9. Ethan
Ethan
I'm walking without crutches.
It's a small thing considering how far I have to go, but right now it doesn't feel small. My cane clicks against the floor with each step, and my knee is still aching, but I'm upright and moving. No more awkward hobbling. And God, no more armpit bruises from the crutch pads.
I catch my reflection in one of the windows and grin. I'm standing taller, and my shoulders are back instead of hunched over those damn crutches. I look like an athlete again. I look like myself again.
And it’s all thanks to Natalie.
She pushed me when I needed pushing and backed off when I needed space. She adjusted my program when something wasn't working, and now, here we are. Ken was right. She's good at her job.
Maybe I should actually say thank you instead of grunting my way through every session like an asshole.
I'm on my way to see George, already composing some kind of acknowledgment in my head, when I spot them in the hallway.
Natalie is leaning against the wall outside the training room, her head tilted back and her mouth open in laughter. Lane Stevens is standing way too close to her, one hand braced on the wall above her head, saying something that is clearly the funniest thing she's ever heard.
My grip tightens on my cane.
The warm feeling in my chest turns to ice.
Lane is the head athletic trainer. He's thirty-two, single, and attractive to women. I've seen him work his magic at team events and charity galas. He's harmless enough, but right now I want to shove that charm down his throat.
Isn't there a policy about staff fraternizing? There has to be something in the employee handbook about this. You can't just corner a colleague in a hallway and flirt with her while you're supposed to be working.
I stop myself before the thought goes any further.
Who Natalie dates or flirts with or goes home with is absolutely, categorically, none of my fucking business.
She's my physical therapist.
I force myself to keep walking, and I don't look back. But by the time I reach George's treatment room, my mood has soured. George takes one look at my face and sighs.
“Bad day?”
“Just get on with it.”
George has been the team chiropractor for over a decade and he's seen every kind of attitude from every kind of player. Mine doesn't faze him.
“Lie down on your stomach,” he says. “Let's see what we're working with.”
I lower myself onto the table and try to find a comfortable position. My knee protests, and my back aches from weeks of compensating for the injury. I've been putting all my weight on my good leg and hunching over my crutches. The result is a body that's twisted and tight.
George's hands probe along my spine. “You're a mess.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis.”
“Your hips are completely out of alignment, and your lower back is like a brick.” He presses into a spot near my tailbone, and pain shoots through me. “You need to relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You're holding tension in every muscle. If you don't let go, I can't do my job.”
I try to release the tightness, but my body doesn't want to cooperate. Every time I close my eyes, I see Natalie laughing with Lane.
“Breathe,” George instructs. “Deep breath in. Slow breath out.”
George works on my spine, cracking and adjusting and manipulating until some of the tension starts to ease. It's not pleasant, but it's necessary. My body has been working overtime to protect my injured knee, and everything else has suffered as a result.
“Better,” George says after twenty minutes. “But you need to come see me twice a week until we get this sorted. And do the stretches I gave you.”
“Fine.”
“I mean it, Ethan. Your recovery depends on your whole body functioning properly, not just your knee.”
I glare up at him. “I said fine.”
George shakes his head, but he knows better than to push. “Holmes is waiting for you next door. She's going to work on your good leg.”
I haul myself off the table and grab my cane. “Great.”
Hillary Holmes is already set up in the massage room when I arrive. She's the team massage therapist, a petite woman with strong hands and an even stronger need to fill every silence with conversation.
“Ethan, how are you today? How's the knee? I heard you're off crutches now. That's so exciting. George said your back was really tight. Mine gets like that, too, when I'm stressed.”
I grunt and lie down on the table.
She starts working on my good leg. “We need to keep this loose so you don't develop problems on both sides. Compensation injuries are no joke. I saw a player once who messed up his good knee because he was favoring the bad one. Ended up needing surgery on both. Can you imagine?”
Another grunt.
“I know, I know, you're not in the mood to chat, but then again, you never are.” She laughs.
“That's okay. I talk enough for both of us.
My husband says I could have a conversation with a brick wall.
He's probably right. I just like connecting with people. Life is too short to sit in silence and leave things unsaid.”
I close my eyes and let her words wash over me without really listening. She talks about her weekend plans, her sister's new baby, and a restaurant she tried last week that had the best tacos she's ever eaten.
My mind drifts back to Natalie's laugh and Lane's hand on the wall above her head. My chest constricts. Not that it’s any of my business.
But the image refuses to leave my mind.
The sun set an hour ago, and the city is glowing beneath me.
I'm on my balcony with a glass of water and the remains of the dinner Arlo prepared earlier. The breeze is warm and carries noise that makes New York feel alive. It's peaceful out here.
My chair is tucked into the corner where the shadows are deepest. From here, I can see the other balconies along the building, but no one can see me.
The sliding door to Natalie's apartment opens, and I tense.
She steps out onto her balcony dressed in tiny shorts and a cropped tank top that leaves a strip of her stomach bare. Her hair is down, flowing softly in the gentle breeze. Her feet are bare too, and her toenails are painted a soft pink.
I've never scrutinized a woman as much as I'm scrutinizing Natalie, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a warning bell is ringing. I ignore it.
She looks different from how she does at work. The professional armor is gone, and what's left is just a woman enjoying the evening air.
She rolls out a yoga mat and positions herself in the center of it.
I feel like I'm trespassing on something private, but I can't make myself stop. I just sit there in the shadows and enjoy the view.
She moves through a series of poses with fluid grace. Her body bends and stretches and holds positions that would make my muscles scream in protest. Her movements are smooth and fluid, each stretch flowing into the next, making the exercises look easy.
She's beautiful.
I've known this since the moment I met her, but right now, with the city lights behind her and her body moving like water, it hits me all over again. She's beautiful and smart and good at her job, and I have no right to want her the way I do.
She finishes her routine and settles into a seated position, her legs crossed and her hands resting on her knees. For a long moment, she just sits there, breathing.
Then she speaks, startling me. “Have you ever done any yoga?”
I laugh, but it's more from embarrassment than amusement. All this time, I thought I was the one watching, unnoticed. She knew I was here the whole time. I feel like an idiot. “I didn't think you could see me.”
“I couldn't.” She turns her head in my direction and smiles. “But I could hear you breathing.”
“That's a little creepy.”
“Says the man who was sitting in the dark watching me exercise.”
I chuckle. Fair point. “To answer your question, no, I've never done yoga. Not really my thing.”
“You should try it. It's good for flexibility and mental clarity. Might help with your recovery.”
“That's what Hillary said. She also said I should try meditation and journaling and something called breath work.”
Natalie laughs. “Hillary is enthusiastic.”
“That's one word for it.”
The next few minutes pass in comfortable silence. A railing separates us, but it doesn't feel that way. It feels like she's right here next to me.
“Can I ask you something?” The words are out before I can stop them. The question has been gnawing at me for days, and I need to know the answer. Fuck what she thinks of it. She can answer or not, but I have to ask.
“Sure.”
“What happened with the boyfriend in Charlotte. Is he still in the picture?”
She's quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if she’ll tell me to mind my own fucking business. After all, we're not friends. We're not anything, and I have no right to ask about her personal life.
“We broke up a few months before I moved here,” she says.
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. It was the right decision.” There's something in her voice that tells me there's more to the story, but she doesn't offer it, and I don't push. “What about you? Are you dating?”
“No. Hockey doesn't leave much room for relationships.” It's true, but it's also an excuse.
Like most hockey players, I've had my share of women. Puck bunnies who hang around after games, models at charity events, friends of friends who want a taste of the NHL lifestyle. I indulged for a while when I was younger, but it got exhausting fast.
The same conversations, the same empty nights, and the realization that they wanted the jersey more than the man wearing it.
My longest relationship lasted a year. Her name was Megan, and she was beautiful, fun, and completely wrong for me. She wanted the glitz that came with dating a professional athlete. The VIP sections, the red carpet, and the photos at exclusive clubs.
I wanted dinner at home and maybe a quiet restaurant once in a while. She got bored, and I got tired of pretending to be someone I wasn't. We ended things amicably, but it confirmed what I already suspected. I'm not built for the kind of relationship most women want.
“That's a convenient excuse.”
I smile. “It’s not an excuse. Most women get tired of coming second to the sport, with the travel and the constant focus on the game.”
There’s a pause. The she says, “The right woman wouldn't see it that way.”
“Yeah.” Except I’ve never found her or even looked to be honest. I have enough on my plate with my father’s illness and hockey.
The breeze picks up, and Natalie pulls her knees to her chest. “Are you ready for the Skills Showcase?”
I sigh. I've been trying not to think about it. “Do you mean if I’m ready to stand on the sidelines and watch my teammates do what I can't? Sure. Can't wait.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“I know.” I run my hand through my hair and let out a breath. “It's going to be hard. The showcase is all about skating and shooting and showing off what you can do. I used to love it. Now I'll just be the guy with the cane, smiling for the cameras and pretending I'm fine.”
“It's temporary, Ethan. A few more months of hard work and you'll be back on the ice.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Definitely.”
I look at her across the darkness. She's just a silhouette now, her features hidden by shadow, but there’s conviction in her voice.
“Do you really believe that?” The question makes me sound fucking vulnerable.
She doesn't hesitate. “Yes. I've seen your progress. I've seen how hard you work, even when you're frustrated and angry and want to give up. You're going to make it back, Ethan. I don't have a single doubt.”
I swallow hard against the sudden lump in my throat. No one has said those words to me since the injury. Not with that kind of certainty.
She believes in me and not because she has to or because it's her job. She believes in me because she's seen me at my worst, and she still thinks I can do this.
“Thanks.” Thank you seems too small.
She stands and picks up her yoga mat. “Goodnight, Ethan.”
“Goodnight, Natalie.”
She disappears inside, and her sliding door clicks shut behind her.
I stay on the balcony for a long time after she's gone, staring at the city lights and thinking about everything she said.
She's single. She believes in me.