Page 79 of Pucking Around

“Okay,” I soothe, placing my hand on her shoulder. “Just breathe.”

She jerks away. “Justbreathe? Are you kidding? You’re trying to calm me down when you’re the one with an injury you won’t let me properly treat!”

“It doesn’t hurt off the ice,” I say. “And I’ve been compensating in the net, not using butterfly as much. Too wide a stretch with my right leg hurts, so I’ve been gravitating to my left post. That way I can push off with my left to reach the right post. I think it’s working. It’s—”

“It’s madness,” she snaps. “You can’t just guardhalfyour damn net and hope nobody notices.”

We both go quiet. Her seething. Me waiting.

Slowly, she takes another calming breath. “Okay, I can’t deal with this right now. I’m starving and I need caffeine. Here’s what we’ll do.” She points a finger at me. “You’re gonna take me to lunch somewhere away from prying eyes and ears. You’re gonna feed me, and get me some caffeine, and then we’re gonna come up with a plan.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Because I’m not gonna let you do this alone for another minute. Do you hear me? Everyone in this building gets to care about the game first, including you. But I don’t.Youare my priority, Mars. Your health. Your wellbeing. We’re gonna figure this out.”

I watch her walk away, my gaze on the gentle sway of her hips. My roiling emotions are shredding me open. No doctor has ever put me first. It’s always about the needs of the game. You’re in this business too long, you start to feel like a cog in a big machine, utterly replaceable.

With one impassioned speech, this doctor has ripped me from the machine and put me in the safety of her hand. She’s fierce. My dark-haired lioness.

“Leijona,” I mutter under my breath.

I have no choice but to trust her now. And she’s taking a risk too. She’s as much in the safety of my hand as I am in hers. I’ll tell her everything. I’ll keep her safe. I vow it now: Rachel Price won’t regret helping me.

“Rachel,” I call after her.

She turns at the door, one hand on the push bar.

“Thank you,” I say softly, feeling my breath coming easier for the first time in weeks.

Her eyes narrow at me. “You better not make me regret this, Kinnunen. Now, let’s go. I’m about to scarf down the biggest plate of chicken wings you’ve ever seen.”

Mun leijona. I follow her with a smile.

40

True to his word, Ilmari takes me to a bar and grill down on the water that serves chicken wings and sweet potato waffle fries. Apparently, this man doesn’t understand the concept of ‘cheat day’ because, while I order my weight in chicken wings, fries, and celery with blue cheese dressing, he orders a grilled salmon fillet with steamed broccoli and a side of island rice. He doesn’t even order a beer. What hockey player doesn’t drink beer on cheat day? Instead, he drinks water with lemon like it’s his job.

We stay at the bar for almost two hours. The weather is lovely, and we’re seated outside. The ocean breeze ruffles my hair as I interrogate him on every aspect of his pain and self-medication strategy. He’s finally forthcoming, answering every question I ask with more than nods and one-syllable words.

We leave the restaurant and head back to the exam room at the practice arena. I shut the door. “Why don’t you lie down. I’ll do an exam and test your range of motion a bit, okay?”

He says nothing, which I’m learning is Ilmari for consent. By the time I turn around, the big bear of a man is lying on my exam table. He relaxes back, one arm slung over his face as he takes a few deep breaths.

I rub my hands together to warm my palms. “Do you have any visible bruising in the area?”

“I didn’t this morning.”

I purse my lips, my gaze clinical as I take in the thick cut of his muscular thighs. “Bruising can sometimes take a day or two to come to the surface. If you had any muscle tearing in last night’s game, we may not see immediate proof. Can I check for any swelling or discoloration?”

He nods.

He’s only wearing a pair of athletic shorts. This will be easy to navigate. I clear my throat. “I’ll need to…work around your shorts a bit. Is that—”

Before I can finish my sentence, he drops both hands to his shorts and gives them a tug.

“Oh, no—Mars, you don’t need—”

But it’s too late. Ilmari slips his shorts down his hips with one hand while doing his best to cover himself with the other. The man has huge hands, but I can still see some of what he’s working with.

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