I meet his gaze, keeping my expression neutral even as my molars grind together. "I'm fine."
“Bullshit.” He steps closer, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Your whole energy is off. What’s going on?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Right. And I’m the Easter Bunny. Relax your jaw before you give yourself TMJ and we have another issue to worry about.”
"Ottawa wants me at development camp in June."
"That's good news, isn't it?"
The band snaps as my grip slips, the sharp sting against my skin barely registering. "What happens when they realize their draft pick can barely hold a stick some days?"
Tommy hands me another band. "You think you're the first player to work through an injury before camp? Half the guys I treat are racing similar clocks."
"They're not dealing with nerve damage." Or brain damage, but I keep that part to myself.
He gestures for me to continue the exercise. "The Senators drafted you knowing you've had surgeries on your arm. Being upfront about your recovery shows maturity, not weakness."
I grunt, switching to a different grip. My fingers burn with the effort, but I push through it. "They drafted me because I can read plays better than most defensemen. Because I don't hesitate to take hits."
"Because you can't feel them, you mean."
My head snaps up, eyes narrowing. Tommy holds my gaze, unflinching.
"Beckett mentioned you play through injuries you shouldn't. That you don't always register when you're hurt."
"Not relevant." My voice comes out sharper than intended, defensive.
"Like hell it's not." He grabs a small purple dumbbell from the nearby table. "Everything's connected, which is why we need to talk about pain management. Or lack thereof."
"I handle it fine." The lie comes easily, practiced.
"You power through it. There's a difference." He sets the weight in front of me. "Show me your curl form."
I lift the dumbbell, going through the prescribed motions. My left hand trembles faintly as I curl my fingers around it, the muscles straining.
"Your control's improving." Tommy makes a note on his tablet. "More stable than last week."
I switch hands, the difference in strength immediately apparent. "Doesn't feel like it."
"That's because you're focusing on what you can't do instead of what you can." He takes the dumbbell, replacing it with a heavier one. "Five more reps, then we'll work on pronation. You've got a game tonight, right?"
"Against BU." I start the reps, each movement precise despite the increased weight. The new weight strains my grip. "Feels like I'm going to be doing this forever."
“Better than doing nothing. You’re here, putting in the work. That’s what matters.”
I don't respond, focusing instead on maintaining proper form. The burn in my forearm builds with each rep, both irritating and satisfying—a reminder that I'm still capable of something, even if it's just this.
“You know, Beckett tells me you’re one of his most relentless players.”
I grunt, focusing on the exercise. Not sure what’s with all the small talk today.
“I’ve worked with a lot of clients. NHL players. Olympians. Athletes at the top of their game. But they all have one thing in common—they’re one wrong move away from losing everything.”
Fuck.
My grip slips, my gaze flicking to him as I nearly drop the dumbbell. "You said you could fix my hand."
