14. Brashe
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
brASHE
Ellie got back to work, pressing deeper into my adductor muscle. The pressure built until I had to focus on breathing to get through it.
“I need to do more soft tissue work,” she said after a few minutes. “It’s going to hurt more than anything so far.”
“Alright.”
“I need you to trust me.”
“I do.”
She paused, her hands going still on my thigh. “Do you?”
“With this? Yeah.” I swallowed. “With everything else? I’m working on it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m trying not to be the orc who fucked things up at the picnic.”
She went very still. “We won’t be talking about that.”
“Maybe we should.”
“Not while I’m elbow-deep in your adductor, we’re not.”
The pressure was brutal. Not quite a sharp pain, but deep and relentless, like she was digging into a place I’d been protecting for too long.
“Breathe,” she said.
I was. Through my tusks, but still.
“I mean actually breathe, Brashe. You’re holding your breath.”
“I’m trying to be tough.”
“I don’t need you to be tough. I need you to relax.”
“I can’t do both.”
“Yes, you can. Trust your body.”
“My body is what got me into this mess.”
“No.” Her hands kept working. “Your brain did. Your body was trying to keep up and couldn’t.”
I exhaled.
And something in the muscle released.
She worked deeper, her thumbs pressing into the adhesions with controlled force. It hurt, but differently now, like the pain had a purpose.
“You could’ve dumped me on Patty,” I said. “Why didn’t you?”
Her hands didn’t stop. “Because you’d just do something stupid again, and I’d feel responsible.” She pressed harder. “And because Patty’s child has the flu, and I’m not a monster.”
“That’s the only reason?”
Her hands went completely still. Then she pressed down hard enough that I flinched.
“You’re a pain in my ass, Kedish,” she said quietly. “But you’re my pain in the ass. At least for the next week or so.” She pulled her hands away. “Sit up.”
I did, and suddenly we were close enough that I could see the exact shade of green in her eyes. When she exhaled, I felt it on my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have—”
“You’re right.” She held my gaze. “You shouldn’t have. It’s bullshit. We can’t do this right now. You’re still injured. You’re still my patient. I have a job to do.”
“And after?”
“After what in particular?”
“After I’m healed and cleared and I’m not your patient anymore.”
The door opened, and we jumped apart like we’d been caught doing something we shouldn’t.
Coach Beecham walked in, his gaze moving between us.
“How’s my goalie doing?” he asked.
Ellie’s professional mask snapped back into place fast.
“Progressing,” she said. “He’ll be ready for game three if he follows the treatment plan.”
“Good.” The coach looked at me. “Are you listening to her?”
I was still looking at Ellie. “I am.”
“Keep it up.” He left, and the silence that followed felt heavier than before.
“So,” she said. “Game three. Can you handle that?”
“Can you?”
A frown creased her brow. “We’ll find out.”
By the time I left the building thirty minutes later, my hip felt like it had been worked over with a sledgehammer.
In a good way, more or less.
Outside the arena, I walked down the road to the coffee place where Ellie bought something to drink each morning. After making my purchase, I walked back.
I set the coffee I’d picked up and a pastry bag with a donut on the treatment room desk with a sticky note pressed to the coffee cup lid. Thanks for not giving up on me. —B
Turning, I left.
I made it to the parking lot before I pivoted, fully planning to go back inside and take the coffee and donut away before she saw it. What if she thought I was trying to manipulate her? What if Crim found out and thought I was crossing a line? What if she just thought it was pathetic?
I forced myself to get into my truck and drive. The coffee was already there. Taking it back would be worse than leaving it.
Probably.
My phone buzzed before I got halfway home. I pulled over to the side of the road and put my vehicle in park.
My heart stopped when I saw Crim’s name on the screen. Damn. He knew about the coffee. Maybe Ellie had texted him. Or maybe he had that sibling sixth sense that told him when someone was trying to court his sister.
I was dead. Actually dead. Crim was going to rip my arms off and beat me with them, and Coach would just shrug and say I should’ve known better.
I opened his text.
Ellie says you’re behaving. Keep it up or I’ll end you.
The relief lasted about two seconds before the guilt hit. He was trusting me. He was telling me Ellie said I was behaving, and I was leaving her coffee and a donut with a note signed with just my initial like I was a creep.
I replied: I wouldn’t dream of doing anything less.
I mean it, Kedish. She’s been through enough.
I’m well aware of that.
Are you?
I stared at the text, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. The coffee felt like a confession I hadn’t meant to make. If Crim found out, he wouldn’t see it as a thank you. He’d see it as me doing exactly what he’d told me not to do.
He’d be right.
But I couldn’t take it back now.
I’m trying to, I finally typed.
Good.
Another text came through before I could set the phone down.
She’s tougher than she looks but don’t make me regret believing you.
I won’t.
You better not. I know where you live.
I smiled at that, even though my hip was screaming, and I was pretty sure Crim actually would murder me if I hurt his sister again.
Ellie was tougher than she looked. I’d seen it in the treatment room and in the way she didn’t back down when pushed. She’d kept working even when I was being difficult.
She was tougher than anyone I’d ever met.
And I was going to prove I was worth the effort.
I set the phone down and put my vehicle back into drive.
My hip ached, but in that deep, healing way that told me our efforts were doing something. That I was getting better.
But getting better didn’t erase what I’d cost us.
Drachmar would play game one. Game two. Maybe game three if I didn’t heal right. He was good. He had solid fundamentals and decent reflexes. But he wasn’t a wall. He couldn’t read plays the way I could, couldn’t anticipate that split-second before a shooter released as well as me.
The team had worked all season to get where we were. Now they’d go into playoffs without their starting goalie because I’d messed up.
Easing to the side of the road, I pulled up the team group chat on my phone. Scrolled through the messages from earlier.
Drachmar asked about my hip.
Veskar sent a gif of a goalie making an impossible save with the caption “no pressure, backup.”
Tolrek simply said, We’ve got this.
They were moving forward, as they should. Moving on without me.
A pang shot through my chest.
They knew I’d read all this. How should I reply? Saying sorry felt too small. Telling them I’d be back soon felt like a promise I couldn’t guarantee. Good luck would feel like I was already giving up on myself and them.
I set the phone down without sending anything.
A week or so of perfect compliance wouldn’t change that I’d already fucked up. That my team was going into battle without me because I couldn’t follow simple directions.
I needed to get home and ice my injury. I’d sit in my apartment. Rest. But sitting alone in my apartment while my team prepared for playoffs without me felt like exactly what I deserved.
When I got home, I did the stretches again. After, I grabbed an ice pack and sat on the couch, staring at the instruction sheet.
The smiley face was still there, right next to the frowny face she’d drawn first.
The change meant something.
It had to.
I pressed the ice pack harder against my hip, the cold burning through the thin fabric of my shorts.
A week of seeing her twice a day. Her hands would be on me, and I’d have to pretend it was just professional. During that time, I also needed to prove I wasn’t the asshole from the picnic.
With the timer set for twenty minutes, I closed my eyes.
A bit later, my phone buzzed with a text.
I found the coffee and donut, Ellie said. You didn’t have to do that.
I wanted to.
There was a long pause, long enough that I thought she wasn’t going to respond.
Thank you, she sent. See you at four.
I’ll be there.
Don’t be late. I’ll draw you a new smiley face.
I stared at that text until my screen went dark.
She’d take time out of her day to draw me another tiny, silly smiley face on a piece of paper that I’d probably have laminated if I could figure out how to do it without looking completely out of my mind.
This had to mean something.
Unless she drew smiley faces for everyone, and I was reading into it because I was desperate for any sign that she didn’t completely hate me.
I set the phone down and did my stretches again, even though I’d already done them twice today, because I needed to process the feeling building in my jaw that I didn’t have words for.
I could do this.
I had to.