with some easy movements, it protests. Okay. I hear you loud and clear. Don't push it.
Coach blows the whistle. "All right, let's go! Black, you're skating but no stick work. Leave it on the bench. Just work on your edges and keep your legs under you."
I clench my jaw and hand my stick to the equipment manager like I'm surrendering a weapon. "Yes, Coach," I grumble.
I skate through drills on the periphery, no stick, no puck. Just movement, edges, crossovers, and stops, while watching my teammates battle for pucks.
Pierre catches my eye during a water break. "Hey, sorry about the shoulder. That was a massive hit you took. To be honest, it's lucky that all you have to do is rest because ..." He shakes his head.
"I know." I nod as we skate together.
"I heard you're not happy with Jo," he asks.
Shit. Here we go. The big brother speech. "I wouldn't be happy with anyone who benches me."
This makes him laugh. "I hear ya. Look, Jo would never bench someone if she didn't have their best interests at heart. I know she was worried about you."
His comment surprises me. "She was?"
"Yeah. She loves her job and takes it seriously. I know she's stressing about it. Benching the captain on her first day." He laughs. "She's a hard ass, but she is one of the best. And I'm not saying that because she’s my sister." I nod. "Just ..."
"I’m her big brother, so don't mess with my little sister?"
This makes Pierre laugh. "I only reserve that for people who are dating my sister. We all know sisters are off-limits to the team." He pauses. "You're probably one of the only guys I fucking trust with my sisters."
The compliment sits bitterly in my stomach.
Fuck.
Practice feels endless, two hours of skating in circles while my team prepares for a game I won't play in. By the time Coach blows the final whistle, my jaw aches from clenching it.
"Black, physio before you leave," Coach calls out.
Right, because this day wasn't bad enough. The training room smells like antiseptic and muscle rub. I walk into Mike's treatment room, where he's organizing his station with supplies.
"Hey, Black. You're next door with Jo," he tells me.
Fuck. "Really?"
Mike stills. "Yeah ..." He lets the word drag. "Is something the matter?"
"No ... um ..." I don't want to get her into trouble. "I just thought I was in here."
He nods. "Sorry. Got to head out for a kid thing. But Jo is very capable."
"Okay, cool. No worries," I tell him. I leave his treatment room and head next door to Jo's. When I walk in, she’s bending over, and my eyes are drawn to her juicy ass.
Someone is trying to kill me, aren't they?
Is this karma for kissing Sully's sister when I was sixteen?
She's in her team polo and black leggings, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. One that I want to wrap around my hand and pull her to me with. See those rosy, pink lips wrapped around my dick while I punish her for benching me. Cool it. The polo stretches across her chest, stopping at the top of those leggings that hug every curve. She looks up and suddenly notices I’m there, those hazel eyes meet mine.
There's a flicker of something, hesitation maybe, before her expression goes neutral and she slips on her professional face.
"Emmett." She straightens. I watch the way her chest rises with a steadying breath. "Take a seat."
I move to the treatment table, the paper crinkling beneath me as I sit. The room feels smaller than Mike's, more intimate. Her perfume lingers in the air, it’s floral, which takes me right back to that hotel room in London.
"Shirt off," she says, turning to grab something from her supply cart.
I pull the T-shirt over my head, wincing as I bring it over my head and toss it on the chair beside me.
When she turns back around, her gaze drops to my chest for just a second before snapping back up to my face.
Does she like what she sees? My ego hopes she does.
At least I'm not the only one affected by the other.
"Let's see how it's going." She moves behind me.
I feel the warmth of her body before her hands even make contact.
"Tell me if anything feels worse." Her fingers press into my shoulder.
I clench my jaw, not from pain, but from the way my skin burns under her touch. She lifts my arm slowly, rotating it through its range of motion. The stretch pulls at the injured tissue.
"That hurts," I hiss through clenched teeth.
"Better or worse?"
"About the same."
She hums and makes a note on her tablet.
"The swelling is down compared to yesterday, but you're still guarding it.
We're going to work through some exercises today.
" She crosses to her supply cart, and grabs a resistance band, the red one which is a medium tension.
When she turns back, her expression is all business, but I notice there's a tightness around her eyes that tells me she's as aware of this situation as I am. "Stand up," she commands.
I slide off the table, and she moves closer, looping the band around my wrist, and her fingers brush my skin as she adjusts the positioning. Heat shoots up my arm.
"External rotation first. Keep your elbow pinned to your side." She demonstrates the movement. "Slow and controlled. Don't push through pain."
I start the exercise, pulling the band outward, it burns but it's manageable.
"Slower," she says, stepping closer. Her hand comes to my elbow, holding it in place. "You're compensating with your body. Isolate the shoulder."
Easy for her to say, I adjust my form, focusing on the movement. She watches, her eyes tracking every micro-adjustment. Hazel eyes that I can't seem to get out of my head no matter how hard I try.
"Better. Ten more."
This is going to hurt. I count them out in my head. When I finish, she takes the band and loops it differently.
"Internal rotation now. Same thing. Slow. Controlled."
We work through the exercise in silence, the tension between us is thick enough to choke on. Every time she adjusts my form, her hands linger for what feels like a second too long. Every time I meet her eyes, something flickers there before she looks away.
"You could've cleared me for contact today," I say, needing to break the silence.
"No, I couldn't."
"The shoulder's better. You just said the swelling's down."
"Better isn't healed." She guides my arm through another rotation, her grip firm. "You're still compensating. That means the tissue isn't ready."
"I've played through worse."
"So, you've said. And how's that worked out for you?" She drops my arm and steps back, crossing her arms over her chest. "You've probably pushed through these many times before, and now here we are. Maybe if you had listened to medical advice when it first happened, you wouldn't be here now."
My eyes narrow on her. She's right. The person before her was scared to stand up to the players and wouldn't push back, not like her.
"Now." She gestures to the wall. "Wall slides. Fifteen reps."
I move to the wall and press my back flat against it, raising my arms into position. The movement pulls at my shoulder, a deep ache that radiates down my arm that turns my stomach.
"Keep your wrists against the wall," she instructs, moving closer, her hand presses against my lower back, correcting my posture. "You're arching."
"Maybe I like arching," I throw back at her in annoyance, trying to forget the pain.
"Maybe you like making my job harder."
I do. I slide my arms up, then down. She watches every movement. Her eyes are sharp and clinical, all while her hand stays on my back.
"Pierre told me something interesting at practice," I say between reps.
"Oh?"
"Said you were stressed about benching me."
Her hand stiffens against my back. "Pierre talks too much."
"He cares about you."
"I know." Her voice is quieter now. "Doesn't mean he needs to broadcast my feelings to the entire team."
"It was just to me."
She doesn't respond, just watches as I finish the last rep. "Ice," she says, walking to the freezer. "Twenty minutes."