“And once that’s cleared,” he continues easily, “you’re in.”
Physical exam.
Of course.
Every player has to pass one.
Basic medical clearance - it’s standard procedure.
Except I hadn’t thought about that part.
Shit.
“Sure,” I say casually, while panic explodes quietly in my chest.
Because skating drills?
Fine.
A scrimmage?
Fine.
But a physical exam?
That’s a completely different problem.
7
LEONORA
The walk to the medical room is the longest five minutes of my life.
Every step down the corridor makes my stomach twist tighter. The adrenaline from the tryout has completely vanished now, replaced by a steady pulse of panic.
How did I not think about the physical exam? This may be a struggling college hockey team but even they have protocols.
The door to the medical room is slightly open when I arrive. I knock once, awkwardly.
“Come in,” a voice calls.
I push the door open.
The room is small and bright, the kind of clean clinical space that smells faintly of antiseptic. Treatment tables line one wall and there are shelves stacked with braces and rolls of tape.
Behind the desk stands Tara Lorimer.
I practically grew up with this woman. And I’ve seen her on the Giants’ bench at every game I’ve been to, crouched beside injured players with her ever-present roll of tape.
It’s almost like I’m familiar to her too. Or maybe my active imagination is just imposing something that isn’t there.
Still, I could swear there’s a slight pause as her eyes land on me.
“Alright,” she says easily, gesturing toward the treatment table. “Let’s take a quick look and get you cleared.”
I sit as she picks up a clipboard.
“Helmet off for me.”
