Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Silas
Everything about the training room is stressful. The air smells faintly like antiseptic and Windex. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. While head trainer Sam prods at my shoulder with all the warmth of a mechanic inspecting a broken machine, I sit on the vinyl seat and try not to spiral.
When I woke up this morning, I felt a familiar pins and needles sensation in the front, top, and back of my shoulder. The Havoc has played hard this week, going to Miami, Atlanta, D.C., and Charlotte. After a week of bliss with my girl, I felt good enough to push myself through the five days away.
Then I played too aggressively. We won two games, lost the third, and I had to watch the fourth from the bench as my whole shoulder throbbed. I got out over my wings, as they say.
"I need to conduct a range of motion test," Sam says, not bothering to look at my face.
He lifts my arm, tweaking it this way and that. He's moving it slowly but pain still rips down to my fingertips like someone dragging a serrated blade through muscle and tendon. My teeth grind together hard enough to make my jaw ache, but Sam just keeps moving my arm until I can't take any more.
"Stop," I grate out. I pull my arm from his grip and rub the top of my shoulder, my thumb digging into the sore spot along the deltoid. "It hurts."
"Sorry, Silas." His pen scratches across the clipboard as he makes notes.
"It seems like you took too many hits to your already-injured shoulder.
You're compensating. Guessing that you have scapular dyskinesis, rotator cuff strain, and capsular restriction seems accurate.
If you keep playing with an injury like this, you'll need surgery. "
Surgery would mean the end of the season, maybe more. His words land like a body check to the ribs.
"Say I had to have surgery. How long would I be out?" The voice that comes out sounds flat and emotionless, a machine asking for repair estimates. Ice Man is asking, not me.
"Depends. If you rest it and let us mobilize the tissue properly? Maybe four weeks. If you keep grinding through..." He shrugs like he's discussing the weather. "It could be career-ending."
Four weeks means a month of sitting useless while the team fights without me. It would prove that I'm expendable. And if the worst happens, my hockey playing days could be over, just like that. His words fill my veins with ice.
"That's not acceptable. What are the alternatives?"
"There are a few. Most of them require intense physical therapy and a lot of luck.
We'll tape you up for now." Sam reaches for the roll of athletic tape, but doesn't stop writing.
"I'll talk to Coach Cross about your case.
I think the safest way to proceed would be benching you for the next few games. "
The word benched sits heavy as stone in my chest. Suddenly I'm reduced to some farm-team kid who can't handle the physicality. Every instinct screams to rip the tape from his hands, scream in his face, and storm back onto the ice. But as usual, brooding silence wins.
I'm not about to have an emotional breakdown in front of Sam.
The door to the training room swings open without warning.
Scout appears with her arms full of fresh tape and compression wraps, a headset hanging around her neck.
Her dark blonde curls are pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
She's wearing her Havoc staff polo tucked into black athletic pants that hug her legs.
Those green eyes find mine immediately, and I watch her expression shift in half a second.
Concern flickers across her features as she reads the tension in my body.
She's too open, too readable. Beautiful even when she's worried.
"What's going on?" she asks.
Sam doesn't look up from his clipboard. "I was just about to tape Huxley's shoulder."
"I've got this," she tells Sam. "I know just how he likes to be taped. Right, Si?"
I nod. "Yeah."
Sam hesitates, glancing between us, then hands over the tape and heads out of the training room.
The door clicks shut behind him, silence pressing heavier than it should.
Scout sets everything on the counter with careful precision, moving closer but stopping just short of touching. She's waiting for permission.
"Are you all right? I meant to come check on you when I didn't see you in practice, but this morning has been crazy."
Sweeping my gaze over her, I say, "I'm fine."
"You're not." A gentle firmness carries in her voice.
She knows I'm full of shit. It's obvious I'm not fine since I woke up in so much pain that I came straight here instead of heading out onto the ice with everyone else.
She picks up the tape, starts prepping strips with practiced efficiency. "Let me help, big guy."
Big guy. The pet name sends a shiver sluicing down my spine. How can I say no to Scout when she calls me sweet names?
It's on the tip of my tongue to tell her that she doesn't need to hover and that I'm not a charity case. But when her warm, steady, competent hands settle on my shoulder, something cracks open slightly. Her touch hurts and feels good in equal measures, instantly.
She works in silence at first, her fingers pressing along the joint, testing for tenderness. Every touch is careful, precise, and professional. I lean my head to the side and sigh deeply.
Her hands feel like they're healing me.
"Someone filmed you at practice," Scout says.
I look up from my shake. "What?"
She shows me her phone. It’s a TikTok video of me scowling at a rookie who dropped his stick, picking it up, handing it back without a word.
Ice Man has a HEART??
She gives me a mischievous look. “Three million views. You're a meme."
"Delete it."
"I can't delete it. I didn't post it." She's grinning. "But I saved it."
"Scout."
"It's cute. You're being nice and you look so angry about it."
I try to grab her phone. She dances away, laughing.
"I hate this."
"You love it."
"I absolutely do not."
Watching her this happy over something this stupid, though. I could get used to that.
"You know, mobility training would have prevented this." Her breath fans my neck as she drags her thumb along the tight band of muscle between my neck and shoulder. "If you'd let me work with you properly instead of fighting it every step..."
"Don't." I love being touched. I keep the pleased shudder out of my voice when I grind out, "Don't turn this into another lecture about yoga."
Her hands hesitate where they rest against my neck. "It's not a lecture. I'm not trying to trick you, Si. Yoga is a really powerful tool."
"You think you can fix me, like I'm another project to manage and improve with the right stretches and breathing exercises."
She pulls back, hurt flashing in her eyes before she can hide it. "That's not fair."
"None of this is fair." The gesture encompasses the shoulder, the medical wing, the whole goddamn situation. "But I don't need lectures about what should have been done differently. I know, okay? I know I fucked up."
"Your inner critic is an asshole, Silas." Scout's chiding is gentle. "Listen to me. You didn't fuck up. You just played too hard. Sometimes it's impossible to know how your body is going to feel about something until afterward."
My icy heart thaws a tiny bit more. "You're too sweet for this world, Pretty Girl."
"Si!" She smiles, blushing, and ducks her head. "Not at work, okay?"
"Yeah, I know." I shrug, rolling my eyes. "It's hard to keep you a secret."
"Flirt." Scout smiles and finishes taping my shoulder without another word. "Okay. You should be all set. Go home and ice this. If I come home and you aren't already sitting on the couch with an ice pack, I'm going to be pissed."
"Pissed, huh? That's something I haven't seen from you before."
Scout rolls her eyes. "Go on, big guy. Get out of here. I have to go back to practice."
She leaves the room, her hips swaying, her curls bobbing. She's bewitching. If I'm not careful, I'll be caught in her spell forever. It doesn't even sound that bad, though I should be focusing on my hockey career instead of earning another smile from pretty yoga girls.
My phone buzzes with a calendar reminder: therapy appointment in thirty minutes.
Today has been terrible outside of seeing Scout, and therapy isn't exactly what I need to round out this stellar day. But I already made the appointment. And I'm not looking forward to the look on Coach Cross's face if he finds out I skipped another therapy session.
Gray Seattle rain blurs past the window during the drive to Dr. Sable's office, mixing with darker thoughts. The closer I get to the clinic, the more my brain drags up things I don't want to think about.
I know former hockey players. Coach Cross and Coach Ryan, for instance. But I don't have much patience, so coaching is out for me.
And then of course there's Enzo. My agent. Scout's ex. Former Havoc center with hands like silk and a smile fans used to swoon over. Everyone said Enzo was born for hockey. Then a bad hit took him out for the rest of the season. The next thing I knew, the team was moving on without him.
Enzo isn't a man I'd consider wise, but he has been in my shoes.
I hate that he knows how fast things can fall apart.
Mostly, I hate the idea of becoming him.
I'd become someone the Havoc talk about in the past tense.
A used-up has-been. The coaches might only mention my name when they want to make a point about how fragile a career can be.
That makes me grip the steering wheel so hard that the leather creaks.
Pulling into Dr. Sable's lot, I park and sit there with the engine running for a moment, staring at the rain hitting the windshield.