"Also, fine. Doesn't mean I'll take your recommendation," I answer snarkily.
Those hazel eyes flare with anger. "But coach will." She turns on her heel to leave, shoulders tense, she's frustrated with me.
"Joelle," I call out to her. She stops at the door but doesn't turn around, she's really upset with me. "Thank you. For checking on me."
"It's my job," she says before storming out.
22
JOELLE
Istorm down the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs. Impossible. Stubborn. Reckless man. He's going to destroy that shoulder. I saw the way he winced when I pressed the posterior joint, and felt the instability in the ligaments as I watched his face go white with pain. And he wants to play through it.Idiot.
The treatment room lights are harsh after the dim corridor. Mike's at the supply cabinet, his back to me as he organizes rolls of tape by size. The familiar smell of antiseptic and athletic liniment fills the space.
"How's Black?" His voice is casual, like he already knows the answer.
I let out a frustrated sound. "Grade 2 AC sprain. Possibly Grade 3."
He turns to look at me and his eyebrows shoot up. The easy expression vanishes, replaced by the focused look of a man who's been doing this for a long time. "That bad?"
My jaw clenches. "He took a massive hit in the second period.” The image is burned into my brain, the sickening crunch, the way he stayed down for just a second too long beforeforcing himself to stand. "Posterior shoulder is compromised. Limited range of motion. Significant pain on palpation of both the anterior and posterior joints."
Mike sets down the tape roll, giving me his full attention now. "What's his mobility like?"
"Can't do internal rotation at all. External is severely compromised. He struggled through ten minutes on the bike and tried to hide it." I cross my arms, nails digging into my palms. "His face was white. Sweating. Not from exertion."
"Shit." Mike runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "What'd he say?"
My laugh is bitter. "That he's fine. That he's playing in two days."
Mike snorts, a sound that's equal parts amusement and resignation. "Of course he did."
"I'm recommending he sits out one game. Minimum." My voice is firm, steady, even though my insides are churning.
"Good luck with that." He laughs.
"I'm serious, Mike." I step closer, I need him to understand. "If he plays on this injury, he could tear those ligaments completely. That's not a couple of weeks of recovery. That's surgery. Reconstruction. Four to six months before he's anywhere near game-ready."
Mike's expression softens, he leans back against the cabinet, studying me with those sharp eyes that have probably seen every iteration of this exact conversation. “I know. But Black is stubborn, you can’t tell him what to do. He’s also fiercely loyal to his team and will put their needs above his own. Railroading him won’t get him to do what you want. Have you told Coach?"
"I'm filing the report tonight.”
He nods slowly. "Black's not going to be happy."
Heat crawls up my neck. "I don't care if he's not happy. I care that he heals properly." The words come out sharper than I intended, harsher.
Mike's eyebrow raises, and I feel exposed under his gaze, like he can see right through me. "First day on the job and you're already butting heads with the captain?"
"He's being stupid," I argue.
"He's being a hockey player." Mike shrugs. "They all play through pain, Jo. It's the culture, part of what makes them who they are."
"It's reckless."
"It is." He starts packing his medical bag, the routine motions of someone who's done this thousands of times. "But it's also why he's captain. The guy’s respect that he won't sit out, that he leads by example."
My chest tightens. I know he's right. I've seen it already. The way the team looks at Emmett. Defers to him and follows his lead. "File your report," Mike says, softer now. "I'll talk to Coach in the morning. But don't be surprised if Black fights this every step of the way."
