Despite myself, I snort.
“But,” he continues, the bravado dimming just a notch, “his buddy came in from the side before the refs could get between us. Caught me right here.”
He taps his ribs with two fingers.
“Didn’t see it coming.”
I note it down, though I don't writeeverythingthat I think of him so far, includingnoble idiot.
“So—direct punch to the right ribs. Friday night. Continued playing?”
“I mean… yeah? It’s hockey. Also he deserved it.”
“I'm definitely not debating that,” I say, flipping to a new section of the chart. “Any trouble breathing since then? Pain on inhalation? Sharp, stabbing pain when twisting?”
“Breathing’s fine,” he says. “Hurts like hell when I sneeze. Or laugh. Or get told I have to do laundry duty.”
“No dizziness? No coughing up blood?”
“Nope.”
I jot a few more bullet points. “Previous rib fractures?”
“Left side in college,” he says. “Freshman year dogpile in front of the net. It cracked like bubble wrap.”
“Charming,” I mutter. “Any surgeries?”
“Nope. I’m a temple.”
“More like a slightly cursed amusement park,” I say, clicking my pen closed. “Alright. Shirt off.”
He grins and peels off his hoodie, then the t-shirt beneath it, stretching lazily. He’s got a solid chest, defined abs, and a criminally smug V; but all of that gets overshadowed by the bruising. It’s all huge blooms of purple, green, and yellow, swirls of trauma spreading across one side of his ribs, enough to make even seasoned PTs wince.
I do my best to keep my face neutral as I step up close.
“Lie back.”
He does, folding his hands behind his head as I hover my hand over the worst of the bruising.
“Observation first, then palpation, then breathing.”
“Sexy,” he says.
“Watch it,Rocket.I will tape your mouth shut.”
He laughs—and immediately winces, hissing.
“Okay. Maybe not laughing.”
“Good.” I press lightly along the ribs. “Deep breath for me.”
He inhales. His ribs expand as the muscle shifts under my fingers, the bruising spreading wider than I want it to.
“Pain?”
“Like a five,” he says. “An eight if you poke any harder. A nine when I got hit. A ten when Coach chewed me out.”
“And on a scale of one to ten,” I say, pressing a little more firmly, “how stupid was fighting in the first place?”
