Page 128 of Hockey Wife

Owen, one of the trainers, came into the locker room. “Banks, the doc wants to see you in Exam 1.”

His defensive hackles rose. “What about?”

Bond and O’Malley stared at him, which was appropriate because that was a stupid question. You didn’t clap back to a request for a meetup with the medics. You just did as you were told.

Owen shrugged, obviously not used to being probed on a perfectly normal ask.

Calm down. “Be right there.”

Once Owen left, Banks smoothed his expression to neutral to hide his pain. The meds had yet to kick in and for a second there, he’d been riding the high of Georgia.

“You okay?” Foreman asked.

“Fine,” he bit out, then put as much pep as possible into his stride. One foot in front of the other. Easy peasy.

In the exam room, the doc was standing with Coach, and Banks’s heart plummeted. No one ever wanted to see this specific combination of people. “You needed a word?”

“How you feelin’, Banks?” Coach sounded gruff, but that was par for the course.

“Good. A few aches, no more than usual.”

Dr. Morgan patted the exam table. “Hop up there and take off your shirt.”

Okay, Houston, we have a problem.

“Sure.” He used the shirt peel-off to hide any telltale signals of pain. By the time he was shirtless, his face was back to passive.

There was no missing his bruised shoulder. Not as bad as a couple of weeks ago, but still noticeable.

“You’ve had a shoulder separation before? Couple of years back?” The doc placed his hand on the AC joint, but didn’t press, thankfully.

“Yeah, touch of rheumatism since, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“How many painkillers are you taking?”

“A couple of extra strength Ibuprofen, two or three times a day.” In Nashville, no one questioned what a player did to make sure he could play in the final rounds. Mollycoddling grown men who knew their own bodies was not done.

“And this recent shoulder separation? When did that happen?”

Not tripping me up that easily. “It didn’t. It was just a hard check to the boards in the first game against Boston.”

“Fuck, Banks!” Coach barked. “That was almost three weeks ago.”

“And it feels better.”

“And what about this bruising here?” Dr. Morgan gestured to Banks’s ribs.

“No big deal.” Keep it breezy.

With an eye on the door, he willed this meeting to be over. If this was a World War 2 movie, he’d be looking for his chance to spring off the table and leg it out of the POW compound. In the ongoing silence, Banks tried to put positive thoughts out there.

It’s going to be just fine.

I’m going to get away with this.

For fuck’s sake, everything is going right in my life. Let me have this.

But that bitch of a universe was on a smoke break. Without warning, the doc pressed a hand to his AC and Banks couldn’t hide his pained response.

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