Can’t wait.
I finish the coffee, rinse the mug, and brace myself—literally—for the rest of the day.
Team Services is sending a ride, and rehab starts this morning—with Charlie.
I head out once the car pulls up. Sun’s out, sky’s clear, but it’s still cold enough to bite.
The ride to the facility is short but somehow still miserable. Every bump on the road makes my knee bark, and the seat’s too low to stretch it comfortably.
The Ice Foxes’ medical wing sits beneath the arena—quiet, high-tech, and a hell of a lot more familiar than I’d like. I’ve done post-game recovery here. Maintenance work. Had a few tweaks and bruises over the years. Missed a game once.
But never anything like this.
By the time I’m limping down the hall toward the rehab room after the scan, I’m already ten degrees crankier.
Patel had caught me outside the imaging suite—tablet in hand, voice like a verdict. He confirmed it was a high-grade MCL tear, walked me through the MRI results, laid out the protocol: no skating, no contact, full physical therapy plan.
Charlie’s leading rehab, and Patel will be checking in on me weekly to hit the return-to-play benchmarks.
When I heard him say ten weeks minimum, it hit like a punch to the gut.
Sophie’ll finish sixth grade before I’m cleared to skate again.
But I nodded. Didn’t argue. What would be the point?
Charlie’s waiting outside the rehab room, tablet in hand, hair up in some perfectly effortless knot, wearing one of those zip-up Ice Foxes quarter-zips like she’s been here for hours.
She beams so brightly when she sees me that it could deflect a missile.
Like I’m not dragging half a leg behind me.
“Morning,” she says, voice annoyingly upbeat. “How’s the knee?”
“Still busted.”
Her smile doesn’t even twitch. “We’re here to fix that.”
She steps aside to hold the door, and I catch a whiff of her shampoo—something citrus, light. The room’s too bright, and her energy’s too much.
I drop onto the padded table without waiting for direction, stretching my leg out stiffly in front of me. The brace clicks.
Charlie pulls up my file and taps through a few screens. “We’re starting with baselines. Patel signed off on your imaging, but I need to check range and stability so we can lay out your progression.”
“I don’t need a baseline. I just need a plan.”
“Thisisthe plan,” she says, cheerful as ever. “Baseline testing comes first.”
“Waste of time.”
She doesn’t flinch, just leans over to adjust the brace. Her fingers are quick and clinical, knuckles brushing my skin just above the strap. I tense, jaw locked.
She hums while she works.
Actuallyhums.
“You always this cheerful at eight in the morning?”
She grins. “This is me holding back.”
