Page 1 of Heartfelt Goals

1

LAFRENIÉRE

You can do this…

The mantra pulsed through Dustin Lafreniére’s head, a steady beat against the mounting pain. He sat cross-legged on the thickly padded mat, the unforgiving lights of the North Texas Coyotes’ practice facility glaring down at him. His body ached, his muscles stretched tight like over-wound guitar strings. He had about twenty minutes—twenty minutes to push through, loosen up, and pretend that his limbs weren’t failing him, that his body wasn’t betraying him one slow, excruciating stretch at a time.

Gritting his teeth, he shifted, swinging his leg sideways and folding his foot over his opposite knee. The stretch tugged at his quads, a deep, familiar burn. He could handle this. This was routine, drilled into him over years of training. He switched legs, pressing forward, forcing himself to breathe through the tension. His thighs? Manageable. His lower back? Tight, but tolerable. But the next stretch—the one that mattered most? That was the problem.

Moving into a frog position, Dustin braced his hands on the mat and let his legs widen, lowering his hips down until firestreaked through his groin. He sucked in a breath, every nerve alight with pain.

Push through this…

You’ve got this…

I think I’m gonna pass out…

Might blow chunks instead…

A strangled groan slipped past his lips as he eased one leg forward into pigeon pose, his entire body trembling. Who knew that after years of grueling training, of bruises and scars and battered bones, he’d be relying on something as deceptively gentle as yoga just to keep his career alive?

“It’s not getting any better, huh?”

Dustin tensed at the sound of the familiar voice. He lifted his gaze and met the sharp, knowing eyes of Molly—the team’s newest physical therapist. She was bright and efficient, and he was almost certain she was a masochist.

He didn’t move. Heck, he was afraid to. If she’d seen him like this, she knew exactly how bad it was.

“Did you come early just to check on me?” he muttered.

Molly’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “I knew something was up when you were ‘ready to go’ the moment I arrived on the ice… for the lastthreedays.” She crossed her arms. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Same.”

“Same as in ‘it’s improving,’ or same as in ‘it’s getting worse, and you don’t want to admit it’?”

Dustin stared at her flatly.

Molly sighed. “Option two. Gotcha.” She crouched beside him like she was facing down a wounded animal – wary and guarded. “All right. Let’s try something. Swing your leg and give me a hamstring stretch.”

“Get out.”

“You know how this works, Lafreniére. We’re a team?—”

“If you want me to finish stretching, leave.”

Her brows lifted, but she backed off. “Fine. Can you at least move into a butterfly stretch?”

“You know I can’t.” His voice was tight, his body locked in protest. He forced himself to shift his weight, stretching his other leg instead. Pigeon pose was fine. But anything that involved rotating his hips sideways? That was a different story. That was where the tearing sensation started, a white-hot lance of agony running down his leg, up into his groin, setting his entire hip and groin regions on fire.

On practice days, he could manage.

On game days?

He’d grit his teeth, pop a couple of Tylenol, and sweat through three hours of wondering if he was playing his last season. If he had a hernia, if he had torn something, if the joint was going to shatter or give. If his body was done with hockey before he was ready to let this life and career go.

Molly exhaled. “Have you been using heat?”

Dustin shot her a withering look.

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