“Coach says you’ve been out a few weeks,” she says as she leans back against the shelf, her arms folded loosely.
“Coming up on four,” I answer with a nod.
“Dislocation?”
“Yeah.”
“Which side?”
I raise my right arm a fraction as she steps forward. She doesn’t touch me: instead, she angles her head and studies the shoulder, the tight line of my posture, the way the jersey sits wrong now.
It feels like she’s tracking more than anatomy, as though she’s also clocking every way I’m compensating, every way I’m guarding, every way I’m refusing to lean.
“Did you have any scans?”
“Yeah. Waiting on the full report, but they said partial tear’s a maybe.”
Her expression doesn’t shift.
“And you’ve been skating through it?”
“Not contact. Not full-speed.” I pause. “But... well. Yeah.”
“That smart?” she asks.
“Probably not.”
She hums. “At least you’re honest.”
The change is subtle, but I swear I feel the moment she decides to stop just looking and start working. Her scent sharpens alittle as she focuses, and my own instinct flares in answer; not aggressive, justaware.
“What’s your pain level right now?” she asks, her eyes tracing the line of my shoulder through the jersey.
“Three or four,” I say. “If I don’t move it.”
“And if you do?”
“…Seven. Maybe eight.”
Her gaze lifts to mine. She doesn't believe me: I can tell.
“Noted,” she says anyway.
She moves closer again, and I sit still on the edge of the table, hands braced. Her presence isn’t loud, but it’s concentrated, and the room seems smaller, almost as if the walls have moved in a few inches.
No one’s saying it out loud, but both our bodies know it.
Omega in alpha territory.
Alpha in her space.
Her eyes drop back to my shoulder, to where the jersey can’t disguise the way everything around it is doing extra work. She tilts her chin toward it, her lips rolling together.
“You’re going to have to take that off.”
I don’t move, and her brows lift slightly. She opens her mouth—no doubt gearing up to repeat herself—but I exhale and cut her off.
“Yeah. I got it.”
