Page 13 of Offside for Christmas
Cole sat, very aware of her presence at his back. The training room was warm—too warm, or maybe that was just him—and he could smell something faintly sweet. Vanilla? Cinnamon? Whatever it was, it didn't belong in a medical facility.
Her hands touched his shoulder, and Cole tensed involuntarily.
"Relax," Ellie said.
"I am relaxed."
"You're the worst liar I've ever met, and I've worked with professional athletes for four years." Her fingers pressed gently around his shoulder joint, testing, probing. "On a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in right now?"
"Three," Cole said automatically.
Her fingers found a spot just above his collarbone and pressed.
Cole flinched, hissing out a breath through his teeth.
"Try again," Ellie said calmly.
"Six," Cole gritted out.
"Closer to eight, based on your reaction." She released the pressure and moved her hands to his shoulder blade. "Raise your arm. Slowly. Straight out to the side."
Cole raised his right arm, focusing on keeping his breathing steady, his face neutral. The movement felt okay for the first few inches. Then the grinding pain started, radiating from his shoulder down his arm and up into his neck. He got about three-quarters of the way up before his body screamed at him to stop.
"You can stop," Ellie said quietly.
"I'm fine—"
"Cole. Stop. I said stop."
Something in her voice made him listen. He lowered his arm, breathing harder than he should be from such a simple movement, and felt the humiliation of it burn in his chest.
Ellie came around to face him. Her expression had softened slightly, though her eyes were still sharp, still assessing.
"How long have you been playing through this level of pain?"
"It's manageable."
"That's not what I asked."
Cole met her eyes, saw that she wasn't going to let this go, and exhaled roughly. "Since the injury. Six weeks."
"And you haven't been doing physical therapy?"
"I've been doing the exercises they gave me—"
"The bare minimum, clearly." Ellie pulled out her tablet again, making notes with quick, efficient strokes. "Cole, your rotator cuff is compromised. Your range of motion is significantly restricted. And you're compensating with your leftside, which is going to create a whole cascade of secondary problems if we don't address this now. You're one bad hit away from permanent damage."
Cole stood up, anger flaring hot and familiar in his chest. "I don't need a lecture. I need to be cleared to play."
"Then we have a problem." Ellie didn't back down, didn't even blink. "Because I'm not clearing you in this condition."
"Coach said I could practice with the team—"
"Coach doesn't make medical decisions. I do." She set down the tablet. "And my medical decision is that you're not touching the ice until we get that shoulder functional again."
Cole stepped forward, using his height the way he'd learned to use it over years of hockey fights and locker room confrontations—to intimidate, to dominate, to make the other person back down.
"Listen, sweetheart—"
