Chapter 25 Beckett
Beckett
“What’s going on with your hip, Kane?” Finley asks when she walks into the recovery room after our game against the Thunderbirds.
I sink a little lower in the ice bath as she stops a respectable distance away.
While our staff is male-dominated, Finley isn’t the only woman around when we’re naked.
We’ve got PTs and visiting docs who are women.
You reach a certain level when your body isn’t even your body anymore, it’s just a piece of equipment for the team to look after.
“What do you mean?” I ask, though I know exactly what she means. My hip has gotten worse since that hit last week, and I was slow tonight. Even if I thought no one else noticed, I was fighting pain with every push of my right leg.
“Well, I’m going to—” Lefevre says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder as he hastily exits the hot tub next to me.
Finley crosses her arms, but I don’t miss the plea in her eyes.
The one asking me to tell her the truth.
“You’ve been babying it since you got here.
I thought it was just a tweak, but it’s not getting better.
It was the worst it’s been tonight. Did Florida know about it before the trade?
Did they tell you to play injured? That’s such a stupid, irresponsible thing—”
“Fi—Coach,” I say, trying to stop her rant before she gets on the phone to yell at the Cyclones’ GM. “They didn’t know. There’s barely anything to know.”
She blinks at me, her calm demeanor more frustrating than if she were angry. “I don’t believe that. It’s obvious to anyone who has seen you play before that you’re favoring your right hip.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Your starts are slower, and you shied away from hits on your right side all night. No one could miss that.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Everyone has missed that. You are the only one who has asked me about my hip since I got here. And I told you it’s fine. Nothing I can’t handle.”
I should’ve been prepared for this. Should’ve seen it coming. She’s going to bench me—hell, they might even trade me again—and then I’m going to lose my last chance at getting to be captain. Of fulfilling my dad’s dream.
“You’re telling me no one has talked to you about it?” Finley asks.
“No one,” I reply as the timer on my phone goes off, telling me it’s time to get out of this torture chamber. Ice baths are a necessary evil, but they are evil, nonetheless.
I stand, and Finley’s breath hitches, even as her icy gaze stays locked on mine. Good thing I’m half frozen down there, or I’m not sure my reaction to her seeing my naked body would’ve been quite as benign. Wrapping my towel around my hips, I return her stare. “I’m fine, Coach.”
“You’re hurt and didn’t tell anyone, Kane. I thought I made it very clear that’s not how we do things on my team.”
She follows me over to the PT bed, where Glenn is waiting to help me with a deep tissue massage and some stretching.
“Did you know about his hip, Glenn?” she asks, turning her focus to him.
“What hip?” Glenn responds.
She crosses her arms—an intimidating sight made more aggressive by her game-day suit. “The right one. The one that is hurt.”
“It’s not hurt,” I say, turning over and lying on my stomach as Glenn gets to work. I don’t know why she won’t trust me. Sure, it’s getting worse, but I can manage it. I have to manage it. I’ve told her before to drop it, and I need her to listen to me.
“I need his hip tested,” Coach tells Glenn.
I feel his hands release me before she sighs, “Not now, Glenn. Tomorrow. Bring in Doctor Lowell.”
“Coach, that’s not necessary.” I’ve told her it’s fine. Why can’t she just let it go?
“I can give you a minute.” Glenn tries to leave.
“No. You stay. I have to go anyway,” Coach says.
“But I expect you in my office before you leave tonight, Kane. And, Glenn, make sure he sees Lowell first thing tomorrow. He doesn’t touch the ice until the doctor signs off on it.
I don’t know how they do things in Florida, but we don’t play our guys when they’re hurt. ”
I say nothing, staring at the tips of her shiny black shoes through the hole in the table as Glenn starts to work my hamstrings. His hands dig in, thumbs pressing on a muscle that shouldn’t be this painful. I bite down, refusing to react to the discomfort.
Because I’ve felt it.
The discomfort that has turned into pain. The ache that is lingering far longer than it used to. The mental math I do every shift to make sure I’m not favoring that leg, so no one will see it. It’s manageable, barely, but I’m managing it.
But, of course, making it work isn’t good enough for the woman who thrives on being perfect. She asked me about it, and I told her it wasn’t a big deal. She should’ve listened. Because that’s what friends do. They trust each other. And she should trust me to know what’s best for my body.
Every press of Glenn’s hands is like a drum beating it home. She should’ve listened to me.
She should’ve listened to me.
She should’ve listened to me.
By the time I’m ready to go home, I’m borderline livid. Who the fuck does Finley Blake think she is?
No one else noticed my hip. No one. Not the coaches nor the medical staff at Florida, and not the ones here. Shit. Even this week, she’s been the only person to say anything. Because despite the pain, I’m still doing my job. Even if it hurts.
How dare she not take me at my word? How dare she tell me she knows I’m hurt, her eyes locked on mine, not giving me an out like everyone else does? Just clocked the lie I’ve been telling with every stride and brought it into the light without ever considering what it would mean for me.
Because a hip-specific exam by the team doc is the beginning of the end for my career. Once the injury door cracks open, I won’t be able to close it again. The doctors are going to look harder now. Management will know. The league. And I can’t afford that. Not now. Not ever.
The anger inside me grows with each step I take, sharp and desperate and clawing its way up my throat as I barge into her office sometime around midnight, not bothering to knock. Because if I don’t shut this down now, it will be the end of my career. I can feel it.
“You can’t bench me.”
“Sit down, Kane,” she says, her icy tone the opposite to my fire.
I widen my stance, crossing my arms. Like fuck I’ll sit down.
She clicks her mouse a few times, like she’s deleting emails or something equally as mundane and unimportant.
As the silence swirls around us, my temper starts to cool enough for me to feel slightly ridiculous for refusing to even sit down.
This is rookie hotheaded shit. Not what you’d expect from a veteran. From me.
But my pride won’t let me listen to her when she won’t do the same for me.
“Fine,” she sighs. She stands, sliding her laptop into her black backpack. “We can try this again another day. But until then, you can’t do anything until it’s approved by medical, Kane.”
“No,” I explode, the flames roaring back into my veins.
“I’ve already let the team know you’re hurt.
You will report to PT and the medical staff tomorrow for an evaluation.
You are not to be on the ice or do any training until it has been approved by Lowell.
You will be listed as questionable.” She stops in front of me, mimicking my gesture, and my vision goes red at the news that she’s set this in motion. She didn’t even wait for us to meet.
She continues, “If you do not walk your ass in here and coolly sit down tomorrow morning at eight so we can have a real, adult conversation about this, I will move you to IR. You will take the mandatory week. I will call up a replacement.”
No. Fuck her. No.
“I thought we were friends, Finley.” I spit out her name, and she flinches.
Then, as if summoned by the gods to take on an unwinnable quest, she squares her shoulders, turning into the fighter she had to be to get herself here. “I am your coach, Kane. This is what I’m paid to do. I make the hard calls.”
I lean toward her. “Well, congratulations, you’re making the wrong fucking one.”
She looks me up and down, taking me in from my still slightly damp hair to my sneaker-clad feet. “Fortunately for me, your opinion doesn’t matter here.”
With that, she turns, walking out of her office without a backward glance.