She moved beside me to reach the back of my shoulder, her thighs pushing close against mine. I bit the inside of my cheek and braced myself as she pressed along the edges of my shoulder blade, tracking the way it shifted. Her thumb paused when the glide faltered.
“You’re compensating,” she said.
“I’m managing.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
We fell into the rhythm of checks and prep, the quiet punctuated by her muttered comments and my sarcastic quips. Even with the undercurrent of awkwardness from our last encounter, the flow between us carried that same friction that could light a fire.
She stepped around to face me again, tape already in her hand and that look on her face that made her a stranger, not the person I’d been hacking it out with for the past few months.
“Wait.” I put my hand over hers to stop her rolling off the tape. She frowned, but did as I’d asked. “I need something for the pain.”
She sighed and pulled out of my grip. “I’ll give you a couple of painkillers after.”
The strips got cut and lined up on the edge of her desk, and I waited until she’d finished before speaking again.
“Not painkillers. I need… something stronger.”
Her eyes widened, but she quickly schooled her features back to neutral. “No.”
She muttered something about protocols, ethics, and possibly very bad ideas, but the way her eyes flicked to my shoulder told me she was already calculating.
“Hopper, please.” I didn’t sound good begging, but I sure as hell wasn’t above it. Not with everything riding on this game. “I can’t go out there feeling like this.”
She set down the tape, and finally looked at me for real. Whatever softness she used to fake when she had to coax players through these mobility tests was gone. “You can barely hold the joint where it needs to be. You don’t need a needle, Bouchard. You need rest, a scan, rehab...”
“Yeah, well, all of those things can’t happen now, can it?” I challenged her, determined to get what I was asking for. “There’s a game in a few minutes, and I have to be on that ice. You know what’s riding on this, and if I don’t show up, what we both stand to lose.”
“Spare me the martyr act.” She turned back to the cart. Metal clinked. Her shoulders stayed locked. “You’re not doing this for me. You never were.”
I felt that one, but didn’t show it. “I can’t go out there only half-functional.”
“I said no.”
“Please. The pain is off the charts today. I know my body, and I know I won’t make it through the game unless...”
My voice did something rough at the edges that made me stop. I wasn’t gonna cave in front of her. I’d already begged. Caving wasn’t an option.
She closed her eyes for half a breath—tiny, controlled, like she regretted giving the moment even that much space—then opened a drawer.
“Off the books,” she said. “And just this one shot. You mention it to anyone and I’ll cut your arm off myself.”
She prepped the syringe with quick, efficient movements. No hesitation or questioning. Just that quiet, furious competence that had gotten me this far. She came back over to me and stepped in close. I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t dare give away how my pulse kept tripping over itself whenever she did that.
“Shirt,” she said simply.
I peeled it off, and managed to keep it down to a single grunt of pain when I moved my arm. The room wasn’t cold, but my skin reacted anyway when her hand steadied the back of my shoulder. The needle slid in, clean and fast. A quick pinch and then it was over.
“It’ll kick in soon,” she said.
But it hit faster than that. Heat unspooled down my arm, and the pinch disappeared. After another minute or so, I rolled my shoulder to test the range, and a grin tugged before I could stop it. I drew my arm back, then swung it forward. No warning tug. No bite. Nothing.
“Look at that,” I said. “Feels good as new.”
“That’s the problem.”
She grabbed my wrist before I could repeat the movement. Her fingers wrapped around me with more force than necessary, like she knew she needed it to keep me still. That touch went straight to my gut.
