→ GET HISTORY. ASAP.
PT 101: patient history first, hands second. Day one, and I’m already skipping fundamentals.
I blame those baby-blue eyes. That’s my defense. Those eyes could derail a train of thought faster than a hamstring snap. Addalpha scent and a highly stressed omega trying to make herself at home in a new, strange environment, and it’s a wonder I remember my own name.
Still. It's not a good enough excuse.
I lean forward and scribble more notes. Pain scale, compensation patterns, inflammation markers.
At this rate, I’m going to need a dedicated spreadsheet just to track his dysfunction.
The worst part is that none of this is new. He’s been skating on that shoulder, working through it then icing after games and calling it recovery. He’s acting like a rookie, but I know his type well.
Play through it, shake it off, and push harder.
Idiots, all of them. Especially alphas; they treat their bodies like disposable gear until something finally snaps and then blink at you likehow could this happen.
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead and exhale through my nose, willing myself to focus. I jot down a quick rehab arc to build off: scapular stability work, soft tissue release, eventual isometrics, progressive loading if his alpha ego doesn’t sabotage the plan. I’ll build it out more later—maybe even bring in my laptop tomorrow.
This clipboard crap isn’t going to cut it long-term.
Another note:
→ Bring laptop. Make chart. Put on a real playlist.
→ R.e. Wolfe: ask about mechanism, previous injuries, any pack-level docs from college.
I’m halfway through chewing the cap of my pen when there’s a knock at the door. I drop the pen into the tray and stand, rolling my neck out as I call out.
“Come in.”
The door creaks open, and a tall, broad-shouldered player with shaggy blond curls sticks his head inside. He looks to be late twenties, and is grinning widely. Everything about his face is friendly and open, and his scent hits a second later: bright, warm, and big.
He’s an alpha alright, though he’s less glacier and more golden retriever: all sunshine, sweat, and something like citrus-and-cedar body wash.
“You Emery?” he asks.
“Unless someone else took over my job in the last five minutes…”
His grin widens, dimples and everything.
“Coach said I should swing by. Took a puck to the ribs on Friday. It’s not bad—just kinda feels like I got drop-kicked by a moose.”
“Lucky for you, that’s on-brand.” I point at the table. “Shirt off. Let’s take a look.”
He steps in, all easy alpha confidence, but not sharp like Beau’s. He’s much more open; every inch the pack-animal in a good mood.
I reach for a fresh pair of gloves out of habit, then hesitate, remembering the way it felt to actually feel what was happening in Beau’s shoulder.
At the thought of Beau, I set the gloves down slowly and pick up my clipboard instead, clicking my pen.
I never make mistakes,ever,so I’m sure as hell not making the same one twice.
“Before we do anything, I need your history first,” I tell him, nodding at the table. “Sit: don’t lie down yet. And talk to me.”
He obeys with zero argument, hopping up onto the edge of the table. His long legs dangle over the side.
“Name?” I ask, pen poised.
