By the time we wrap, my quad is trembling, my brace feels like a vise, and I’m already dreading tomorrow. But I can’t deny it. It’s a better session than yesterday. Smoother. More productive.
More… tolerable.
She crouches to adjust the strap at my knee, fingers brushing the inside of my brace.
It’s nothing. Barely a touch.
Still, my pulse kicks like she hit a nerve.
I keep my face blank.
Just a reflex. That’s all it is.
“There,” she says, standing. “You're all set.”
I nod once, grabbing my water bottle.
"Same time tomorrow,” she calls lightly as I limp toward the door.
I don’t answer. Just lift one hand in acknowledgment and keep walking.
Because if I look back now, I might actually say something decent.
And I’m not ready for that yet.
The hallway outside the therapy room smells like stale coffee and floor cleaner—familiar, grounding, and mostly quiet. I headtoward the exit through the hall that links the PT room to the players' wing.
I make it three steps before I hear my name.
“Hey, Cap.”
Tyler Reed.
He’s coming out of the locker room, tape around his wrist, hair still damp from post-skate. His pace slows when he sees me, and for a split second, I wonder if he’s going to pivot and avoid the whole awkward thing.
But he doesn’t.
“Didn’t know you were coming in today,” he says easily.
“Morning therapy session,” I reply. My voice comes out flat. I’m not trying to be cold. I just don’t have the energy to fake anything.
His gaze flicks to my brace. “How’s it holding up?”
I nod. “It’s fine.”
He adjusts the strap on his gym bag. “Some of the guys were asking about you, wondering when you’ll be around more. You coming to morning skate tomorrow? Even just to watch?”
Just to watch.
It’s not an insult. Not really. But it lands wrong anyway, like a line drawn in invisible ink.
“Maybe,” I say.
Tyler nods once, but I catch the way his eyes rest on my knee again.
He doesn’t need a letter to act like he’s running the room.
Stepping up while I’m out, sure.
