My Hockey Patient Shouldn't Know How I Taste

Chapter Two

Chapter Two: s**t,s**t,Shit

TABITHA:

I’m moving too fast. I know I’m moving too fast. But Ellen’s voice is still ringing in my ears, I need you here now, and my hands won’t stop shaking.

The clinic lobby is busy. Patients in the waiting room, reception staff on phones, someone’s kid running circles around the chairs.

I weave through it all, my bag sliding off my shoulder and my mind racing through worst-case scenarios.

Budget cuts. Lawsuit. Did I mess up someone’s treatment plan?

I’m so focused on not spiraling that I don’t notice my shoelace has come untied.

Not until my foot catches on it and I’m suddenly pitching forward, my arms windmilling.

I don’t hit the ground.

Instead, I crash into something solid. Someone solid. There’s a wet splash and the smell of coffee everywhere, and hands catch my arms to steady me.

“Whoa, easy.”

I look up.

The man holding me is tall , really tall with dark hair and a sharp jawline,wearing an expensive looking jacket that now has coffee dripping down the front of it.

His coffee. Which is also in my hair.

“Oh my God.” I step back immediately, already moving toward the elevator. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you, my shoelace, I have to go.”

“Wait, are you…”

But I’m already at the elevator, jabbing the button. My bag chooses that moment to dump half its contents on the floor.

“Shit.” I drop to my knees, shoving things back in. Chapstick, my hand sanitizer, a protein bar.

He’s there suddenly, crouching beside me, handing me my keys.

“Here.”

“Thank you.” I snatch them, stand up. The elevator dings. “I’m really sorry about your jacket. Send the dry cleaning bill to…” I dig through my bag with shaking hands, yank out a business card, shove it at him. “I’m late, I have to go.”

The elevator doors start to close.

He catches one with his hand, holds it open. “You might want to tie your shoe.”

I look down. My lace is still trailing across the floor.

“Right. Yes. Thanks.”

I duck into the elevator and he lets the door go, stepping back. I catch one last glimpse of him standing there in the lobby, coffee stained, holding my business card, something almost amused in his expression.

The second the doors close, I sag against the wall.

“s**t. s**t, s**t, shit.”

I can feel the coffee in my hair, sticky and cold against my scalp. I dig through my bag for the wet wipes I always carry, yanking one out and scrubbing frantically.

It’s not working. If anything, I’m making it worse, just spreading the coffee around.

The elevator dings.

I give up on my hair, shove the wipe back in my bag, and try to smooth down my scrubs instead. My hands are still shaking.

Ellen’s office is at the end of the hall. I can see the glass door with her name on it, and my stomach twists.

I knock once and push the door open without waiting for an answer.

Ellen looks up from her desk, and relief floods her face. “Tabitha. Thank God. Come in, sit down.”

I step inside, hyperaware of the coffee smell radiating off me.

“Sorry I’m late. I ran into someone. Literally. There was coffee and…” I gesture vaguely at my hair.

“Don’t worry about it.” Ellen gestures to the chair across from her desk, but there’s something in her expression that makes my stomach drop. Not quite anxiety. More like… apprehension. “I have great news for you. Really great news. But I need you to hear me out before you say anything.”

I sit slowly. “Ellen, what’s going on?”

“The Denver Frost wants to contract with us.”

I blink. “The hockey team?”

“Yes. They need a full time physical therapist. Someone to travel with the team, be at practices, handle injuries and rehab. It’s a huge opportunity for the clinic.” She pauses. “For you.”

“Me?” My voice comes out higher than intended.

“You’re the best PT I have, Tabitha. You know that.” Ellen leans forward. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could handle it. But this contract… it would put us on the map. Professional sports teams don’t just work with anyone.”

There’s something she’s not saying. I can hear it in the careful way she’s choosing her words.

“Who else knows about this?” I ask.

“Just you and me. And the team captain.” She glances at her watch. “Who should be here any moment.”

My stomach twists. “Ellen, I don’t know if I’m the right person for this. Traveling with a team, being around that many athletes, I don’t…”

“I know it’s outside your comfort zone.” Her voice softens. “But Tabitha, you can’t stay in that comfort zone forever. At some point you have to…”

There’s a knock on the door.

Ellen’s expression shifts. “That’s him.”

My heart is suddenly pounding.

“Come in,” Ellen calls.

The door opens.

And the man from the lobby walks in, still wearing his coffee stained jacket, no longer holding a cup but carrying a leather portfolio instead.

Our eyes meet.

Recognition flashes across his face. Then something else. Something that looks almost like satisfaction, like he’s solved a puzzle he’d been working on.

“You,” I say stupidly.

“Tabitha,” Ellen says, standing. “This is Michael Lee. Captain of the Frost. Michael, this is Tabitha Reynolds, the physical therapist I was telling you about.”

Michael extends his hand across the desk, and there’s something different about him now. More focused. The easy amusement from the lobby has been replaced by something sharper, more assessing.

“We’ve met,” he says.

I shake his hand automatically. His grip is firm and he holds on just a fraction longer than necessary.

“Sort of,” I manage, pulling my hand back.

Ellen looks between us. “You two know each other?”

“We had a brief encounter downstairs,” Michael says, his tone perfectly neutral. But his eyes haven’t left my face. “Memorable.”

I want to disappear into the floor.

Ellen gestures for us both to sit. “Well, then introductions are out of the way. Let me catch you both up.”

She slides a thick file across the desk toward me.Too thick for someone his age.

“Michael’s coming off shoulder surgery. Arthroscopic labral repair, four months post op. He’s been cleared for practice but needs intensive PT to get back to full strength before the season starts.”

I open the file, scanning the notes. My professional instincts kick in automatically, pushing past the awkwardness.

The surgery details are standard. Good surgeon, clean repair. Recovery timeline is appropriate.

Then I see the other notes.

Patient shows reluctance to follow conservative treatment protocols.

Fired previous therapist for “not pushing hard enough.”

Expects results faster than physically possible. Difficult to work with. Recommend experienced PT only.

I glance up at Michael.

He’s sitting there looking completely relaxed,with one ankle crossed over his knee, like his file doesn’t basically say he’s a nightmare patient who thinks he knows better than trained medical professionals.

“I can see you’ve reached the interesting part,” he says.

There’s a challenge in his voice. He’s watching me carefully, waiting to see how I’ll react.

“I’ve worked with difficult patients before,” I say evenly, closing the file.

“I’m not difficult.” His tone is mild, but there’s steel underneath it. “I just don’t accept excuses.”

“Physical therapy isn’t about excuses. It’s about biology. Tissue healing has a timeline that can’t be rushed, no matter how motivated you are.”

Something flickers in his expression. “And if I disagree with that timeline?”

“Then you’ll re-injure yourself and be out even longer.” I meet his eyes. “Which I’m guessing isn’t what you want.”

For a moment, we just look at each other.

Then the corner of his mouth lifts. Just barely. “No. It’s not.”

Ellen clears her throat. “Tabitha will be traveling with the team. Full access to practices, games, training facilities. You’ll be her primary patient, but she’ll also be available to the rest of the team as needed.”

The rest of the team. Right. Because one challenging athlete isn’t enough.

My hands are shaking again. I press them flat against my thighs under the desk where no one can see.

“Michael, would you mind giving us a moment?” Ellen asks. “I need to go over some contract details with Tabitha.”

He stands smoothly. “Of course. I’ll be right outside.”

He pauses at the door, looking back at me. “For what it’s worth, I think you can handle me just fine.”

Then he’s gone.

The second the door closes, I turn to Ellen. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Ellen, I’m not… I don’t…” I gesture helplessly. “Traveling with a hockey team? Being the only woman in a locker room full of athletes? This is the opposite of what I need right now.”

“I know.” Her voice is gentle. “But Tabitha, this job isn’t about what you need. It’s about what you’re capable of. And you’re capable of so much more than you’re letting yourself do.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I’m not trying to be fair. I’m trying to help you.” She leans forward. “You came here fifteen months ago barely holding it together. And you’ve rebuilt yourself into one of the best PTs I’ve ever worked with. But you’re stuck, Tab. You’re stuck in this safe little bubble and you’re not going to heal until you push past it.”

My throat tightens. “So you’re using the favor to force me into therapy?”

“I’m using the favor to give you an opportunity.” She pauses. “And yes, because I need you. This contract is huge for the clinic. But I also need you to trust me when I say this is good for you too.”

I close my eyes.

She’s right. I know she’s right.

I’ve been hiding. Not just from men, but from everything. From risk, from discomfort, from anything that might crack the carefully controlled life I’ve built.

But the thought of saying yes makes my chest tight with panic.

“What if I can’t do it?” I ask quietly.

“Then you’ll figure it out. That’s what you do.” Ellen’s smile is sad. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Tabitha. You’re stronger than you think.”

I take a breath and let it out slowly.

“When do I start?“