Penalty Box Hearts

WREN I had just four minutes to find the training room before I started my first shift. I was the new sports therapist for the Portland Ironclads hockey team. However, the arena seemed poised and determined to make sure that I failed. After taking a wrong turn past the equipment bay, I doubled back through a hallway. The hallway smelled of rubber and Gatorade, while I now stood in front of two identical and unmarked doors, with my lanyard swinging freely against my chest. Skates cut into the ice somewhere behind me, sounding like fabric being torn. It was a sharp and rhythmic sound. I could also hear the coach's whistle shriek twice. ''The one on the left. You will want the one on the left. The voice sounded from behind me. It was low and amused. When I turned around to the sound of the voice, I saw a man wearing a half-zipped ironclads pullover, leaning against a wall as if he didn't have anywhere else to be. The man was so tall, the hallway felt smaller than usual. His dark hair was still damp from taking a shower, and his jaw looked as if it was carved distinctly for a modeling photograph. He had a yellow-green bruise blooming along his collarbone, which the collar of his shirt hid a bit. I replied, ''thanks,'' and then I kept it moving. ''You are the new PT.'' The man said this, he was not asking a question. I corrected him,''sports therapist.'' I had to say that because the distinction meant a lot to me, even though it meant nothing to the man. ''Wren Callahan...'' I introduced myself. ''Ronan Voss...'' the man replied, as if I should already know who he was. Well, the worst part of it was that I knew exactly who this man was. He was the twenty-nine-year-old captain of the Portland Ironclads. The man had led the league in penalty minutes for two seasons running, and the seasons after that equally looked promising. It told me everything I needed to know about this man's personality without meeting him. One time, I saw his face on a highlight. He was mid-fight with blood on his teeth, grinning like someone who was enjoying it. ''I know who you are,'' I replied. The man pushed himself off the wall, flashing an easy smile at me and said, ''everyone does.'' He rolled his left shoulder and winced slightly in pain. ''Callahan, I guarantee that you will be popular around here, since the entire team is loosely held together by prayers and duct tape.'' ''Oh, lucky me then..'' ''No. Lucky them.'' The man nodded towards the door on the left and said, ''The staff meeting has started already, and the coach hates it when others are late.'' ''So, why are you here talking to me in the hallway instead of attending the meeting?'' I asked. The man flashed that grin again and said, ''because I wanted to see if the new PT is as stern and uptight as the front office made you seem.'' ''Okay, so?'' ''The verdict is still lingering...'' he said, and started to walk back towards the ice, taking his time as if the world revolved around his schedule and everyone had to catch up with him. ''See you in there, Callahan...'' I watched him go for exactly one second longer than I meant to, then yanked open the left door before I could examine why. The staff meeting was everything Ronan had said it would be. Very unpleasant, especially for being late for it. The head coach, Marcus Doyle, was going through the injury report. His voice sounded like a clip monotone, with the rest of the staff taking notes. Instead of listening to what was being said, I spent the first ten minutes memorizing names. It turned out to be a mistake because by the time the second half of the meeting started, it was all about Ronan Voss. Dana said, ''since March, his shoulder has been an issue.'' She was the outgoing therapist that I was replacing. While she said that, she slid a folder across the table. ''He'll always say that he is fine, well, he is never fine. There is a fully worked up shoulder in there. He has grade two labral tears. It has not gotten worse, but it has not healed either. He has been playing with it like that, even all through the all-star break.'' ''Is the management aware?'' I asked. Dana and Doyle exchanged a look that answered the question better than words could. ''He will be benched if the front office finds out that he has an injury of this sort. Remember, he's that captain during the playoffs.'' Doyle said with a tone of finality. ''And without him, we all know that his team wouldn't make it past the second round. He was asked to keep quiet.'' The head coach looked at me, and for the first time since the meeting started, the tone of his voice was soft, sounding almost like a warning. ''He's your responsibility now. Your job. Keep him quiet, keep him upright, and keep everything between us.'' I thought about the man that I had seen in the hallway just now. He had rolled his shoulder like it meant nothing, and he was grinning the entire time like someone who was keeping a secret. Which, apparently, he was. "That's not really how injury management is supposed to work," she said carefully. "No," Doyle agreed. "It's not. Welcome to professional hockey."