"The truth."
"The truth is, he's reckless. He's going to tear his shoulder and ruin his season or possibly his career." My voice cracks on the last word.
"The truth," Collette says slowly, stepping closer. "Is that you care more than you should."
My chest constricts, my throat feels tight. "I'm his physio. I'm supposed to care."
"Not like this."
"Lettie ..."
"You like him." She smirks.
"I don't."
"Yes, you do." Her voice is gentle now. Not accusing. Just understanding. "And it scares you."
The words land like a punch, because she's right. I do care more than I should. I start walking again, needing to move,needing to burn off this energy before it consumes me. Collette keeps pace beside me, silent now, giving me space. My mind won't stop replaying it. Him on that treatment table. Shirtless. The heat of his skin under my palms. The way his breath hitched when I pressed on the injury. The stubborn set of his jaw. Those green eyes holding mine, challenging me. The way I wanted to kiss him and kill him in equal measure.
The apartment is warm when we step inside. I drop my bag by the door and kick off my shoes.
"I'm going to have a shower," I tell Collette.
"I'll pour us some wine."
In the bathroom, I strip off my clothes and turn the water as hot as I can stand, letting it beat down on my shoulders and neck, trying to wash away the tension. But it doesn't work. My phone buzzes on the counter. I ignore it, enjoying my quiet. When I step out of the shower, it buzzes again. I pick it up, look at the screen, and my stomach drops.
Unknown Number: Coach benched me for Friday’s game.
Unknown Number: This is Emmett. Felix gave me your number.
My jaw clenches, fucking Felix.
Joelle: Good. You need rest.
Emmett: I don't need rest. I need to play.
Joelle: You need to heal.
Emmett: One game won't make a difference.
I want to throw my phone, he makes me so angry.
Joelle: One game won’t make a difference to your team, but it will to your shoulder.
Joelle: What don't you understand about that? Maybe I should have written down possible concussion in my report as well because you are not thinking clearly.
Emmett: I don't have a concussion, and I only have a sore arm. Maybe you're used to working with men who can't handle themselves, but this is how we handle things here.
I want to scream.
Joelle: Or maybe you have had one too many hits to the head and you can't comprehend such big words. It's a Grade 2 sprain. If you keep playing, you'll tear it. And at your age, it could mean no cup.
Emmett: I'm not old. I've still got years left in me before I fucking retire.
Joelle: You're not young either. When you hurt yourself, you need extra time to heal. It's not me having a go at you. It's fricken biology.
Emmett: I've played through worse.
