Page 17 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
“Starling, you good?” someone calls.
“Fine!” I shout back, forcing a grin. My voice comes out too bright, too tight.
It burns when I stretch my leg, but I can’t stop now. Calder’s still watching, clipboard in hand, that unreadable focus locked on me from the boards.
So I square up again, pretending I don’t feel the pulse of pain every time I move, pretending I’m not stupidly trying to impress the guy who’s going to murder me if he figures out I just tweaked something in my groin.
When the whistle blows, I skate off for the water break, fighting not to limp. Each stride sends a sharp stab up my thigh, and I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. Just a strain. Just a pull. I can work through it.
Todd calls out, “You good, Starling?”
I force another fake ass smile, catching my breath through my teeth. “Yeah, all good. Just stiff.”
It’s a lie. The muscle’s screaming.
I glance toward the boards and catch Max’s eyes narrowing, tracking the subtle hitch in my step. Shit. He knows.
I wave him off, grab my water bottle, and head back to the crease before he can say anything. The guys are already lining up for the next drill, and if I bail now, I’ll never live it down.
The puck drops again. I move slower, more careful—but not careful enough. A sharp pivot sends fire ripping up my leg. I swallow the curse and keep going until the whistle sounds for the next rotation.
Todd waves in my backup. “Starling, take a lap. You’re moving weird.”
“I’m fine,” I shoot back automatically, trying to skate it off again.
I make it through the rest of practice without wimping out, but I’m sure I’m limping as I skate toward the exit.
And that’s when I see Max. Clipboard forgotten, expression carved from stone. He steps out onto the ice, boots crunching against the edge, and his voice cuts through the rink like a blade.
“Off.Now.”
The command leaves no room for argument.
I try for a grin, but it’s shaky. “Guess I was…distracted.”
His jaw tightens like he knows exactly what distracted me.
By the time I’m off the ice, Max is already halfway down the tunnel, motioning for me to follow as I limp behind him. He doesn’t say a word, just pushes the locker room door open and lets it shut behind us, muffling the noise from the rink. Then he heads into his examination room.
It’s quieter in here, except for the sound of my skates on the rubber flooring and the low, clipped tone of his voice.
“Pants down,” he demands, trying for a straight face, and grabbing the first-aid kit from the shelf.
I hesitate just long enough to be annoying, untying my lands and lowering them to the floor with a little too much flourish. Then I pull down myUnderArmourjust low enough for him to check out my groin. His gaze flicks up—quick, sharp—but lingers for half a beat before he schools his face into that unreadable mask.
“Where’s it hurt?” he asks, already reaching for a pair of gloves.
“Here.” I press my fingers against the tender spot at the junction of my leg and inner thigh. He steps closer, close enough that I can see the darker flecks in his eyes and smell the faint trace of his cologne.
Shit, he smells amazing. I inhale deeply, drawing as much ofhiminto my lungs as I can. Fuck. My body is being punished.
He crouches slightly, gloved fingers brushing my thigh as he checks for swelling. The touch is clinical—mostly.There’s a carefulness there too, as if he’s memorizing the shape of me under his hands.
“Feels like a mild pull,” he mutters, his voice low. “You probably overstretched when you dropped into that butterfly. You’re lucky it’s not worse, but you’ll need some rest.”
“How long?” I ask, trying to sound casual but hissing when his thumb finds the sorest spot.
“Couple days of rest,” he says. “Ice it every few hours. No skating, no drills, no hero shit.”
