"So, you've said. And how's that worked out for you?" She drops my arm and steps back, crossing her arms over her chest. "You've probably pushed through these many times before, and now here we are. Maybe if you had listened to medical advice when it first happened, you wouldn't be here now."
My eyes narrow on her. She's right. The person before her was scared to stand up to the players and wouldn't push back, not like her.
"Now." She gestures to the wall. "Wall slides. Fifteen reps."
I move to the wall and press my back flat against it, raising my arms into position. The movement pulls at my shoulder, a deep ache that radiates down my arm that turns my stomach.
"Keep your wrists against the wall," she instructs, moving closer, her hand presses against my lower back, correcting my posture. "You're arching."
"Maybe I like arching," I throw back at her in annoyance, trying to forget the pain.
"Maybe you like making my job harder."
I do. I slide my arms up, then down. She watches every movement. Her eyes are sharp and clinical, all while her hand stays on my back.
"Pierre told me something interesting at practice," I say between reps.
"Oh?"
"Said you were stressed about benching me."
Her hand stiffens against my back. "Pierre talks too much."
"He cares about you."
"I know." Her voice is quieter now. "Doesn't mean he needs to broadcast my feelings to the entire team."
"It was just to me."
She doesn't respond, just watches as I finish the last rep. "Ice," she says, walking to the freezer. "Twenty minutes."
I sit on the table while she wraps the ice pack around my shoulder, securing it with an elastic wrap, her fingers brush my collarbone. Our eyes meet. Neither of us looks away. The air shifts. Charges.
"Joelle ..."
"Don't." She steps back. "You need to ice, and I need to prep for tomorrow's game."
She's running. I can see it.
"What are you afraid of?" I call out to her.
"Nothing," she throws back.
"Liar."
Her jaw clenches. "I'm not afraid of anything. I'm being professional."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"That's what it is." She moves to the door, her hand on the handle. "Twenty minutes. Then you're cleared to leave." She walks out before I can say anything else.
Leaving me alone with a frozen shoulder and thoughts I shouldn't be having.
Game day. I'm in a suit, not gear, watching from behind the bench while my team plays without me. This is hell.
First period goes okay, we're matching them shift for shift. But there's something missing, an edge, a push.
Second period, Chicago scores twice.
