“Okay, time for the yoga stretches,” I said when he was done with the weights. “I want you to perform them in front of me the first time, but after tonight you can do them at home.”
“In front of the television,” he said, deadpan.
I tried a smile on him. “Bingo! Let’s start in cat’s pose…”
We were halfway through the stretches when the rest of the team finished their punishment drills and filed into the locker room. Elias’s eyes flared wide with concern as we listened to lockers bang open and players mumbling complaints.
“We can stop here,” I said, grabbing his arm and pulling him off the floor mat. His arm felt like solid steel. “Don’t need the others seeing you doing yoga.”
His eyes met mine, and he gave me a small nod. It wasn’t a verbal thank-you, but I would take whatever I could get.
“I’ll text you the rehab schedule,” I told him. “We’ll do weights three days a week before practice. But I want you doing your stretcheseverynight.”
“Yes,” he said, striding out of the workout room and back through my office to the locker room.
I grinned to myself. Despite losing the game tonight, I’d gotten a much-needed win.
Three new players came to me with aches and pains once Elias was gone. While working with them, Rhett stuck his head into my office and gave me a questioning look.
I slowly shook my head. Not tonight.
He winced, then left looking disappointed.
When I finished massaging the lower back of a defenseman, I quickly texted Rhett before starting on the next guy.
Me: I won’t get out of here for at least an hour, if you can wait until then. I won’t even bring up the fact that you didn’t score any points tonight ;-)
Through the window, I could see Rhett standing at his locker with his back turned to me. He pulled out his phone, read the text message for a few seconds, then put it away without responding.
A few minutes later, he hefted his duffel bag and left the arena.
At first, it didn’t bother me. But as the minutes ticked by while I dug my thumbs into another player’s calf muscle, I grew more annoyed. It wasn’t my fault I had to stay late. This was myjob. Rhett should have understood that. If anything, their poor performance tonight was the reason we weren’t hooking up!
“Hey, uh, a little lighter pressure?” the player on my table hissed.
I loosened my vice-like grip on his calf. “Sorry.”
By the time I got home after midnight, I was still fuming about the whole thing. So I texted Rhett again.
Me: Are you mad that we didn’t hook up tonight?
Rhett: Kind of. Yeah.
Me: How the hell is that my fault?
Rhett: It’s not your fault. I’m just frustrated at the way this whole day has gone.
Me: Then why are you taking it out on me?
Rhett: I’m not taking it out on you. It has nothing to do with you.
Me: You ignored my text earlier.
Rhett: I didn’t think I needed to respond. You had to work late, so I went home.
Rhett: But you didn’t need to throw tonight’s loss in my face.
Me: What? How did I throw it in your face?
