“One to ten.”
“Three.Maybe four.”
He presses into the muscle, testing.I don't flinch.Don't give him anything.
“Seems stable,” he says.“You've been keeping up with the stretches?”
“Every single one.”
“Good.Hart's notes say you're a compliant patient when you're not being a dumbass.”He shoots me a look.“Try to stick with the compliant part.”
The mention of her notes makes my chest tight.She took notes.Professional, clinical notes about my recovery.Meanwhile, I've been lying awake every night replaying the sound she made when she came on my face.
Professional.Right.
Mark finishes the wrap and steps back, surveying his work.“That should hold.But take it easy today.No heroics.”
“Never.”
He snorts.“Sure.That's why you're famous for not pushing through injuries.”He packs up his kit.“Ice after practice.Elevate tonight.If it starts acting up, you tell me immediately.None of this 'I'll just play through it' bullshit.”
“Got it.”
The door closes behind him, and I'm alone thinking about what happened the last time I was on this table.
My fingers grip the edges.
She left.Ally fucking Hart looked at what happened between us and decided the best course of action was to run so far in the opposite direction she literally changed my therapist.I stare down at the tape on my thigh.
It's good work.Solid.Secure.But it's not hers.
“Fuck,” I mutter to the empty room.Then I grab my gear and head for the ice, because if I stay in here any longer, I'm going to do something stupid, like text her.Or show up at her dorm.Or both.
The second my blades hit the ice, something clicks.All the frustration, all the anger, all the confusion about Ally and what the hell just happened between us—it funnels into pure, focused energy.I push harder than I have in weeks.I'm faster and more aggressive than I probably should be.Coach McKibbon's running a neutral zone drill, and I'm flying through it, making all the pain in my chest disappear.
“Cross!”Cade yells as I blow past him.“What the hell, man?Save some for the actual game!”
I don't respond.I just push harder into the next turn, my edges biting into the ice with a satisfying scrape.Every stride is Ally walking out of that training room.Every sprint is her requesting a transfer without even telling me.Every sharp turn is the memory of her riding my face while I did everything I could to make her come.
“Shit, Cross!”Dash calls from the net as I fire a shot that nearly takes his helmet off.“What's gotten into you?”
Ally Hart.That's what's gotten into me because she decided professional boundaries matter more than whatever the hell this thing between us is.I steal the puck off Parker's stick—more aggressively than necessary—and drive toward the net.Dash is ready this time, but I deke left and roof it.The lamp lights up.
“CROSS!”Coach's whistle pierces the air.“Line change!Now!”
I skate to the bench, breathing hard, my thigh starting to send warning signals that I'm aggressively ignoring.
Like i said before, the pain there is better than the feeling in my chest.
“How's the thigh?”Coach asks when I reach him.He studies me for a long moment, then glances down at my legs.
“Fine.”
“You sure?You're favoring it.”
“I'm not—”
“Don't lie to me, Cross.I've been coaching hockey longer than you've been alive.I can see when someone's compensating.”He crosses his arms.“So I'll ask again: how's the thigh?”
