The discomfort that has turned into pain. The ache that is lingering far longer than it used to. The mental math I do every shift to make sure I’m not favoring that leg, so no one will see it. It’s manageable, barely, but I’mmanaging it.
But, of course, making it work isn’t good enough for the woman who thrives on being perfect. She asked me about it, and I told her it wasn’t a big deal. She should’ve listened. Because that’s whatfriendsdo. They trust each other. And she should trust me to know what’s best for my body.
Every press of Glenn’s hands is like a drum beating it home. She should’ve listened to me.
She should’ve listened to me.
She should’ve listened to me.
By the time I’m ready to go home, I’m borderline livid. Who the fuck does Finley Blake think she is?
No one else noticed my hip.No one. Not the coaches nor the medical staff at Florida, and not the ones here. Shit. Even this week, she’s been the only person to say anything. Because despite the pain, I’m still doing my job. Even if it hurts.
How dare she not take me at my word? How dare she tell me she knows I’m hurt, her eyes locked on mine, not giving me an out like everyone else does? Just clocked the lie I’ve been telling with every stride and brought it into the light without ever considering what it would meanfor me.
Because a hip-specific exam by the team doc is the beginning of the end for my career. Once the injury door cracks open, I won’t be able to close it again. The doctors are going to look harder now. Management will know. The league. And I can’t afford that. Not now. Not ever.
The anger inside me grows with each step I take, sharp and desperate and clawing its way up my throat as I barge into her office sometime around midnight, not bothering to knock. Because if I don’t shut this down now, it will be the end of my career. I can feel it.
“You can’t bench me.”
“Sit down, Kane,” she says, her icy tone the opposite to my fire.
I widen my stance, crossing my arms. Like fuck I’ll sit down.
She clicks her mouse a few times, like she’s deleting emails or something equally as mundane and unimportant. As the silence swirls around us, my temper starts to cool enough for me to feel slightly ridiculous for refusing to even sit down. This is rookie hotheaded shit. Not what you’d expect from a veteran. From me.
But my pride won’t let me listen to her when she won’t do the same for me.
“Fine,” she sighs. She stands, sliding her laptop into her black backpack. “We can try this again another day. But until then, you can’t do anything until it’s approved by medical, Kane.”
“No,” I explode, the flames roaring back into my veins.
“I’ve already let the team know you’re hurt. You will report to PT and the medical staff tomorrow for an evaluation. You are not to be on the ice or do any training until it has been approved by Lowell. You will be listed as questionable.” She stops in front of me, mimicking my gesture, and my vision goes red at the news that she’s set this in motion. She didn’t even wait for us to meet.
She continues, “If you do not walk your ass in here and coolly sit down tomorrow morning at eight so we can have a real, adult conversation about this, I will move you to IR. You will take the mandatory week. I will call up a replacement.”
No. Fuck her. No.
“I thought we were friends,Finley.” I spit out her name, and she flinches.
Then, as if summoned by the gods to take on an unwinnable quest, she squares her shoulders, turning into the fighter she had to be to get herself here. “I am yourcoach, Kane. This is what I’m paid to do. I make the hard calls.”
I lean toward her. “Well, congratulations, you’re making the wrong fucking one.”
She looks me up and down, taking me in from my still slightly damp hair to my sneaker-clad feet. “Fortunately for me, your opinion doesn’t matter here.”
With that, she turns, walking out of her office without a backward glance.
Chapter 26
Beckett
Knockingonmycoach’sdoor at five in the morning is a terrible idea, particularly after getting approximately six minutes of sleep. But I have to be here. I have to apologize to my friend, the one I hurt. She didn’t deserve that, especially not after she was the only one who noticed I’ve been compensating.
It took me a while to calm down enough to realize I’m not mad at Finley, and about that time, overwhelming regret hit me. I can still see it: her shoulders squaring. Her face freezing into professional coach mode. A wall sliding up between us.
And I deserved it. I treated her like a complete and total ass. It was unprofessional, and it was uncalled for. But what I realized at about three this morning is that I’m not even mad—I’mscared. Of what is going to happen, what the doctors might find. Because the truth is, the pain in my hip has gotten worse. And I’m not sure how much longer I can play through it. It’s slowing me down when I’m on the ice, and I’m terrified of whatthat means for my future and my ability to play the game I love so much.
