Page 108 of Pucking Strong

“Ahhh—fuck,” he hisses through his teeth. “Yeah, Doc. It fucking hurts.”

“I still think it’s just sprained.” I reach behind me and snag his compression bandage off the table and rewrap his knee. This isn’t even a hockey injury. The asshole went running with his dog this morning and it took off after a squirrel. Nearly jerked Perry’s arm out of his socket and sent him twisting down to the pavement. “I think you should—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Sit out a game,” I say over him.

“Fuck,” he mutters again.

“It’s just one game. And we don’t want to make it worse, right? For now, some ibuprofen should help reduce pain and inflammation. We can get you an ice wrap too. And elevate the knee tonight.”

“Hey, Doc—” He grabs my arm as I step past. “Don’t tell the guys how this happened, alright? Like, don’t write it down. Tell them I did it doing squats or something.”

I pat his hand on my arm. “Sure thing, man. It can be our secret.”

He sighs with relief as I step away to wash my hands.

It’s been a week since the epic fallout with my family. All my sisters have tried to call, but I haven’t answered. Excuse the fuck out of me, but I need another minute. They sat back and watchedas Mama tore into Henrik. They judged me. They doubted me. I won’t leave them on read forever, but I’m not rushing this either. I’ll answer when I’m good and ready.

For now, I’m throwing myself into work. And this has been one hell of a crazy day. The team leaves tomorrow for some away games, so most of them are taking it easy today. No gym time, no practice. But the staff is all here, and everyone seems to be putting out a fire.

Some of the new PT equipment was delayed, so Caleb Price has been storming around on the phone all afternoon, angrier than a tornado, calling out tracking numbers to a confused warehouse foreman. Apparently, our shit is somewhere in Jacksonville—it’s just not here. And the PTs need to check it over so the EMs can get it all loaded. It’s a mess.

I’ve been so distracted by all the walk-ins that I skipped lunch. My stomach growls as I tug a couple paper towels out of the dispenser and dry my hands.

“Hey, Teddy?” Caleb appears in the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“The PT shit is here. You free?”

I sigh, tossing my paper towels in the trash. I guess my cold chicken parm sub will just have to wait. “Yeah, I’m free. What do you need?”

Two hours later, I’ve finally reached the end of my shift. I swear, this day has felt like ten. I’m putting away some of the stretching equipment when I hear a familiar voice and groan.

“Hey, there he is! Looking good, Teddy.”

I glance over my shoulder to see Lukas Novikov strutting into the PT suite. “Keep walking, Nov. I’m headed out the door.”

From the other side of the room, Brady chuckles, pushing his glasses up his nose, as he reviews my treatment protocols for the day.

Novy feigns innocence. “You don’t even know what I want.”

“I know exactly what you want, and my answer is no. I’m not massaging you. Ask Brady.”

“Brady uses his thumbs too hard,” he whines. “It feels like I’m getting massaged by the Terminator.”

“You know I can hear you, right?” Brady calls from the corner.

Novy rounds on him. “Hey, if the skate fits, lace it up. Besides, it’s not even an insult. Some guys like a firm hand. I just prefer Teddy’s magic touch. It’s like getting massaged with warm butter.”

I frown. “Eew. Use a different analogy.”

Novy considers for a moment. “It’s like—”

“No.” I hold up a hand. “I changed my mind. No more analogies. And the answer is still no.”

“Come on, bud. My calves are so fucking tight. Do you really wanna risk me not playing my best? Do you want a big, fat ‘L’ on your conscience?”

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