Page 174 of Pucking Strong

I scrunch my brow, trying to place the name. “Is she …”

“Analytics.”

With that point of connection, a face flashes before my eyes:pretty, bespeckled, and oh so serious. Roshni Varma is one of the Rays’ new statisticians. They review game-day tapes and come up with stats for the team’s shooting and save percentages. They alsohandle the draft and playoffs, and they calculate zone start ratios. It’s all very technical, and number-crunchy, and way over my head.

I don’t want to paint with a broad brush, but the analytics department here is just … well, they all fit the stereotype. There was a stats intern back when I was an intern. His name was Travis, and he arranged his Cheetos from largest to smallest before he ate them. The last head of their department retired as a multimillionaire, having invested early in the cryptocurrency craze. The only other guy I know designs his own video games and sells them to developers. He only keeps this job because he’s such a big hockey fan.

Roshni only just started. She’s a gorgeous South Asian woman, with curly black hair, walnut-brown eyes, and a little diamond stud nose ring. I should reserve judgment, right? Until I learn whether she categorizes her socks by fabric type?

I look to DeGraw. “Want me to see if she’s going tonight? If not, I’ll try to invite her.”

His eyes go wide. “I—no. Thanks, Doc.” Spinning on his heel, the poor guy flees the room like his ass is on fire.

I don’t get a moment to ponder his odd behavior before Paulie taps me on the shoulder. “You free, Doc? I could really use some help stretching my hammies.”

“Sure.” I pat the empty table. “Hop up.”

Iforgot how exciting it is to be behind the scenes on game day. The energy below the stands is just as electric as above. Everyone hurries around, setting the stage for the first intermission with snacks, electrolytes, fresh sticks and blades. Some of the players have quirky habits where they change their gloves or skate laces between every period. Lindberg likes to slurp on a jar of pickle juice. Some of the defensemen swear by mustard shots. They down packets of Heinz yellow mustard like they’re tonic shots. It’s revolting.

Thank god Henrik’s only habit is his obsession with some obscure Swedish sock brand. They make the only socks he’ll ever wear with his skates. I snort, remembering how I was ready to judge Roshni for doing the same thing. Maybe everyone involved with hockey has to be just a little bit weird.

Maybe that’s why I feel so welcome.

In the last seconds of the first period, the game is tied at one point each. Chicago got a lucky score within the first three minutes, which set a rather ominous tone. But a brilliant shot by Langley brought us back even, renewing the fans’ spirits. The buzzer sounds, ending the period.

“Here they come,” someone shouts.

It’s pandemonium as all the guys come rushing in off the ice. I work with the other PTs to do a quick round of check-ins. We assess each guy for any aches or pains they need addressed. Jake took ahard hit into the boards, but he has no complaints. And Henrik took a stick to the side of the face.

I pat his thick shoulder pad. “Hey, babe, you okay?”

He glances up, his hair wet with sweat. His temple looks slightly pink and puffy, but there’s no broken skin. “I’m fine, mitt hjärta.” He snakes his arm around me, pulling me closer.

“Hey, hey,” Langley teases. “None of that now, boys.”

“Great score,” I tell him.

“Someone had to,” Henrik mutters. He’s had three shots on goal, all caught in the goalie’s glove.

“You’ll get one in,” Langley assures him, taking a crunch out of an apple.

“Let’s go, Ted! We need you!”

Henrik drops his arm from my waist, but I can’t help brushing my fingers through his sweaty hair as I race away, ducking back into the PT room to help some of the guys limber up for the next period. I’m finishing with DJ Perry when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I open a new message from Brad and almost retch. “Oh god—”

It’s a picture of Dylan’s elbow injury.

DJ peers over my shoulder. “Whoa. That’s gnarly.”

I grimace. “Yeah.”

“Is that Dyl?”

“Yep.”

My phone pings with another message.

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