Page 12 of Offside for Christmas
A reindeer pin. In December. On a physical therapist.
Of course.
"Cole Hansen." She extended her hand, all business. "I'm Noelle Winters, but everyone calls me Ellie. I'll be your physical therapist for the duration of your time here."
Her handshake was firm. Confident. The kind of grip that saidI know exactly what I'm doing, and you're not going to intimidate me.
"Noelle," Cole said, releasing her hand. "Like Christmas."
"Yes, like Christmas." She moved past him into the room, setting down her own bag and pulling out a tablet. "My parents have a sense of humor."
"Or a sense of cruel irony."
She glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Not a fan of the holidays?"
"Not a fan of small towns that peaked in 1952."
The smile she gave him was polite. Professional. And didn't reach her eyes at all. "Well, you're stuck here for six weeks, so I'd suggest you start pretending to enjoy it. Makes everyone's lives easier."
"I don't pretend."
"No?" She pulled up something on her tablet, scrolling through what looked like records. "Then what do you call those medical reports from Chicago?"
The words landed like a slap shot to the chest. Cole felt his jaw tighten, his shoulders tensing automatically before he could stop himself.
"Excuse me?"
Ellie set down the tablet and turned to face him fully. When she spoke, her voice was calm, factual, and absolutely merciless.
"Your shoulder. Separated AC joint, grade two, six weeks post-injury. According to Chicago's medical team, you have ninety-five percent range of motion and normal strength indicators. You were cleared for full contact two weeks ago." She crossed her arms. "But the numbers don't match the injury timeline. A grade two separation typically requires eight to twelve weeks of consistent physical therapy to heal properly. So either you're Wolverine with a superhuman healing factor, or someone cleared you who shouldn't have."
Cole's chest felt tight. His shoulder throbbed as if it knew it was being discussed. "My shoulder's fine."
"Then you won't mind me running a full assessment."
"Is that really necessary? I was already cleared—"
"By Chicago's team. I'm Evergreen Cove's team." Ellie picked up a clipboard and a pen, clicking it once with an air of finality. "Different standards."
Cole let out a short, bitter laugh. "Higher standards in Vermont than in the NHL? That's a bold claim, sweetheart."
The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.
Ellie set down the clipboard very carefully, took two steps toward him, and looked him dead in the eye. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't have to.
"Here's how this works, Hansen. I assess your injury. I design your PT plan based on actual medical need, not ego or wishful thinking. And I clear you when—and only when—you're actually healthy. Not when you want to play. Not when your pride demands it. Not when Coach asks me nicely. When. Your body. Is ready." She paused. "Are we clear?"
"My body is ready."
"Prove it." She gestured to the PT table. "Shirt off. Let's see what we're working with."
Cole hesitated for half a second—just long enough to weigh his options and realize he didn't have any—then pulled his henley over his head and tossed it onto a chair.
He caught the flicker in Ellie's expression. Just a fraction of a second where her professional mask slipped, her eyes tracking over his chest before she blinked and the mask snapped back into place.
Good. At least he wasn't the only one feeling off-balance here.
"Sit on the table," she said as she moved around behind him.
