The rest of the period is a fight against both the Titans and my own body. Every save is agony, every butterfly slide a test of willpower, but I don’t let anything else past me. As coach requested, I’m an immovable wall of muscle.
By the time the game ends, I’m hanging on by sheer willpower and a thread of sanity. We win, albeit barely, but rather than celebrate with my teammates, I head straight to the athletic room where Fallon is waiting for me with fresh ice.
“Let’s get your gear off so I can take a look at that leg.”
My chest protector comes off easily enough, but peeling off my pants sends that piercing pain radiating through me again, making me grunt.Fuck. It’s been a long time since I got hit like this.
“Drop your compression shorts,” she commands. “And so help me God,” she continues, eyes narrowed on me, “if you ask me to buy you dinner first, I will go to HR.”
I bark out a laugh and gingerly work the shorts down. A bruise the size of a grapefruit has already bloomed across my thigh, angry shades of purple and red spreading from the impact site.
She probes gently around the edges, professional and efficient. “Can you bend your knee? All the way?” she asks without looking away from the site.
I try, gritting my teeth, but the pain spikes so sharply around ninety degrees that it takes my breath away. With a nod to herself, she walks me through a few more movements. Each time, the muscle under the bruise jumps weakly. We go through the usual range of questions: no numbness, no tingling, no sharp pain unless I move it wrong.
She crosses her arms. “You’re lucky, Davies. No sign of a hematoma, and compartment syndrome looks unlikely. Your range of motion is limited but not terrible. You’re sitting out of practice Monday. No arguments.”
“Fallon—”
“Did you miss the part where I said no arguments?” She sets her jaw, readying for a challenge. “Your adrenaline’s masking the pain, but by morning, you won’t be able to walk without limping. I let you finish playing, so now you let me do my job.”
She presses the ice pack to my thigh, brow furrowed.Motherfucker. “Forty-eight hours of rest, ice, compression,elevation. I’ll clear you for light skating on Wednesdayifthe swelling’s down.”
My gut sinks. “We have a game Tuesday?—”
“Yep, and the team has two goalies,” she snaps. “You also have a girlfriend in the stands who watched you drag yourself off the ice after a win that should’ve had you in the middle of a pile with your teammates.”
She raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to argue.
Shit. I was so focused on not passing out from pain that I forgot that Kennedy was here, watching it unfold.
“How bad did it look?”
“On a scale of one to ‘you’re an idiot for continuing to play’? Solid five-point-five.” She gently wraps the ice pack in place with an elastic bandage. “You’ll live, but you’ll be sore as hell, so please take it easy, okay?”
I nod and lie back on the table. I might as well wait here for the acetaminophen to kick in and alleviate some of the ache.
The pain has dulled a bit by the time Cole pokes his head into the visitors’ training room. “How ya doing, Davies? I’ve got a locker room full of guys who want to know if you’re okay.”
“Liar.” I toss an arm over my eyes. “Those assholes are betting on how bad the bruise is, and they want to see who wins.”
He grins, not the least bit repentant, and disappears. A heartbeat later, my teammates file in,oohing andaahing over the bruise as if I’m an exhibit on display. As if they haven’t seen or received similar injuries. After it’s determined that Jake won the bet, Fallon shoos them out, but Cole stays, leaning against the doorframe.
“You can leave, too,” I tell him. “I don’t need you to babysit me.”
“That job is Kennedy’s.” He tosses me a wink. “She’s on her way down here, by the way.”
“Fuck, she’s going to?—”
“Too late.” Cole steps aside and Kennedy rushes past him into the room.
She’s still dressed in my jersey, but now she’s also wearing an adorably furious expression as well. I don’t know what I’m expecting—a lecture, a kiss, a smack—but it’s certainly not being completely ignored.
She stands straight, arms crossed, lips pulled down. “You’re Fallon, right?” she asks the redhead at my side. “The athletic trainer?”
Fallon nods, her expression a mix of apprehension and interest. She probably doesn’t know what to expect from this force of a woman. “Yup. That’s me.”
“Hi, I’m Kennedy.” She extends her hand with perfect politeness, like she’s networking at an event and not ambushing a training room. “Does he have a concussion?”
