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Then her fingers found the spot, right at the top of my inner thigh where the muscle connected to my pelvis, and I flinched.

She stopped, her gaze flicking up to meet mine. “Three out of ten still?”

“Yes.”

She pressed again in the same spot. Then harder.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek.

“Number?” she asked.

“Six,” I muttered.

“Alright.” She made a note on her tablet. “The good news is it’s not as bad as it could be. The bad news is you’re going to hate me for the next week.”

“Already do.”

Her expression didn’t change. “Good. That’ll make this easier.”

She moved to the other side of the table, positioning herself to get better access to my hip. “This is going to be uncomfortable.”

Right.

Her hands pressed down, her fingers digging into the muscle with steady pressure. She worked along the length of the adductor, finding every tight spot and place where the fibers had knotted up. It hurt, though it wasn’t the same as the pain I’d felt with the initial injury. This felt deeper, pain that built with every second until I clenched my teeth and fisted my hands at my sides.

I’d taken worse. Pucks to the ribs. Skate blades to the arm. A concussion that had left me seeing double for three days.

This was different because she was the one doing it. And because some messed-up part of me thought I deserved it.

“Breathe,” she said.

I sucked in air through my nose.

“You’re tensing up. That makes it worse.” Her voice came quiet now, almost gentle. “When I press down, exhale. Let the muscle release.”

I tried. It didn’t really work, but I tried.

She kept talking, explaining what she was doing. Why the muscle had tightened. How the soft tissue work would help break up the adhesions and increase blood flow. That this type of therapy would speed up healing.

I wasn’t really listening to the words but the sound of her voice.

She was trying to help me. Not punish me. I almost said something, but her fingers dug into the worst part of the strain and the words died.

“The problem with goalies,” she said, her hands still working, “is that you think you’re invincible. You throw yourselves in front of hundred-mile-an-hour slap shots, get hit, and act surprised when your body reminds you it’s made of tissue and bone, not cement.”

I huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh.

Her hands went still, her fingers still pressing into the top of my thigh. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You laughed.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did.”

I made the mistake of looking up.