Chapter Nine Jeremy
One thing no one warns you about hockey is how stinky a locker room gets. Your nostrils curl in protest when you’re surrounded by equipment and jerseys that have collected untold buckets of sweat. It’s a space that marinates in nylon funk, ancient cheese, and wet dog aroma.
Equipment staff wipe things down and launder whatever can be thrown in a washer. They spray disinfectant alcohol that’s strong enough to stop plagues and use steam cleaning and UV light treatment to ensure deep sanitation.
But there’s no escaping the smell of hockey entering my pores and making my eyes water. Can’t wait to wash this gunk off me, but I need a stretching session before I hit the showers. An athlete’s life isn’t always fun and games.
Today was moderate skating practice since we’re playing tonight. We just finished a scrimmage designed to sharpen the power play. While the guys completed their shooting drills, Randall and I worked with the goalie coach on the ice, consulting video footage of previous games. He’s the other goalie of the team, although I’m expected to cover the net most nights.
“Your interview with ESPN in Minneapolis was great,” Lionel, the head physical therapist of the Mavericks, says while he cleans the massage table I’ll be using.
“That was your best game this season yet. One of your saves is running in their top ten plays of the week,” Dexter says with a pat on my shoulder before he takes his place on the massage table beside me.
I shrug but say nothing. I don’t give a shit about who gets featured on ESPN this week or next. All that matters is that the team wins.
“Heard Kyle hired a new doctor in his practice,” Nelson, one of the other trainers, states.
I lie down without reacting to his statement. What is there to say, after all?
I was an ass who assumed she was a stripper instead of a doctor. We’re apparently both into musicals and live across the street from each other. I tried to fix a bad first impression by buying her cookies and driving her home. I’d do more if she’d agree to take me on as a patient again.
Better to say nothing.
“Yeah, Sabrina mentioned her, too,” Dexter says. “Apparently, Dr. Kapur is a big deal. Are you working with her now?”
I woke up feeling great, and my lateral movements on the ice were smoother than ever. I can’t help but give credit to my new doctor. Or at least I hope she’ll stay on as my new doctor.
“Sort of,” I answer vaguely.
“What does that mean?” Blake, the physical therapist working on Dexter, asks. “Is she part time, or what?”
“No, she’s full time,” Lionel says. “Kyle has a lot of doctors—both locally and around the country—who would love to work in his practice.”
“And yet he went out of his way to hire her ,” Nelson says conspiratorially. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Makes you wonder what?” I say, glaring at the gossipmonger.
“Why her? Maybe there’s an added bonus, if you know what I mean.”
I’m not a violent man, but someone should wipe that leering grin off Nelson’s face.
“She’s a fucking doctor,” I hiss, “not a mail-order bride.”
“He’s right,” Dexter says. “You wouldn’t be saying that shit if the new doctor was a dude.”
Lionel is working on my calf with light stretches. He’s competent at his job but nowhere near as effective as Vanya.
“Nelson’s kidding. Don’t sweat it.” Lionel moves to the other calf while continuing to smirk.
“I’m not sweating,” I say petulantly and for no good reason.
“Um, yeah, my mistake,” he states with his resting bullshit face.
“For real, is she hot?” Connor, my teammate, asks from his perch in the elevated ice bath. “Like in a sexy doctor way?”
“She’s not sexy.” The word makes me sound as dodgy as my teammates’ disregard for feminism in the workforce. “Though she’s not not hot.” It had to be said.
“I’ve got to see this for myself,” Connor declares while plugging into his phone. He clicks his tongue before raising her picture over his head. Idiotic, horny people in the room whistle their appreciation.
“Stop ogling my doctor, you creeps.”
I shoo Lionel’s hands away from my legs so I can sit up. I’m done here.
“You’re right, she’s not sexy,” Connor says.
My skin prickles in response.
“She’s a fucking goddess,” Connor continues. “I’m thinking about getting injured just to get her hands on me.”
“Whose hands are we talking about?” Sean asks as he enters the treatment room.
Jesus, the amount of time these guys spend being creeps is better spent watching game footage with their gossipy mouths shut.
“Jeremy’s fancy doctor,” Connor answers, angling the phone to give Sean a better view.
Sean leans in and says, “No fucking way she’s a doctor. She’s too young. And too hot.”
“I think the folks from Harvard are more qualified than you to say who is or isn’t a doctor,” I state.
Sean raises his hands as if in surrender. “I didn’t mean no offense. Just saying I’ve never seen a doctor that gorgeous.”
“If you’re into that sort of look,” I comment halfheartedly.
“Who isn’t?” Sean and Connor burst at the same time.
“Jeremy Lopez, do you have a crush on your doctor?” Dexter decides to chime in on this conversation.
Seriously, how do these dumbasses get through the day without tripping over their hanging tongues?
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, grow up!” I walk down the hallway which, unfortunately, allows their stupid conversation to carry.
“That’s not a no!” someone shouts.
“His jaw is all locked. He’s only like that before a big game.” That’s Sean, projecting his unwanted observations onto the world.
“Hey, Jeremy!” That’s definitely Connor yapping. “Is your doctor the big game?”
“Fuck off!” My denial is drowned out by laughter.
My friends are ridiculous and need to be replaced ASAP. But one thing they did get right: Dr. Vanya Kapur is a big deal. Comparing her maneuvers to Lionel’s massage is proof. I need whatever regimen she has planned.
I’ll call my inside connection to the practice. Sabrina will set up an appointment with Dr. Kapur if I ask her to. I don’t care that her husband is the captain of an NHL team, she’s a hundred times cooler than he is.