“Get off me, I’m fine.” The voice is pure stubbornness wrapped in pain.
“Dude, your shoulder’s pointing the wrong direction,” someone responds.
“It’ll pop back.”
Jesus Christ. I drop my purse and kick off my heelswithout thinking. “That’s an anterior dislocation that needs immediate reduction.”
“Dr. Walker, this isn’t—” Winters starts.
“Anterior dislocation based on positioning,” I call over my shoulder, already stepping onto the ice in my stockings. The cold bites through immediately but I’ve done stupider things. “Needs reduction before the muscle spasms make it worse.”
The injured player is massive even by hockey standards—dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, jaw clenched like he’s trying to bite through steel, attempting to stand while a younger teammate hovers uselessly nearby.
“Stop.” I order, sliding toward them with more confidence than I probably should have in stockings on ice. “Unless you want nerve damage to go with that dislocation.”
His eyes snap to mine and they’re a shade of blue so pale they’re almost gray, startling against the flush of pain in his face. He takes in everything—the stockings, the interview suit, the lack of team credentials—and dismisses me in the same breath.
“I didn’t ask for?—”
“No, but you need it.” I kneel beside him, already assessing the joint through his practice jersey, feeling for the humeral head displacement. “Shirt off. Now.”
A couple players whistle. Someone mutters “holy shit.”
He starts working his jersey off one-handed, still glaring at me like this is somehow my fault, and the movement is making everything worse. I can see the exact moment the pain spikes—his breathing hitches, his face goes a shade paler.
“I can manage,” he says through gritted teeth, still trying to lever himself upright.
“No, you can’t.” I position myself to block his attempt to stand. “I’m Dr. Walker, and that shoulder needs to be reset immediately. Is this your first dislocation?”
“Fifth.” His voice is rough, strained, but there’s something else underneath it. Something like a challenge.
“I know the drill.”
“Fifth time makes you an idiot, not an expert.” I probe the joint carefully, feeling the rotation, cataloging the muscle tension. “Let me guess—you never did the full PT after the first one. Just waited until it felt okay and went back to playing like you’d never injured it.”
A murmur runs through the gathered players. I ignore it, focused entirely on the injury and the stubborn jackass attached to it.
“Lie back.”
“I can handle?—”
“You can handle watching from the press box for six months if this goes wrong. Your choice.” I meet his gaze directly, letting him see I’m not going to be intimidated by his size or his glare or whatever authority he thinks he has. “In about thirty seconds, the muscle spasms are going to make this twice as painful and three times harder to reduce.”
We stare at each other. The rink goes quiet except for the hum of the refrigeration system.
“Maybe we should move to the medical room,” Winters suggests, his voice tight with disapproval.
“No time. Every minute increases recovery time and complications.” I’m still holding the player’s gaze. “You want to play this season or spend it rehabbing?”
Something flickers in those gray eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or the first hint that he’s realized I actually know what I’m doing. He gives a single, sharp nod and finally lies back on the ice.
“This is going to hurt,” I warn, positioning myself for the reduction.
“Not my first rodeo, Doc.”
Despite everything, his mouth quirks slightly at one corner. Almost a smile but not quite, and I catch myself thinking that under different circumstances—like ones where his shoulder wasn’t currently displaced—he’d probably be attractive in that overgrown hockey player way.
“Clearly.” I position my hands, calculating angles and force. “Maybe stop playing like an over-built, under-brained hockey stereotype with a hero complex. And stop leading with your dominant side on checks.”
