5. Ellie
CHAPTER FIVE
ELLIE
The next morning, after dropping my things in the office, I checked my schedule on my tablet.
Veskar. Ankle strain. I’d already done my initial assessment during our first appointment yesterday. Tablet in hand, I went to the training room, where I found him waiting, sitting on the treatment table dressed in compression shorts and a team t-shirt.
“How’s the ankle?” I asked as I laid my tablet on the desk and joined him.
“It’s fine.”
“Fine? You told me yesterday you were compensating.” I knelt in front of him, scissors in one hand, athletic tape in the other. “When’s the last time you could put full weight on it without wincing?”
“I’m not wincing.”
“I saw you in the hall yesterday. You are.”
His mouth twitched. “Maybe a little.”
The ankle was swollen, though not terribly, but enough that I could see the difference between his left and right. He’d injured it during an awkward landing in the last regulation game when he was checked into the boards.
I cut off the old tape and applied new, wrapping it with steady pressure, overlapping each strip. “It’s still swollen. No skating today.”
“Coach is going to—”
“The coach is going to listen to me, because if you go out there and make this worse, you’ll be out for at least a game or two of the upcoming playoffs.” I glanced up. “And I don’t think you want that.”
He sighed. “No.”
“Then listen to me.”
Veskar watched me work. “You’re good at this.”
“I know.”
He laughed. “Confident. I like it.”
“I didn’t spend eight years in school and ten months doing a sports fellowship to be unsure of myself.”
“Right.”
I finished the wrap and straightened. “Stand up. Slowly.”
He did, testing his weight without a flinch.
“Better?”
“Yeah. Actually, yeah.”
“Good. Ice it as much as possible. Twenty minutes on, twenty off. I’ll retape again tomorrow and if the swelling’s down, we’ll talk about you skating again. If it gets worse, you come find me.”
“I will.”
A sound at the door made me look up.
Brashe stood in the doorway, glaring at me. At Veskar. At the short distance between us.
I held his gaze before turning back to Veskar. “You’re all set. Remember, ice.”
“Got it. Thanks, Doc.”
Veskar limped out of the room.
And Brashe was already gone.
I stared at the empty doorway, my pulse wild in my throat.
He’d looked at me like I was doing something wrong by standing a foot away from Veskar. I clenched my teeth. He appeared to think he had a right to an opinion on who I treated or how close I got to the person while doing it. A moment at a picnic hadn’t earned him any kind of claim.
I washed my hands, and with a shake of my head, got back to work.
Once my assignments were done, I went to the observation area to watch practice.
This part of the arena held a narrow walkway above the rink, separated from the ice by glass.
Patty had told me this was the best place to watch practice without getting in the way, so I claimed a spot in the corner with my tablet and a cup of coffee.
The playoffs started next week. Every drill mattered.
I took notes on movement patterns. Who favored one side or the other. Who was overcompensating. Mikael’s shoulder was bothering him. He kept rolling it between drills. Fedor’s knee looked good, but I made a note to check in with him later.
I couldn’t avoid watching Brashe in the net.
I’d watched plenty of games, of course. Plus clips on sports channels and GIFs on social media. The saves that made commentators lose their minds.
Watching it live was completely different.
He moved like violence contained in skin. Brutal and precise, dropping into splits that should’ve been impossible for someone his size. Crim came in fast, stick slashing, shooting on goal. Brashe’s glove snapped out, catching the puck mid-air.
Another drill. Mikael this time, trying a wrist shot from the slot. Brashe stopped it with his blocker, the sound echoing through the rink.
Again and again and again.
He was terrifying.
Beautiful.
This made it clear why opposing teams hated playing against him.
Then Crim made another great shot. Brashe dropped into a butterfly, but the angle felt wrong. His right leg extended a fraction too far, and when he pushed back up, I noted a hitch in his movement, small and almost imperceptible, but there.
He shook it off and stayed in the net.
I made a note on my tablet. Kedish—possible groin/hip strain. Monitor closely.
I stared at the words on my screen, annoyed at myself for how quickly I’d spotted it. For how my belly had dipped when I saw that change in his movement. This was my job. I’d do this for any player on the team. It didn’t mean anything that I’d been watching him more closely than the others.
After practice, I did more treatments and returned to the office, finding Patty already there. When she looked up, strain creased her face.
“Kedish got hurt.”
My belly dropped. “What?”
“A groin injury. I need you to take on his treatment.” Rising from her chair, she turned and leaned against her desk, facing me.
“Me? Kedish?”
“My youngest has the flu. I’m going to be in and out for the next week, maybe two, sharing nurse duty with my husband.
” She rubbed her temples. “Kedish tweaked something in practice today. He didn’t report it, which is shocking, I know, but the coach noticed and had him assessed.
Coach wants him on a treatment plan ASAP.
We can’t afford to have him down during playoffs.
The medical team already saw him, and the MRI shows a grade one strain. No tear, thankfully.”
Grade one. Manageable. Six to ten days of targeted treatment, and he’d be fine.
“Can’t someone else—”
“You can handle this, Ellie. And honestly?” Patty’s gaze sharpened. “He needs someone who won’t put up with his bullshit. He’s going to try to downplay it. He’s going to try to skip sessions. Don’t let him.”
My fingers tightened on my tablet. There had to be someone else. Anyone else. But asking would require explaining why, and I’d rather gargle broken glass than admit to Patty that Brashe Kedish had gotten under my skin almost a year ago and never left.
I couldn’t let this matter.
“Alright. When’s his first appointment?”
“Tomorrow at two PM. Don’t be late, or he’ll use it as an excuse to bail.”
“I’ll be on time. I hope your child feels better.”
“Thanks.”
I typed the appointment into my calendar. Tomorrow. 2 PM. Brashe Kedish.
My finger hovered over his name on the screen. Then I closed the tablet and went to prep the treatment room.
Brashe had said me working here was going to be a problem.
He had no idea.