8. Ellie
CHAPTER EIGHT
ELLIE
Veskar showed up for an ankle check at two fifteen, limping less than he had yesterday but still favoring that side.
“How’s it feeling?” I asked, gesturing for him to sit on the treatment table.
“Better. The tape helped.”
“Good. Let’s see it.”
I carefully cut off the old tape and examined the joint. The swelling had gone down, the bruising fading from deep purple to a sickly yellow-green.
“You’ve been icing it,” I said.
“I have.”
I rewrapped the ankle, layering the tape. Veskar watched.
“You’ve been with the team a while, right?” I asked, keeping my eyes on my task.
“Three years. I came up through the farm system.”
“So you know the team culture pretty well. Who hangs out together, that kind of thing.”
“Most of us are pretty close. Why?”
I kept my voice light, overlapping another strip of tape. “I’m trying to get a feel for the dynamics. My last fellowship was with a team that had some complicated interpersonal stuff. It made my job harder when players wouldn’t work with me because I was friends with someone they didn’t like.”
“Ah, yeah. That makes sense. This team’s pretty easygoing, actually. We do dinners sometimes, team events. Most guys bring their families if they have them.”
“That’s good. What about the single guys? Do they…” I measured out another length of tape, buying myself time to make this sound professional. “I heard there can be issues sometimes. Players with reputations that create problems in the workplace.”
Veskar’s eyebrow went up. “You mean like harassment stuff?”
“Well, you know. Players who cycle through a lot of relationships. Drama that spills into the facility.” I pressed the tape down, smoothing it carefully.
“At my last place, we had a guy who was always bringing different women around, and it got awkward fast. I just want to know what I’m walking into here. ”
“Oh.” He thought about it. “Honestly? We don’t really have that. Although, I guess Kedish has a reputation.”
My hands didn’t pause, but everything in me went still. “What kind of reputation?”
“People say he goes through women, never dates anyone seriously.” Veskar shrugged. “But I’ve been here three years, and I’ve never actually seen him with anyone. Like, ever. He doesn’t even talk about dating.”
“But the rumors—”
“Are bullshit as far as I can tell.” Veskar’s grin had vanished. “Look, I don’t know who started the rumors about Kedish, but I’ve never seen him leave with anyone. Not once. He’s actually kind of private, I guess. He mostly keeps to himself.”
“Then why does everyone think he’s like that?”
“Because he’s big and scary-looking and plays brutally?” Veskar shrugged. “People see what they expect to see. And if you’re a seven-foot-plus orc who can stop a slap shot with your face, everyone assumes you’re out there collecting puck bunnies for fun when the game is over.”
I finished the last strip of tape, my hands fairly steady, though inside, everything was flipping around. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s not, but that’s how it works.” He tested his ankle, rotating it slowly. “Kedish is a good person. One of the best guys on this team, actually. He just doesn’t advertise it.”
So he was not a player.
He blew me off because… Well, I knew why.
I stepped back. “You’re good to go. Keep icing it, and we’ll take it day by day. I think you’ll be ready come playoffs. If it bothers you at all, let me know.”
“I will. Thanks, Doc.”
He left, and I sat at the desk, staring at my notes without seeing them.
If Brashe wasn’t the person I’d thought he was, his reputation was bullshit, and the charity work was real, then what had happened at the picnic?
It was probably all about me. My size and shape.
Which sucked.
By the time four PM rolled around, I’d seen seven other players, updated a mountain of charts, and consumed enough coffee that my hands had a faint tremor. And I still couldn’t stop thinking about Brashe bringing sandwiches to the park.
None of it matched the asshole from the picnic who’d looked at me like I was a punchline he didn’t have time to explain.
He walked in right at four, looking tired.
“How’s the pain level?” I asked, pulling on fresh gloves.
“Not a problem.”
“Number.”
“Three.”
I gestured to the table. “Lie down.”
He did, and I placed my hands on his hip, palpating the muscle.
The tension was worse, the muscle fibers knotted in a way they shouldn’t be after a day of rest and ice.
“When did you skate?” I asked.
He stared at the ceiling. “I didn’t.”
“Brashe.”
“I… Alright, I tested it on the ice. Only twenty minutes. I didn’t do anything major, just skated.”
I stepped back, flinging my hands up into the air. “Are you kidding me?”
“It felt better. I thought—”
“You thought you knew better than the person who spent years studying this?”
His jaw flexed. “Playoffs start in six days.”
“And you won’t be playing in them if you tear this.”
“It’s bad enough I’ll miss game one. I can’t miss more than that.”
“You will if you keep being an idiot.”
He sat up, his voice harder now. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
His hands clenched on the edge of the table, his knuckles paling. “If I’m not on the ice, I don’t have a place here.”
I stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m a weapon in the net. If I can’t do that—” He flexed his shoulders.
Oh shit. I saw fear underneath the stoic mask now.
“You think they’ll get rid of you?” I asked softly.
“I know how this works. You’re only worth what you did last.”
In professional sports, loyalty only extended as far as your last good game.
“I can’t be the one who makes us lose in the first round of playoffs,” he said.
I moved closer, not as his physical therapist now but as a person who understood what it felt like to be afraid of disappearing. I’d felt that way my entire life.
“You’re not costing anyone anything,” I said. “But if you reinjure this trying to prove something, you will.”
He looked at me like he was waiting for me to confirm something he already believed.
I wasn’t seeing the player or the asshole from the picnic. I was seeing someone scared.
“Lie back down,” I said. “Let me see what you did to it.”
I worked in silence, my hands gentler this time. I checked for new damage, finding where the muscle had tightened from skating too soon.
“I needed to know if I could still do this.” The words burst out of him.
“And?”
“I can, but I only made it through twenty minutes before it started pulling.”
“Because you’re not ready.”
“I know, but sitting out feels like disappearing.”
I knew that feeling. I’d lived in it. The fear that you were taking up space someone else could use better. That if you disappeared tomorrow, the world would just…close around the gap you left, like water.
“You’re not disappearing,” I said. “You’re healing. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” His expression cracked open.
It made me want to reach for him, which was absurd because this was a treatment room and he was a patient, and I had no right to want anything.
“Yes. And if you give me six days and listen, you’ll be ready.”
“You can fix it in six days?”
“I can get you functional enough to play for game two. But only if you stop being stupid.”
The smallest smile touched his mouth. “Noted.”
I stood close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Close enough that when he exhaled, I felt it.
The door opened, and Coach Beecham walked in.
I stepped back so fast I nearly tripped, my professional mask snapping into place.
“How’s my goalie?” Coach asked, striding closer.
“Progressing.” I kept my voice steady despite my racing pulse. “He’ll be ready for game two if he follows the treatment plan.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” His gaze fell on Brashe. “You listening to the doc?”
Brashe’s eyes stayed on me. “I am.”
“Good. Good.” The coach stayed for another few minutes, asking about timeline and restrictions. I answered, aware of Brashe watching me the whole time. “Keep me updated. We need him.”
He left, and the moment was gone.
“Same time tomorrow,” I said, not looking at Brashe. “And no skating.”
He headed for the door, but stopped, looking back. “I’ll try.”
After he left, I sat at my desk and pulled up his chart on my tablet, trying to focus enough to make legible notes.
He wasn’t what I’d thought. He wasn’t…anything like what I’d thought.
The player reputation was false. The charity work was real. He’d shown up early and trusted me enough to admit he was scared.
My phone buzzed with a text from Crim. Dinner tomorrow? I want to hear how the job’s going.
I stared at the message until the screen went dark, then pressed the button to light it up again.
If I had dinner with my brother, I could ask him about the picnic.
About why Brashe had shut me down when I’d been sure he’d been interested.
Crim had been there. He’d watched the whole thing from the table, scowling like he always did when any of his teammates looked at me for longer than three seconds.
He’d know.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
The cursor blinked at me. Waiting.
If I said no, I’d spend tomorrow night in my condo with Marzipan and a growing list of questions I couldn’t answer. I’d spent ten months building a version of Brashe in my head, brick by careful brick, and now that version was falling apart, I didn’t know what to do with the pieces.
If I said yes, I’d have to sit across from Crim and pretend I was asking casually. Crim would see right through me. He always did.
I’d rather eat grass.
But I needed to know.
My fingers moved before I could talk myself out of it. Sure. Your place or mine?
Mine. I’ll cook. Six, but you can come early if you want.
Okay, see you then.
I set the phone face down on the desk.
Brashe’s chart was still open on my tablet. I should close it. Move on to the next patient, the next file, the next task that would let me pretend the last hour hadn’t happened.
Instead, I tried to figure out how I could ask my brother about the man I’d spent ten months hating.
Without admitting that maybe I’d gotten it all wrong.