7. Ellie
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELLIE
He’d be late. Or he wouldn’t show at all. Players like Brashe Kedish thought the rules bent around them, that charm and a good save percentage meant accountability was optional.
I laid out fresh paper on the treatment table, set my tablet on the desk, and sat, pulling up his chart.
We had twelve appointments scheduled over the next six days.
Today’s focus would be deeper soft tissue work, progressive strengthening, and making sure he understood that ignoring my instructions wasn’t an option.
My coffee was still too hot to drink. I blew on it, staring at the anatomical poster on the wall above the desk without really seeing it.
I’d treated dozens of athletes during my fellowship. Hockey players were stubborn and prone to downplaying pain, but they responded to competence. Show them you knew what you were doing, that you could get them back on the ice faster than anyone else, and they’d listen.
Brashe would be no different.
Except he was different, because ten months ago he’d looked at me like the thought of even speaking with me was a joke.
I shook it off and checked my watch. 7:46.
The door opened.
I straightened, expecting Patty or one of the other players who’d gotten their schedule mixed up.
Brashe walked in.
Fourteen minutes early.
He wore black compression pants and a snug Purple Punishers t-shirt, the bear logo blazing across his chest. His hair was damp, like he’d recently showered. No cocky grin. No fake charm. He looked…serious.
“You’re early,” I said.
“You said not to be late.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out my instruction sheet. It had been unfolded and refolded so many times the creases were soft. “I wanted to make sure I did it right.”
My throat went tight. Heat crawled up the back of my neck, and the sensation had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.
He smoothed the paper flat on the treatment table, pointing at the bottom where I’d drawn the little frowny face next to the icing reminder.
“This part seemed important,” he said.
I stared at the drawing. At his finger pressed against the paper. And at the evidence that he’d actually read the instructions. Multiple times, apparently.
I hated that it mattered. That a piece of paper folded and refolded until the creases went soft could reach past almost a year of careful distance. He’d kept it. He’d looked at my stupid little drawing, and some traitorous part of me wanted to know why.
“Did you ice?” I asked.
“Twenty minutes on, twenty off. Twice last night.”
Exactly what I’d told him to do.
“Alright.” I set my coffee down before I fumbled it. “Lie down on the table. We’re going deeper today.”
He folded the instruction sheet, tucked it back into his pocket, and moved to the table. It creaked under his weight, his legs dangling off the end because even the oversized table wasn’t built for a seven-foot-plus orc.
“This is going to hurt more than yesterday,” I said, pulling on gloves.
“I can handle it.”
He lay back, his hands resting at his sides, his gaze fixed on the ceiling tiles.
I positioned myself beside him and placed my hands on his hip, finding the edge of the adductor muscle. It felt warm under my touch, the tension obvious even through the compression fabric.
“We’re still focusing on breaking up the adhesions today.” I kept my voice clinical. “The muscle fibers have knotted up around the injury site. Manual work will help increase blood flow and improve mobility.”
I pressed down, working my thumbs along the length of the muscle. His whole body went rigid.
“Breathe out when I press,” I said.
He did as I asked.
I worked slowly, finding each tight spot and applying pressure. His jaw clenched when I hit a particularly bad adhesion, and the muscle jumped under my hands, but he didn’t make a sound.
“You can tell me if it’s too much.”
His gaze stayed on the ceiling. “You’re doing your job. I’m not going to complain about you doing it right.”
I paused, my hands still pressed against his thigh.
Where was the cocky asshole from the picnic, the one who’d dismissed me with a few words and a careless gesture? This Brashe was quiet, cooperative, and committed to following every instruction I gave him.
“We’re going to test the range of motion now,” I said, stepping back. “Bend your knee.”
He did.
I positioned his leg, one hand on his thigh, the other on his hip, guiding him through a series of mobility checks.
I was too aware of everywhere we touched. The warmth of his body came through the compression fabric, and I had to remind myself I was doing a job. That he was just another patient. But my pulse refused to cooperate.
“Better,” he said after I guided his leg through a deep stretch.
“Than yesterday?”
“Than the last year.”
I stared at him. “You’ve been dealing with hip tightness for a year?”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re fixing it now.”
“It does matter.” I released his leg, stepping back. “You’ve been compensating for a year. That’s why the strain happened. Your body was already compromised.”
He didn’t confirm or deny.
I wanted to lecture him about playing through chronic tightness, about how athletes who ignored warning signs ended up with career-ending injuries. But the way he’d gone quiet, his jaw set in a stubborn line, told me it wouldn’t land the way I’d like.
“Sit up,” I said. “We’re doing strengthening work next.”
I grabbed a pillow from the cabinet and placed it between his knees while he sat on the edge of the table.
“Isometric adductor squeezes,” I said, demonstrating the movement. “You’re going to squeeze the pillow and hold for ten seconds. Slow, controlled pressure. No quick movement.”
He nodded.
I watched him position the pillow, then start the squeeze, but he went too fast.
I placed my hands on his knees, feeling the tension in the muscle. “Slower. Control the squeeze.”
He adjusted, his pace evening out.
He was listening. Actually trying. So far, I’d seen no ego about being corrected by someone only three-quarters his size.
We ran through three sets before I stepped back, pulling off my gloves.
“Ice again when you leave here,” I said. “Come back at four.”
He stood, testing his weight on the injured leg. “It feels better.”
“I’m glad.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. A small smile, but it didn’t feel fake. My hands forgot what they were supposed to be doing. I turned away, busying myself with updating his chart so he wouldn’t see whatever my face was doing.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I stared at my tablet, trying to process what had happened.
Brashe Kedish had shown up early. He’d kept my instruction sheet. He’d followed every direction I gave him without complaint.
And he’d smiled at me. Not the cocky grin I remembered from the picnic, but something softer. A smile that made me forget why I was supposed to keep my distance.
I shook my head and gulped down my coffee.
This was fine. Exactly what it should be.
Except I couldn’t stop seeing that small smile, the one that hadn’t felt pretend.
Had I read him wrong? If so, was there anything else I’d gotten wrong about him?
Patty caught me in the hallway around eleven thirty.
“Ellie.” She waved from the doorway of the break room, her scrubs today covered in tiny purple hockey sticks. “Have you met Haley yet? Properly, I mean?”
I’d seen Haley around. She was the team’s video analyst director and the coach’s daughter. She sat in the observation area during practice, taking notes.
“Not really,” I said.
“Perfect. Haley, this is Ellie, our new PT. Ellie, Haley Beecham.”
Haley joined us in the hall. She was a few inches taller than me, and she’d pulled her long brown hair up into a messy ponytail. “Hi. I’ve heard good things about you.”
“Thanks.” I shifted my weight from one foot to another.
“I’ve got a treatment,” Patty said, giving us both a smile. She glanced at her phone, checking the time. “I have to head out after this session, but I’ll phone in tomorrow. My daughter’s getting better, but my husband has to go into the office, so I’ll be home with her.”
“I’ll handle things.”
“Thank you.”
“Want to grab lunch?” Haley asked after Patty had left. “There’s a good sandwich place within walking distance. Unless you’d prefer ramen.”
“Sandwiches sound great,” I said.
“Perfect.”
Haley and I left through the side entrance, stepping out into air carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass. Boston sprawled around us, brick buildings and narrow streets.
“How are you settling in?” Haley asked as we walked along the sidewalk, people streaming past us on both sides. “Patty mentioned this is your first full-time position after your fellowship.”
“It’s been good. Busy, but good.”
“That’s the team in a nutshell. Busy, loud, and completely hockey-obsessed.” She laughed. “Fair warning, half the conversation at team events is hockey. The other half is also hockey.”
“I’m not surprised.”
She talked about the team, the facility, and the quirks of working in professional sports. And her fiancé, Tolrek, one of the team’s starting defensemen. They’d gotten together last season.
“It’s complicated when you work together,” Haley said, her voice going softer. “My dad had a no-players or staff dating rule for a good reason. But sometimes the rules don’t account for…” She shrugged.
“For loving someone?” I said.
“Exactly.”
We turned a corner, passing a small park with a few benches, shade trees, and lush grass newly clipped.
Brashe sat on one of the benches with a large paper bag beside him. Four or five unhoused people clustered around him, sitting on the grass or standing nearby. He was handing out sandwiches.
I stopped walking.
Haley followed my gaze. “Oh, yeah. That’s Brashe for you.”
“He does this regularly?”
“A couple of times a week, he buys lunch and brings it here.” She glanced at me, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “He has for, like, two years, I think?”
“I didn’t know he did that.”
“Most people don’t. He doesn’t talk about it.”
One of the men said something that made Brashe throw his head back, laughing. The sound carried across the park. I’d never heard him sound like that before.
This didn’t fit with the cocky goalie I remembered.
Players didn’t do this. Assholes who dismissed women at parties didn’t spend their lunch breaks handing out sandwiches to people no one else saw.
We continued walking.
“Tolrek says he’s one of the good guys,” Haley said, easing around a hot dog cart with a woman selling lunch.
“The rumors about him—”
“Being a player?” Haley laughed. “I’ve never seen it. He goes home alone after every team event. Doesn’t even flirt, really. I think people just assume because he’s, you know, big and orc and gorgeous, that of course he takes advantage of anyone who throws themselves his way.”
I tried to match what she was saying with the version of Brashe I’d built in my head. They didn’t fit. Not even close.
Haley had no reason to lie, and she’d been around the team longer than I had.
As we approached the restaurant, my thoughts stayed in the park, circling around the image of Brashe laughing with people the rest of the world ignored.