Page 19

He’d be late. Or he wouldn’t show at all. Players like Brashe Kedish thought the rules bent around them, that charm and a good save percentage meant accountability was optional.

I laid out fresh paper on the treatment table, set my tablet on the desk, and sat, pulling up his chart. We had twelve appointments scheduled over the next six days. Today’s focus would be deeper soft tissue work, progressive strengthening, and making sure he understood that ignoring my instructions wasn’t an option.

My coffee was still too hot to drink. I blew on it, staring at the anatomical poster on the wall above the desk without really seeing it.

I’d treated dozens of athletes during my fellowship. Hockey players were stubborn and prone to downplaying pain, but they responded to competence. Show them you knew what you were doing, that you could get them back on the ice faster than anyone else, and they’d listen.

Brashe would be no different.

Except he was different, because ten months ago he’d looked at me like the thought of even speaking with me was a joke.

I shook it off and checked my watch. 7:46.

The door opened.

I straightened, expecting Patty or one of the other players who’d gotten their schedule mixed up.

Brashe walked in.

Fourteen minutes early.

He wore black compression pants and a snug Purple Punishers t-shirt, the bear logo blazing across his chest. His hair was damp, like he’d recently showered. No cocky grin. No fake charm. He looked…serious.

“You’re early,” I said.

“You said not to be late.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out my instruction sheet. It had been unfolded and refolded so many times the creases were soft. “I wanted to make sure I did it right.”

My throat went tight. Heat crawled up the back of my neck, and the sensation had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

He smoothed the paper flat on the treatment table, pointing at the bottom where I’d drawn the little frowny face next to the icing reminder.

“This part seemed important,” he said.

I stared at the drawing. At his finger pressed against the paper. And at the evidence that he’d actually read the instructions. Multiple times, apparently.

I hated that it mattered. That a piece of paper folded and refolded until the creases went soft could reach past almost a year of careful distance. He’d kept it. He’d looked at my stupid little drawing, and some traitorous part of me wanted to know why.

“Did you ice?” I asked.

“Twenty minutes on, twenty off. Twice last night.”

Exactly what I’d told him to do.

“Alright.” I set my coffee down before I fumbled it. “Lie down on the table. We’re going deeper today.”

He folded the instruction sheet, tucked it back into his pocket, and moved to the table. It creaked under his weight, his legs dangling off the end because even the oversized table wasn’t built for a seven-foot-plus orc.

“This is going to hurt more than yesterday,” I said, pulling on gloves.

“I can handle it.”

He lay back, his hands resting at his sides, his gaze fixed on the ceiling tiles.

I positioned myself beside him and placed my hands on his hip, finding the edge of the adductor muscle. It felt warm under my touch, the tension obvious even through the compression fabric.

“We’re still focusing on breaking up the adhesions today.” I kept my voice clinical. “The muscle fibers have knotted up around the injury site. Manual work will help increase blood flow and improve mobility.”

I pressed down, working my thumbs along the length of the muscle. His whole body went rigid.