Page 12 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
“You’re distracted,” Jen observed, her clinical gaze missing nothing. “That’s not like you, Stone. Usually I can’t get you to think about anything except recovery metrics.”
“I’m focused,” I insisted, completing another rep with less than perfect form.
“Right. And I’m the Queen of England.” She crossed her arms. “What’s going on? You’ve been checking your phone every five minutes.”
I had been, though not for the reason she probably thought. No new texts from Desert Survivor. I’d caught myself wondering what she was doing, if she’d found housing yet.
“Nothing’s going on. Just...team stuff.”
Jen raised an eyebrow. “The same team stuff that has you grimacing at your phone instead of concentrating on not re-tearing your ACL?”
I really should get Kate’s number, I realized. We were living together temporarily, and it was weird that we hadn’t exchanged contact information. But then again, we’d barely established ground rules before I’d left for PT this morning. The chaos of the sudden roommate situation had left basic practicalities overlooked.
“I have a roommate,” I admitted finally, the words feeling strange in my mouth. “Temporary. Very temporary.”
Her eyes widened. “You? Mr. ‘I-Need-My-Space’ Callahan has a roommate? This I have to hear.”
“There’s nothing to hear. She needed a place to stay. Dennis set it up without asking me.”
“She?” Jen’s surprise morphed into a knowing smirk. “Now things are getting interesting.”
“It’s not like that,” I said quickly. Too quickly, judging by Jen’s expression. “She’s some scientist. Spilled coffee all over my floor within five minutes of meeting me.”
“Sounds like she’s making quite the impression.” Jen adjusted my leg position. “Ten more. And this time, keep your knee aligned.”
I focused on the exercise, forcing thoughts of cartoon microbes and messy buns out of my mind.
After finishing PT, I limped into Coach Martinez’s office, already knowing what this meeting would involve. He sat behind his desk, game footage playing on the monitor behind him.
“Stone,” he greeted me with a nod. “Take a seat. How’s the knee?”
“Getting stronger every day,” I said automatically.
He studied me, his experienced eyes likely seeing through the lie. “Team needs you back. Defense is falling apart without you.”
“I’m working on it, Coach.”
“Working on it isn’t enough anymore. Management’s breathing down my neck. Media’s asking questions. Fans are getting restless.” He leaned forward. “We’re in a playoff position now, but another few losses and we’re on the bubble.”
The pressure settled on my shoulders like a physical weight. “The doctors said?—”
“I know what the doctors said,” he interrupted. “But you and I both know that recovery timelines are just guidelines. Players push through pain all the time.”
“It’s not about pain,” I argued. “It’s about function. If I can’t pivot properly, I’m useless on the ice.”
Coach sighed, running a hand over his face. “Look, I’m not asking you to do anything that would jeopardize your career. But I need you to understand what’s at stake here. This team was built around your defensive capabilities.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not doing everything possible to get back?”
“I think you’re playing it too safe,” he said bluntly. “The Stone Callahan I know would be fighting to get back on the ice, not hiding behind doctor’s orders.”
The accusation stung precisely because part of me feared itwas true. Was I hiding? Was I letting fear of re-injury keep me sidelined longer than necessary?
“I’ll talk to the doctors about accelerating the timeline,” I conceded, though everything in me screamed it was a bad idea.
Coach nodded, satisfied. “That’s what I want to hear. Now, the PR team wants to schedule that comeback feature. They’re thinking next Wednesday.”
“Fine.” I stood, eager to end this conversation. “Anything else?”
