17. Brashe #2
“Fuck it,” I grumbled. “I’ll go do pool work.”
The facility was always open to players. I could do some easy laps, tire myself out, then maybe, I’d actually sleep. I’d be careful. I wouldn’t overdo it. She said it would be alright for me to use the pool more than twice in one day.
When I reached the arena at 11:37, I found Ellie’s vehicle sitting in the parking lot.
I pulled into a space three rows over and stared at her vehicle, my hands locked on the steering wheel.
That was late. Way too late. What was she doing here?
I got out of the truck and headed inside.
The facility was quiet other than the hum of the HVAC and the distant sound of a janitor’s cart rolling somewhere on the upper floors. I checked the treatment room first but found it empty.
She wasn’t in the gym or the break room either.
Fear trickled through me. She was alright, wasn’t she?
Her office light was on at the end of the hallway, spilling through the crack along the bottom of the door.
I walked toward it, my footsteps echoing on the polished floor.
When I knocked, she didn’t answer. I pushed the door open.
Ellie slept at her desk, her head pillowed on her arms, surrounded by papers and charts. Her tablet glowed beside her.
I stepped closer, careful not to wake her, studying an article, Advanced Groin Strain Recovery in Professional Athletes, lying on her desk with notations along the margins in her neat handwriting. Sticky notes in three different colors marked specific pages.
She’d been researching for me at 11 PM on a weeknight.
My throat closed off.
The office was cold, the AC running too high. She wore a cardigan over her blouse, which couldn’t be enough.
I pulled off my team hoodie and draped it carefully over her shoulders, tucking it around her to keep the warmth in. She burrowed into it without waking, and heat flooded me, though not from embarrassment. Something worse. Hope.
I needed to wake her and tell her to go home. She couldn’t sleep here all night. But she looked tired, and I didn’t want to disturb her.
I grabbed a sticky note from her desk, purple, with the team logo and wrote, Go home, Dr. Lundrig. I’ll still be broken tomorrow.
I hesitated, then added a small smiley face. I stuck it to her tablet where she’d see it when she woke up.
I left before I did something stupid like kiss the top of her head.
Back in the parking lot, I sat in my truck, staring at her office window.
Her light was still on.
My hip still ached, but that didn’t matter. She’d been researching treatment options for me at 11:30 at night.
Twenty minutes later, her light went dark. She exited through the side entrance, wearing my hoodie now, so big it almost hung to her knees. She held the purple sticky note and was looking down at it.
A hint of a smile curved her mouth.
After she’d driven away, I started my truck. I followed her to her condo and waited on the road until she’d made it inside safely.
Only then did I let myself breathe.
A week after I’d reinjured my groin, I started in the locker room at 7 AM, the smell of sweat so familiar it felt like home.
Except my skates felt strange. I’d been off the ice for too many days.
Ellie had taped my hip this morning, her hands quick and professional, not meeting my eyes more than necessary. She’d used exactly the right tension, supporting the joint without restricting movement.
“Let’s see how this goes,” she’d said as she straightened and stepped back. “I can’t sign off on your case until you’re ready.”
“I understand.”
She left, and I laced my skates, trying to remember what this used to feel like.
Tolrek dropped onto the bench beside me. “You’ve got this.”
“Yeah.”
“She knows what she’s doing.”
I looked up. “What?”
“Doc. She wouldn’t clear you for this if you weren’t ready.”
Right. That’s what he meant.
I finished and stood, testing my weight. The hip held even as I made my way up the ramp and stopped at the top. The ice stretched ahead of me, looking the same as it always did. The boards gleamed purple under the overhead lights. I stepped out onto the ice and everything felt right.
My first stride was tentative, like my body had forgotten how to do this. The second felt better.
By the third, muscle memory took over, and I was skating.
Ellie stood at the boards with her tablet, wearing my team hoodie. She’d secured her hair in a tight bun that made my fingers itch to pull it loose. I couldn’t read the expression on her face.
Coach Beecham stood beside her, along with Patty and the assistant coaches. All of them watching.
“Easy laps first,” Ellie called out. “Just get your legs under you.”
I did as instructed, skating slow laps around the rink. The hip felt good. Stable. The tape was doing its job.
“Crossovers,” she said.
I picked up speed, cutting around the corners. The hip pulled slightly but held.
“Backward skating,” she said after a few laps.
That was harder. My hip protested the angle with a dull ache. It hurt, but I could play through it.
“Quick starts.”
I pushed off hard from a standstill, the explosive movement sending a sharp reminder through my hip that it was still healing. But it didn’t give out or buckle.
“Hard stops.”
I built up speed, preparing for the stop that would test everything.
When I hit it, my hip pulled, though it wasn’t a re-injury. Just a reminder that I wasn’t quite there yet.
I slowed, testing it some more.
Ellie waved. “Off the ice, Kedish.”
I skated to the boards, coming to a stop in front of her. “Why stop? It feels good.”
“Skating felt good, or your ego did?”
I opened my mouth, but she was right. This woman was always right.
Coach grunted. “How’s he look overall, Doc?”
Ellie didn’t take her eyes off me. “He’s progressing well. He’s where he should be at this stage.”
“Will he be ready for game three?”
“If he doesn’t overdo it, yes.”
Coach Beecham pushed out a breath. “Good work, Kedish.”
The coaches left, and it was only me and Ellie at the boards.
“Don’t rush this,” she said.
“I wasn’t.”
“Not for playoffs or for your ego. And definitely not because you’re scared of disappearing.”
“We’ve lost one game and won the other. Four losses, and we’re out for the season.” The pressure was building inside me. “I’m not scared of disappearing anymore.”
She lowered her tablet. “What changed?”
The overhead lights hummed. Somewhere, a Zamboni door clanged shut.
I could tell her I wasn’t scared because I’d proven I could heal. That I’d followed her plan, and it had worked.
But that would be a lie.
“You did,” I said. “You changed it.”
Her grip tightened on her tablet. For a second, I thought she might drop it.
She swallowed, her throat working hard. “I’ll be signing off on you before you know it.”
“I’m counting the days.”
We walked out to the parking lot together that evening. The sun was setting, turning everything soft, and the breeze held the scent of flowers. We stopped between our vehicles.
“Are you nervous about playing again?” she asked.
“No.” I was nervous, but not about the game.
“Liar.”
“Maybe a little.”
“You’re going to be great.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m very good at my job, and if I say you’re ready, you are.”
I almost smiled at that. “I won’t argue with you, then. Will you be at the game?”
“Medical staff is usually there.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I’ll be watching.”
I tugged on the ties of my hoodie she still wore. “Will you wear this?”
She laughed. “That’s subtle.”
“I don’t care about subtle anymore.”
Her laugh faded. She studied my face. “Ask me again in a few days.”
“I will.”
We stood in the fading sunlight, three parking spaces between us that might as well have been three miles.
One step. That’s all it would take. Then I could have my hands on her again.
I bit my fingernails into my palms. She shifted her weight, swaying forward before catching herself.
If she moved again, I was done pretending I had any self-control left.
She didn’t move.
Neither did I. But I wanted to so badly, my tusks ached with it.
“I should go,” she said.
“Yeah.”
Finally, she unlocked her car. I unlocked my truck. We both got in and sat for a moment before starting our engines.
I watched her drive away, remaining where I was until her taillights disappeared.
At 9:41 PM, I sent the ice photo, but this time I added text.
I laminated a second copy. Just in case.
Her response came through fast. In case of what?
I stared at my phone, thinking.
In case I need to remember that someone believed I could get better.
You’re going to make me cry.
My heart kicked. Good tears or bad tears?
I don’t know yet.
I wanted to call her. Then I could tell her I missed her, that waiting felt like forever, that I kept replaying every moment we’d spent together.
But I didn’t call.
Finally, I typed, Good night, Dr. Lundrig.
Good night, Brashe.
She followed it up with a smiley face. I stared at it until my eyes stung before I set the phone down.
For my whole life, I’d been measured in saves. In how many shots I could stop. How brutal I was on the ice. Nobody had ever measured me in showing up or doing the work when it hurt and no one was watching.
Not until her.
I stared at the laminated instruction sheets. The original was soft and worn, the new one still crisp.
If all went well, I’d step back into the net soon.
Then I’d find out if I could still do the thing that had defined me my whole life.