Chapter 22 #2
His gaze dropped to it. “Matteo and Davina talked to me today.”
Every possible medical problem raced through my mind. “About your knee?”
“No.”
The answer should’ve stopped the panic. It didn’t.
Cash pulled out a stool and sat. “They want to train me.”
“For what?”
He pushed the binder across the island.
I opened the front cover.
Athlete Peer Support Specialist
Training Pathway
The pages inside outlined required courses, confidentiality training, supervision, documentation, scope limitations, and procedures for referring athletes to licensed clinicians.
Mental Health First Aid. QPR. HIPAA orientation.
Supervised shadowing with the rehabilitation and sports-psychology teams.
This wasn’t something thrown together over lunch.
“How long have they been working on this?”
“Apparently since I first intervened with a patient. An elite junior goalie.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Cash’s eyebrows rose.
Right.
Because this had nothing to do with me.
I closed the binder. “What did they say?”
“That the clinic has athletes who’ll talk to doctors and therapists all day without telling them the shit they’ll tell someone who’s been where they are. They think I could help with that.”
“They’re right,” I said. I’d read the notes in Eli’s chart.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“Matteo told me what happened with Eli.”
Cash’s eyes narrowed. “When?”
“He mentioned it after the first appointment you helped Eli through, and then it was in Eli’s therapy notes.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“He didn’t tell me who helped. Only that another patient connected with Eli and convinced him to do something the therapist couldn’t.”
“I just talked hockey with him.”
“You made him feel like a person…like a hockey player…instead of an injury.”
Cash looked away.
I knew that expression. Praise made him more uncomfortable than pain.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to do it?”
“That isn’t the same question.”
“It’s the only one that matters right now.”
His fingers tapped against the binder. “Davina made it clear this isn’t a job yet. I have to finish the training, pass the courses, and do supervised hours. If I suck at it, I don’t get hired.”
I laughed and said, “That sounds like Davina.”
“She also said you weren’t involved.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I asked twice.”
“I believe you.”
“I asked Matteo too.”
A smile threatened. “What did he say?”
“He told me my boyfriend doesn’t control every fucking decision made in the clinic, even if his name’s on the wall.”
“He’s a smart man. In case you haven’t noticed, Davina is the boss.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed. The rest of you are scared to death of her.”
I nodded. He wasn’t wrong.
“Matteo also looked entirely too pleased when he said boyfriend.”
The word hit me harder than it should have.
My boyfriend.
Cash saw my face and pointed at me. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re doing that thing with your face.”
“What thing?”
“The one where you look like somebody handed you the Stanley Cup.”
I came around the island and stopped between his knees. “My boyfriend.”
“You’re making it weird.”
I rested my hands on his shoulders. Touching him because I could. Because it came naturally.
Cash’s hands settled at my waist.
“Do you want to do the training?” I asked again.
He looked at the binder for a long moment. “Yeah. I think I do.”
“Then do it.”
“What if I get back on the ice?”
“Then you’ll be a hockey player who completed peer-support training, which would be an asset to any team who signs you.”
“What if I don’t?”
The question stood between us.
A few months ago, I would’ve answered with probabilities, graft healing, objective benchmarks, and every reason he shouldn’t build his life around the least likely outcome.
None of that was what Cash needed from me.
“Then you’ll decide what comes next. If it’s the peer-support position, great. We always need people who can help athletes work through the non-medical side of things. Or you can find something else. Whatever it is you want to do, I’ll be there beside you,” I said.
His fingers tightened in my shirt. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“No speech about realistic expectations?”
“It’s Nelly Anderson’s job to give you those now. She’s your doctor.”
A smile slowly spread across his face. “Firing you might be the best decision I ever made.”
“Keep talking, and you’ll be sleeping in the guest room.”
“You’d last twenty minutes.”
He wasn’t wrong.
June
The first time Cash stepped onto the ice, every part of me wanted to follow him.
Instead, I stayed behind the glass, leaving Nelly…
Dr. Anderson the space near the bench with Matteo while Cash tested his weight over his skates.
No goalie pads. No stick. No net waiting for him.
Just a helmet and the dark practice gear he’d pulled from one of the boxes that had spent months in my garage.
His peer-support binder sat on the seat beside me, packed into the bag he carried to the clinic every day.
Cash had completed the first courses, survived Davina’s confidentiality training, and started shadowing approved sessions.
Eli still trusted him more than anyone else, though he expressed that trust by telling Cash to fuck off at least twice per appointment.
Cash had built something there. And not with just Eli. Several players in a variety of sports trusted Cash to help them through the maze of emotions they faced during rehabilitation.
Despite all he built at the clinic and at Halo House as a volunteer, Cash still stared at the ice like it was the only place he had ever belonged.
Matteo opened the gate.
Cash pushed through it.
His first glide was short and cautious. His hands lifted slightly from his sides before he caught his balance. My fingers curled around the edge of the seat.
Don’t diagnose him.
Don’t count the degrees of flexion.
Don’t watch the knee.
All that was harder said than done.
Cash pushed again.
The second glide carried him farther. He turned carefully near the blue line, crossed to the other side, then came back. Nothing fast. Nothing resembling a butterfly or the violent lateral movements his position demanded.
It was skating.
For today, that would have to be enough.
Cash completed another slow lap. When he passed the glass, his head turned toward me.
Even through the helmet, I saw his grin.
I smiled back.
Matteo made him stop before he wanted to. That hadn’t changed. Cash argued with him at the bench, gesturing toward the ice as if another five minutes were a constitutional right.
Dr. Anderson said something.
Cash stopped arguing.
I laughed.
He looked through the glass and flipped me off.
Several minutes later, he came through the door wearing skate guards and carrying his helmet. Sweat dampened his hair, and his face was still red from the cold.
“Well?” he asked.
I stood. “Well, what?”
“How did I look?”
The medical answers came automatically. Cautious. Stiff through the turn. Protective of the right side.
None of them belonged to me anymore.
I stepped closer and cupped his face. “Happy,” I said. “You looked happy.”
Cash looked back at the ice. That calculating goalie gaze locked on the empty expanse. “Yeah.” His smile returned. “I fucking was.”
I kissed him, his hands fisting in the sweatshirt I had on. When he pulled away, he looked back at the ice, then at me. “I love you, Doc.”
“I love you too, kid.”
Matteo yelled, “You can canoodle and suck face later. We’ve got patients waiting at the office.”