Pain flares white-hot. Making me flinch. "Yes." I groan.
Her fingers move to the back and press again, deeper this time.
I nearly come off the table. "Fuck."
"Sorry." She winces, but her hands don't leave my skin, they trace the muscle, the bone, mapping the damage. Every touch is calculated. Methodical. And yet it sets me on fire. I'm hyperaware of everything. The warmth of her palms against my skin. The way she's biting her bottom lip in concentration. How close she is. Her scent. The memories of yesterday flutter through my mind. Her fingers slide down to my collarbone, sending goosebumps against my skin, a hard press but I barely feel it through the haze of wanting her.
"Can you lift your arm? Slowly," she asks.
I try to get it about halfway before the pain stops me cold. She catches my arm, her hands wrap around my bicep, supporting the weight. Then she lowers it gently back down. Her touch lingers, just a second longer than necessary. Our eyes meet, the air between us crackles.
She swallows. "Can you rotate it? Internal rotation."
I try to move my arm behind my back but I can't, the pain is too much. She's watching my face, reading every expression.
"External?" I try to rotate it outward. It's better but still hurts. "Limited range of motion," she says, more to herself than me. Her hands are still on my arm, still touching me. "AC joint is compromised. Grade 2 sprain. Possibly Grade 3 if you keep playing on it."
"In English, Trouble," I say, throwing in her nickname.
Her eyes snap to mine. "Your shoulder is injured. The ligaments are stretched. Not torn yet ..." Those hazel eyes land on me. "You need rest."
"Can I play through it?" I ask.
"Yes but ... Emmett." Her hands drop from my arm, she steps back, putting distance between us. "You need rest. Ice.Anti-inflammatories. If you keep playing, you could tear it completely. That's surgery."
"It's just sore, I’ve had worse." I moan.
"It's injured. There's a difference."
"I'll be fine."
"You won't." Frustration bleeds into her voice. "I watched you struggle through ten minutes on a bike. You can barely lift your arm. Your face went white when I pressed on the posterior joint."
"I'm the captain. I don't sit out games."
She raises a brow at me. "Even when you're hurt?"
"Especially when I'm hurt."
We're staring at each other, too close despite the space she put between us, it’s too intense. Her hands clench into fists at her sides.
"You're being stubborn."
"I'm looking out for my team."
"You're being reckless."
"It's hockey. We're all reckless," I joke but it doesn't land.
"That doesn't mean you should be."
The silence stretches between us.
"I need to file a report," she says finally. "Document the hit."
"Fine."
"And I'm recommending missing one game for rest."
