"I hate this."
"You love it."
"I absolutely do not."
Watching her this happy over something this stupid, though. I could get used to that.
"You know, mobility training would have prevented this." Her breath fans my neck as she drags her thumb along the tight band of muscle between my neck and shoulder. "If you'd let me work with you properly instead of fighting it every step..."
"Don't." I love being touched. I keep the pleased shudder out of my voice when I grind out, "Don't turn this into another lecture about yoga."
Her hands hesitate where they rest against my neck. "It's not a lecture. I'm not trying to trick you, Si. Yoga is a really powerful tool."
"You think you can fix me, like I'm another project to manage and improve with the right stretches and breathing exercises."
She pulls back, hurt flashing in her eyes before she can hide it. "That's not fair."
"None of this is fair." The gesture encompasses the shoulder, the medical wing, the whole goddamn situation. "But I don't need lectures about what should have been done differently. I know, okay? I know I fucked up."
"Your inner critic is an asshole, Silas." Scout's chiding is gentle. "Listen to me. You didn't fuck up. You just played too hard. Sometimes it's impossible to know how your body is going to feel about something until afterward."
My icy heart thaws a tiny bit more. "You're too sweet for this world, Pretty Girl."
"Si!" She smiles, blushing, and ducks her head. "Not at work, okay?"
"Yeah, I know." I shrug, rolling my eyes. "It's hard to keep you a secret."
"Flirt." Scout smiles and finishes taping my shoulder without another word. "Okay. You should be all set. Go home and ice this. If I come home and you aren't already sitting on the couch with an ice pack, I'm going to be pissed."
"Pissed, huh? That's something I haven't seen from you before."
Scout rolls her eyes. "Go on, big guy. Get out of here. I have to go back to practice."
She leaves the room, her hips swaying, her curls bobbing. She's bewitching. If I'm not careful, I'll be caught in her spell forever. It doesn't even sound that bad, though I should be focusing on my hockey career instead of earning another smile from pretty yoga girls.
My phone buzzes with a calendar reminder: therapy appointment in thirty minutes.
Today has been terrible outside of seeing Scout, and therapy isn't exactly what I need to round out this stellar day. But I already made the appointment. And I'm not looking forward to the look on Coach Cross's face if he finds out I skipped another therapy session.
Gray Seattle rain blurs past the window during the drive to Dr. Sable's office, mixing with darker thoughts. The closer I get to the clinic, the more my brain drags up things I don't want to think about.
I know former hockey players. Coach Cross and Coach Ryan, for instance. But I don't have much patience, so coaching is out for me.
And then of course there's Enzo. My agent. Scout's ex. Former Havoc center with hands like silk and a smile fans used to swoon over. Everyone said Enzo was born for hockey. Then a bad hit took him out for the rest of the season. The next thing I knew, the team was moving on without him.
Enzo isn't a man I'd consider wise, but he has been in my shoes. I hate that he knows how fast things can fall apart. Mostly, I hate the idea of becoming him. I'd become someone the Havoc talk about in the past tense. A used-up has-been. The coaches might only mention my name when they want to make a point about how fragile a career can be.
That makes me grip the steering wheel so hard that the leather creaks.
Pulling into Dr. Sable's lot, I park and sit there with the engine running for a moment, staring at the rain hitting the windshield.
Former player. Former asset. Former everything. It runs through my head on repeat. The word former feels like a fist around my throat. It's bad if just approaching the psychologist's office is bringing all these fears to the surface, isn't it?
I force myself out of the truck and take the elevator to the third floor.
"Come in," a calm voice calls.
Dr. Sable's office is warm, decorated in soft blues and grays, but it still feels like a room where bad news happens. Bookshelves line the wall. Diplomas glint under the lights. A silver framed photograph sits on her desk. In it, two women with their arms around each other, laughing. I glance at it without really seeing it.
