Most of the time, they won’t say shit. They’ll hide it or play through it, maybe even act like they’re invincible. And it’s our job to see past that bullshit and help them anyway.
The second I step into the training room, it hits me…this is what I’ve been waiting for.
The place is spotless. Like, borderline surgical. The counters wiped down to a shine, every cabinet labeled perfectly, and shelves lined with symmetrical stacked tape rolls, rehab bands, foam rollers, and enough cold spray to chill a whole damn locker room. It smells like eucalyptus, antiseptic, and just the faintest hint of sweat and adrenaline.
Honestly? It’s kind of perfect.
There’s something about a well-stocked supply wall that just makes my little sports med heart sing.
I run a hand along the edge of the treatment table as I pass, pretending I’m just being casual, but really? I’m soaking this shit in like it’s holy ground.
This is where it happens. The real work. The behind-the-scenes grind that nobody sees when they’re watching from the stands, screaming about goals and hits and fights. This room is where careers get saved or wrecked if someone misses the signs.
And I’m in it. Finally.
I drop my bag on the floor next to the back wall, let out a slow breath, and smile like a dumbass.
“Stop smiling like a fucking weirdo,” a familiar voice calls out.
I damn near jump out of my skin and whip around to find Hughie standing there, grinning like the smug bastard he is. He’s a mountain of a man, all muscle and confidence, and somehow moves like he’s made of air. I swear he could sneak up on a ghost if he felt like it.
“Fuck all the way off,” I grumble with no real heat behind it.
He just chuckles and strolls in like he owns the place, which, in fairness, he kinda does. The athletes are the entire reason this room even exists. Then he hops up onto the treatment table. “I need my ankle worked over and wrapped.”
Joy. Pure, unfiltered joy.
That’s the only way I can describe how it feels to be treating my best friend. There's something full-circle about it. I think my love for hockey’s always been there…watching games with my dad before he passed, both of us yelling at the screen like we had any say in the outcome. But it wasn’t until my mom remarried and I started tagging along with Hugh to his practices and games that Ireallyfell for the sport. Not just the game, but everything around it.
I was never athletic enough to play, not really. I’ve got the height, the build, sure, but put me on skates and I look like a baby deer with a death wish. So I found another way in. A better one, honestly. One where I get to be part of the game in a way that matters.
“Still bothering you from the summer?” I ask, walking toward the table and already picturing the wrap I’m gonna use.
He nods, jaw tight. “Not bad. Just feels weak. Like it wants to give out if I push too hard.”
I nod, already in work mode. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
I roll up the sleeve of my compression top and grab a pair of gloves from the dispenser. The latexsnapsaround my wrists with a satisfying pop, and Hughie raises a brow.
“Gloves? What, you afraid I’m contagious?” he deadpans.
“Nah,” I say, grabbing a stool and wheeling over. “I just don’t want your swamp-ass hockey feet touching my bare skin. I have standards.”
He snorts but props his leg up on the table without another word. I pull down his sock, and finally get a look at the ankle.
Still a little puffy around the lateral malleolus, even this long after the initial sprain. Definitely a Grade I, maybe low-end Grade II from how he described it over the summer. And if it’s still feeling weak now, we’re dealing with instability, probably some leftover laxity in the ligament.
“Alright, tell me where it’s tender,” I say, using two fingers to palpate the outside of his ankle. I press gently along the ATFL and CFL pathways, watching his face.
He flinches a little. “Right there.”
“Figures,” I mutter, switching to dorsiflexion and inversion stress tests. “Anterior drawer’s a little loose. Not awful, but definitely not great.”
“You’re such a nerd about this,” Hughie mumbles.
“Yeah, well, being a nerd is what’s gonna keep you skating and not limping like an old man by mid-season,” I shoot back. “Lie back and relax. I’m gonna run some soft tissue work before I wrap you.”
I grab the massage lotion and start some gentle massage to warm up the area, then shift into cross-friction massage over the lateral ligaments. It’s enough pressure to stimulate blood flow and help break up any lingering adhesions. He hisses through his teeth.
