“I doubt it.” I finish my tea and walk over to rinse my mug, before placing it down in the sink, the porcelain clinking softly. “I’ve met his type before. All cockiness and sarcasm. Thinks pain tolerance equals progress, thinking the rules don’t apply to him. He’s going to learn real quick that that shit doesn’t fly in my studio.”
Ayla grins. “So, when’s the big day?”
“Two weeks. At least I have some time to come to terms with the situation, and he has some time to hopefully come around.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” I hesitate before continuing, “Maybe a little. It’s just a lot, you know? It’s intense and there’s high expectations. What happens if I can’t make him come around and see reason? I need to make this work.”
Ayla nods as she picks up her mug bringing it towards her mouth before stopping just a few inches away. “You always end up with tough clients. Maybe it’s your curse.” She takes a sip of her tea.
“He’ll come in thinking I’m some pushover, and he’s going to be sorely mistaken. I can’t wait to prove him wrong. If he wants back on the ice, then he’s following the plan I set out. No short cuts.”
Ayla raises her mug. “Here’s to knocking that man down a peg or two.”
I arch an eyebrow, jutting my chin out to her as my mouth pulls up into a small smirk. “Cheers to that.”
Two weeks from today, I’d officially start training Levi Carter – Seattle’s golden boy, Captain of the Rainiers.
He’s just another client, Scarlett. You’ve rehabbed a number of athletes before; you can do this.
But deep down, I already know. It’s not going to be that simple.
CHAPTER FOUR
LEVI
Iwake up before my alarm. I just lay still, not wanting to break this moment of peace before having to face the reality of my life. The apartment is silent, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
It’s my last day of peace until I start my rehab. Pilates. Pilates. I scoff internally at the thought. I flex my fingers, shortly regretting it once my shoulder starts to throb in the way that’s become all too familiar, deep, and heavy, creating immense discomfort.
The past couple of weeks have been hell. Another night of pretending it doesn’t hurt. Another morning of proof that it does – that this isn’t a dream I’m going to wake up from. Battling with my mind over this injury and trying to keep myself from drowning in my thoughts. I want to wish it all away, but I already know it doesn’t work like that. That it would never be that easy.
Shifting onto my good side, I exhale. I’m in a constant state of having to think about what I can and can’t do now. Simple movements have become extremely painful and are a constant reminder. My arm feels tight and swollen, it’s practically useless. A reminder of what’s at stake now. Everything relies on my recovery.
My mind shifts to Scarlett. I don’t know her well yet, but Steele seemed to be excited she was assigned to my case, whatever that means. The brief introduction from the meeting gave me the feeling she’s a professional, no-nonsense instructor. So, in other words, boring.
Deciding I’d better get ready for the day, I swing my legs out of bed before sitting up. I rub my eyes, rolling my shoulders back to try and loosen the tension before my eyes snag on my sling sitting on the bedside table, a dull reminder of what my life’s become.
As I look around my room, the pale grey walls contrast against the white of my comforter. My gaze stops on the framed photos across from my bed - my first ever Stanley Cup win five years ago. A reminder of what I need to recover for, and of what I might lose if I don’t.
Sighing, I grab my keys and pull on a hoodie, gritting my teeth through the sharp pain – even though it’s summer in Seattle, the morning air is still rather brisk. Picking up my sling I strap it on. The movement sends a twinge through my shoulder, a sharp stabbing pain. I press a hand to the joint, trying to softly massage it out, feeling the muscle spasm underneath.
You’re fine, Levi. It’s all good.
The elevator down to the parking garage is quiet. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I immediately take note of the dark circles under my eyes – from the restless nights, being unable to sleep, the same thoughts replaying in my mind over and over.
I climb into my Porsche 911, ready to set off for the grocery store. Anything to get out of the house at this point, honestly. Better than being home alone with my thoughts.
Starting the engine, the radio comes on automatically – a sports recap. Of course. Just my luck.
“–Carter’s right shoulder took the brunt–“
I jolt forward, turning it off, cloaking the car in silence. I just can’t seem to escape what’s possibly the worst moment of my life.
For fuck’s sake.
I drive through the pale morning streets, a quiet start – quite unusual for this part of Seattle. I hate to admit it, but driving is bad for my shoulder. Even though I’m driving an automatic, any strain or movement of my shoulder at this point is not okay. I hate this lack of independence.
