Page 2 of Left-Hand Larceny
He tries to open his eyes, but the lights are too bright and everything is hazy. Did he hit his head on the ice? Is that why everything sounds so… off?
“Hey there, big guy. Come here often?”
His chest tightens automatically as his laugh tries to get out. He knows that voice. Suddenly the pain seems to ease. Just the tiniest bit.
“Greg’s on his way,” she says, her hands slipping over his shoulder pads and chest protector with a practiced touch. She’s taking stock of his injuries. Doing her job with calm efficiency as she waits for the senior trainer. “I was just faster over the boards.”
Pink. All he can see are the sparkling frames of her pink glasses. He scans her eyes, searching for fear. Worry. Sadness. Her eyes are honey brown. Sweet. Crinkled at the corners as she smiles down at him. Her hands reach the top of his hockey pants.
“It’s my-my…” The harder he tries to push the word out, the more stuck he feels.
She doesn’t shush him or rush him.
“My h-h-h-hip.”
“Thought so,” she says, her hands leaving his body, “but you’re going to be okay.”
She doesn’t know that. She can’t. No one knows for sure. They don’t even know what’s wrong yet, but hips are tricky bastards.
“I’ve got you, Ragnar. We’re going to make it better.”
A flurry of movement and then the head trainer, Greg, is there, and she’s moving away to give the team space to work. He closes his eyes again, focusing on the questions asked with calm authority. He’s grateful they stick with yes/no answers.
It isn’t until they have him off the ice and crammed into the metal tube of the MRI, taking images of his hip flexor, that he realizes she used his first name and didn’t just call him Ólaffson.
“Alright, fifteen down, ‘A traditional Icelandic spirit flavored with caraway or dill, 9 letters.’”
It’s the first time all morning that the big guy meets my eyes and the corner of his mouth twitches as if he wants to smile. “You gotta help me on this one. I can think of champagne, which has nine letters but is definitely French—otherwise it would be called sparkling wine—and moonshine, which is just illegally distilled, clear whisky, but I’m pretty sure it’s American.”
His eyes drift back to the laces of his oversized sneakers, blunt-tipped fingers going white as he tugs.
“Help me, Thor, god of thunder, you’re my only hope.”
“Ægir.” Pink tinges the tips of his ears, his eyes darting up and then away.
“I don’t think that has nine letters,” I make a show of frowning down at the crossword in my lap, twirling my pen between my fingers the same way Katie Olsen showed me back in the second grade. “Please don’t make me spell it on my own. I will for sure mess up and insult your ancestors.”
“Ægir is the g-g-god of d-drinking. N-not Thor.”
There we go. Got him.
His voice is low, rumbly. He always sounds like it’s been millennia since he last spoke, and it will be another thousand years before he does again. I grin at him, holding out my pen.
He drops his chin back to his chest, copper orange beard making a soft swish against the athletic shirt hugging his upper body. I wait, letting my eyes slip over the lines of muscle along the back of his neck and shoulders.Selenius capitis, splenius cervicis, rhomboids minor, rhomboides major, trapezius. Those damn names almost made me fail right out of my first anatomy classes. They just wouldn’t stick in my brain. Every time I thought I had them situated, they’d squirm away like wriggly worms. Gone forever before I even knew they’d moved.
I’m shit at memorizing things. Always have been and probably always will be. Well, actually, that’s not entirely true. There are some inexplicable things that don’t leave my brain. Ever. My childhood phone number, the jingle for that lawyer duo—although if I ever actually get into a car accident it will probably vanish into the ether too—every single lyric from the musical Wicked.
Honestly, this is probably a bad sign for my chosen career. Oh well. I’m already over halfway through my master’s degree. It’s a little late to have second thoughts. It’s not like I actually chose it, anyway. Both my parents are doctors, and while I knew I wasn’t cut out for medical school, I also didn’t want to disappoint them. Sports therapy, sports training, seemed like the best compromise. Especially since it’s not like I had any better ideas about what I wanted to do or study.
“If you say you feel good, then that’s good enough for me” Greg steps out of the back office, eyes glued on the heavy black tablet in his hands. He taps a few things on the screen. Lazy, unhurried, like he’s scrolling social media instead of studying the goalie’s medical chart. “I’m not surprised. Your recovery has been phenomenal, but it’s good to know first practice back was pretty much what we thought it would be.”
For a moment, endless blue eyes meet mine. I hide my smile behind my crossword, winking as he smiles, too. This might havebeen his first practice back, but it’s not like he’s been sitting at home all off-season. I would know. I’m the one who met him here every afternoon for the past two months, running him through stretches, supervising basic drills, working on range of motion, strength, tone.
“We can meet after practice again tomorrow, but I think we’re good to wait until the end of the week unless there’s a more pressing concern.” Greg finally looks up from the tablet in time to see Rags drop his chin to his chest in agreement. “Great. It’s a gorgeous day today. Go enjoy the rest of it.”
Rags nods again as Greg plugs the device into the bank of chargers and wipes his palms on his thighs.
Once the door closes behind the head trainer, I rustle the newspaper at Ragnar Ólaffson.He usually stays after our stretches, finishes a puzzle with me, lets me chat his ear off. There’s something comforting about spending solo time with Ragnar Ólaffson. I can’t explain it, but being one-on-one with this man makes me feel special. Important. Not a mess or a disappointment. I hope he hangs around today, too.
