13. Brashe
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
brASHE
I’d been staring at it for over an hour, my brain refusing to shut off long enough to let me sleep.
Her handwriting covered the margins now. Notes from yesterday’s session. Corrections to my form. Reminders about breathing through the stretches instead of holding my breath.
At the bottom, next to the frowny face she’d drawn weeks ago, she’d drawn a smiley face. Tiny, it was nearly hidden in the corner. Maybe she’d drawn it without thinking and then hoped I wouldn’t notice.
I’d noticed.
The grade two diagnosis made my hip throb worse, my body reminding me I’d fucked up in a way I couldn’t ignore. I’d turned a manageable injury into something that could cost us the first round of playoffs. If we were knocked out, it would be my fault.
I worried she’d tell me she was done. That I was too much work. I’d been convinced Patty would take over my case because I’d proven I couldn’t be trusted to follow basic instructions. But Ellie had kept working with me.
I sat up, my hip protesting the movement with a dull ache that radiated down my inner thigh.
I got out of bed and did every single exercise perfectly.
The hip flexor stretch burned. The adductor mobility work made my teeth clench. But I held each position for the full thirty seconds, breathing through the discomfort the way she’d taught me.
When I’d finished, I set the timer on my phone and grabbed an ice pack from the freezer.
Twenty minutes on. Twenty off.
I sat on the couch in the dark, cold seeping into my hip, and stared at the instruction sheet some more.
The smiley face stared back.
By the time I pulled into the facility parking lot at 7:15, the sun was burning through the early morning haze. The lot was nearly empty, only a handful of cars scattered across the spaces reserved for staff.
Her silver sedan sat in the back row.
She was always early. I’d figured that out within the first week.
She arrived early every morning, carrying her favorite coffee cup.
She’d go inside and get things ready before heading to the treatment room.
Tug new strips of paper over the tables.
Lay out rubber gloves. Go through plans for each of the injured members of my team. I could picture her doing all that now.
That’s when I realized I’d been sitting in my truck for twenty minutes, staring at her car, hoping it would give me answers.
This was pathetic.
I’d done this yesterday too. And the day before. Sat here working up the nerve to walk inside like I was an orcling who hadn’t figured out how doors worked yet.
But today felt different. I’d bet today she was going to tell me she was done.
I needed to go inside and prove I could show up on time without being a disaster. But my hands remained locked on the steering wheel, and my brain kept spiraling through every version of the conversation we were about to have.
You’re too much work, Brashe.
I can’t fix you if you won’t listen.
Patty’s taking over your case.
A knock on my window made me jump.
Veskar stood outside my truck, grinning like he’d won the cup single-handedly.
I rolled down the window. “What do you want?”
“You’ve been sitting here forever.” His grin widened. “Staring at her car.”
“I’m not doing anything like that.”
“You are.” He leaned against the door, crossing his arms on his chest. “It’s pathetic, Kedish. Really pathetic.”
“Fuck off, Veskar.”
“I can’t. This is too entertaining.” He glanced toward the building, then back at me. “You know she’s going to see you sitting out here like a creep, right?”
“I’m not a creep.”
“Then go inside. I mean, she turned Mikael down, but that doesn’t mean she’ll do the same to you.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Isn’t it?”
I didn’t move.
Veskar’s grin softened, looking almost sympathetic. “She’s not going to give up on you. She’s too stubborn for that.”
“You don’t know that.” She’d implied she would yesterday.
“I do, actually. I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you’re not paying attention.” He pushed away from the truck. “Get out of the vehicle and go prove you’re worth the effort.”
He walked away, disappearing through the side entrance.
I sat for a bit longer before I forced myself to move.
The hallway outside the treatment room felt too quiet. Every footstep sounded like a drumbeat.
I stopped outside the door and knocked. A first time for that.
“Come in,” she called from inside.
She sat at the desk, her hair pulled back in that same tight bun, wearing a blazer that screamed don’t mess with me. Her tablet sat in front of her, the screen lit up with what looked like my MRI results.
She glanced up when I walked in, and her expression softened for a second before her face tightened.
“You’re early,” she said.
“I wanted to make sure I understood the assignment this time.”
I held up the instruction sheet. The paper felt soft under my fingers, like old fabric.
Her gaze dropped to it, then returned to my face. “Are you going to laminate that?”
“Should I?”
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.” I stepped closer. “Do you have a laminator?”
Her mouth did that thing where it wanted to curve up, but she wouldn’t let it, like she was mad at herself for finding me even slightly amusing. “Brashe.”
“Ellie.” I mimicked her serious tone.
The almost-smile cracked wider before she caught herself. “Sit down.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She shot me a look. “Don’t call me that. I’m not a hundred years old.”
“What should I call you?”
She paused, her fingers stilling on the tablet. “Dr. Lundrig when we’re working.”
“And when we’re not working?”
Another pause, longer this time. “We’re always working.”
“Are we?”
Her gaze held mine before she turned back to her computer. Subject changed.
I sat in the chair beside her desk, my hip aching in the dull, constant way that told me I’d pushed it too far yesterday.
She pulled up the MRI images on her screen and turned the monitor so I could see.
“This is what you did to yourself,” she said. “We talked about this yesterday, but I wanted to note a few more things.”
She walked me through the images.
I watched her face instead of the screen.
The little furrow between her eyebrows I’d noted before when she was concerned appeared. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, which told me she was concentrating. The faint shadows under her eyes suggested she hadn’t slept well.
“Are you listening?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then what did I say?”
“That I’m a fool who turned a grade one into a grade two because I don’t know how to follow directions.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
She finally looked at me. “You’re not a fool. You’re scared. There’s a difference.”
The words hit like a crosscheck to the sternum. She didn’t see me only as the weapon in the net or the brutal goalie everyone talked about. She saw the part of me I’d spent years trying to hide.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
She pulled a printed schedule from the drawer and slid it across the desk.
“We’re going to spend the next week or so doing deeper manual work, progressive strengthening, and monitored return-to-skate drills. If you follow the plan exactly, you’ll be ready for game three in seven days. If you don’t follow the plan, then…”
“You’ll fire me.”
She shook her head. “I don’t give up.”
I felt so relieved, I wanted to sag in the chair. “I won’t give up either.”
“See that you don’t.”
“So, a week.” I stared at the schedule. “That’s a lot of time together.”
She studied me, her expression unreadable. “We need to get started. Lie down on the treatment table.”
“Now?”
“Did you think I planned to spend our morning session yelling at you?”
“A little bit, yeah.”
The corner of her mouth lifted. Almost a smile.
I moved to the treatment table, the paper crinkling under me as I lay back.
She pulled on gloves and positioned herself beside the table, her hands settling on my hip.
“This is going to hurt more than before,” she said.
“I figured that.”
Her fingers found the edge of the adductor and pressed down.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
“The inflammation is worse,” she said, her hands moving methodically. “The muscle fibers have knotted up trying to protect the injured area. We need to break that up.”
“Great.” I gritted my teeth as she hit a particularly tender spot.
Her phone buzzed on the desk.
She ignored it.
It buzzed again.
“You can get that,” I said.
“I’m working.”
“What if it’s important?”
“This is important.”
My ribs felt tight, as if someone had laced them into goalie pads two sizes too small.
Her phone buzzed a third time.
She sighed, stepping back to check it, sending a reply.
“Do you need me to leave?” I asked.
“No. It was from Crim,” she said, her voice without inflection. “He wanted to know if you were being an idiot again.”
I groaned. “What did you tell him?”
“That it’s being handled.”
“Is it?”
She met my eyes. “That depends on you.”