She looks up from her notes, but a few beats pass between us as she just…stares.
“What?”
“You’re treating a major shoulder injury like it’s a twisted ankle,” she frowns. “That’s not rehab, Wolfe. That’s denial with a heat pack.”
I huff out a breath through my nose, irritated.
“You’re not subtle, are you?”
“Would subtlety get you back on the ice?” she counters.
I hold her gaze, and something shifts in her expression.
It’s not softer, exactly, but less combative.
“Look,” she sighs, setting the clipboard down. “I’m not here to play games with this. I’m here to get you better. But that only works if you actually want to do the work.”
“I do,” I say immediately.
“Then you need to show up. Regularly.”
“For how long?”
She hesitates for half a second.
“I need your imaging to confirm everything, but based on what I just felt, you’re looking at six weeks minimum. Best case. Maybe longer if there’s a tear.”
My jaw clenches.
“That puts us deep into playoffs.”
“I know.”
“I need to be out there.”
Her eyes don’t shift.
“Not like this, you don’t.”
The room goes still again. Outside, I can hear faint laughter from the guys. A stick clacks against the floor.
Pack noise.
They’re out there carrying the weight I signed up for, and I’m in here trying to convince my body not to fall apart.
“Alright,” I say quietly. “What now?”
She pulls a printed sheet from a folder on the counter and hands it to me.
“Home program. Stretches, basic mobility. Twice a day, minimum. We’re starting with reducing guarding and getting your scapular rhythm back under control.”
“Scapular rhythm,” I repeat, my tone dry as hell.
She smirks. “It’s real. Look it up. Or just trust the omega who spent four years learning how not to let alphas ruin their joints permanently.”
I glance down. Her handwriting is neat.
“When do you want me back?”
