Penalty Box Hearts

Don't Ever Fall Again

I didn't get to see Ronan again until after practice. He had peeled away from his group and headed straight for the training room, instead of the locker room.

His shoulder pads were already sliding halfway off, and his jersey was hanging loose.

He dropped on the treatment table just like he was used to doing. He appeared to have done that a hundred times over, and according to the folder in my bag, he had.

''So,'' he started to say as he watched me wash my hands at the sink. It looked like the highlight of his entire day.

''Did Dana give you the whole file?''

''She didn't give me any explanation. She gave me your shoulder.''

''There's not much to explain anyway. It hurts, but I play like that without telling the team doctor just how much it hurts.''

He used his good shoulder to shrug. ''So far, it has worked for me.''

I repeated, ''it's worked you,'' as I dried my hands, ''that means that you just have not completely torn it off.''

''I'm an optimist.''

''I'm a realist.''

I crossed over to the table and signaled for him to lift his arm.

When he did, he tightened his jaw as soon as my fingers found the joint.

Immediately, I felt it give in. It was bad. It was so unstable under my hands, I knew that no amount of prayer or duct tape would work for it.

''Voss, this is beyond what I can just tape and let go off. You need proper care. You need a real treatment plan. You probably need to see a specialist.''

''I need to make it through May,'' he said. When he said that, I could hear that tone in his voice gone flat and serious.

All that charm he usually carried was no longer there.

''Then I'll deal with it. Whatever it takes after that time, I will do it. Not just now.''

I took a good look at him. I looked past his jaw, his grin, and the reputation he carried, and I saw something I recognized from my own reflection every morning that I chose to admit.

I saw a person who had decided the cost of stopping was a lot to pay more than the cost of breaking.

''I should not agree to this...'' I said.

''I know.''

''If things get worse, and the team finds out that I knew...''

''It's not going to get worse, not on your watch.'' He said matter-of-factedly, as if he had decided to trust me with something that he was not used to trusting himself with.

That made me more terrified than the injury itself.

I didn't know when I said, ''fine. But we will do it my way. There would be real treatments, real limits, and as soon as I say you are done, you are done. No arguing.''

''Deal...'' he held out his good hand, and as soon as I took it, I felt his warm and rough palm hold on to mine a second longer than a business handshake required.

''Callahan, you are welcome to the Ironclads. We are a mess, so try not to fall for any of us.''

I pulled my hair back and said, ''I don't do hockey players.''

Ronan flashed a mysterious grin at me, slow like the sunrise, and he said, ''sure you don't.''

I had a system in place by the end of my first week.

I showed up before the team, so by the time the first players trickled in, the training room was set up and silent.

I kept a strict rotation of ice, heat, and mobility work.

Then repeat.

I made sure not to write anything in the official file that Dana had asked me not to touch. Instead, I kept my own notes. It was handwritten and locked away in a drawer that only I had the key to.

It felt like I was carrying a dangerous secret around every time I walked past the office of the general manager.

That also meant that every single day, Ronan was on my treatment table, and I was beginning to see the reason Dana found it difficult to hand his file off.

On Thursday, while I worked on his shoulder blade, using my thumb to work the scar tissue, he said to me, ''You are doing the same thing again.''

I asked, "What thing?"

''That thing when you frown as if I personally upset you by existing.''

''It's distracting to talk during treatment.''

''You can tell me to shut up.''

"Would you?"

''No.'' He arched his head to look at me. He was upside down, and it ought to look ridiculous. Instead, it made something move in my chest.

An unwelcome flip.

''But, I'll love to see you try.''

I pressed into the joint harder. I was not gentle this time, and I was answered with a hiss through his teeth.

It felt like a small victory to me, so I said,''there you go. Shut up.''

"Sadist."

"Occupational hazard."

He laughed, a real one. It took some surprise out of him, and the sound of it did something to the room that I didn't have a name for and didn't want one.

I kept my hands moving, methodical, and professional, and I reminded myself, not for the first time that week, that I had rules.

Rule one: don't get attached to players. They got traded, they got hurt, they moved on, and therapists who forgot that ended up like Dana; burned out at thirty-four, taking a desk job in Seattle just to stop caring so much about boys who skated too hard for their own good.

Rule two, the one that mattered more, the one I'd carved into myself two years ago in a different city, with a different team, and a different man who'd smiled at me exactly like this before he'd broken my heart in the parking lot of an arena while his teammates watched: don't fall for a hockey player. Ever again.