My Hockey Patient Shouldn't Know How I Taste

Chapter Three:Room 312

Tabitha:

“When do I start?”

Ellen doesn’t even hesitate. “First thing tomorrow morning at eight AM.”

I blink. “Tomorrow? As in less than twenty-four hours from now?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I just…” I gesture vaguely at myself, at the coffee still drying in my hair, at the general chaos that has been my morning. “You couldn’t have mentioned that earlier?”

“And give you time to overthink it?” Ellen’s smile is knowing. “You’ll be fine, Tab. It’s better to just jump in.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one jumping.”

“You’ve got this. I promise.” She stands, effectively dismissing me. “Go home. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a great day.”

I grab my bag and head for the door, my mind already spinning with everything I need to do. Research the team, review shoulder rehabilitation protocols, figure out what to wear, have a minor panic attack…

I open the door and nearly walk straight into him.

Michael is leaning against the wall across from Ellen’s office, with his hands in his pockets, looking completely at ease. He straightens when he sees me.

“So?” he asks. “Tomorrow?”

“You were listening to our conversation?”

“The walls are thin.” He steps closer, and suddenly the hallway feels smaller. “Seems like your boss gets really loud when she’s excited.”

“She wasn’t excited.”

“She was.” His eyes drop briefly to my hair, the hair that definitely still smells like coffee, before meeting mine again. “She really wants this to work.”

“It will work,” I say, injecting more confidence into my voice than I actually feel.

“Good.” He extends his hand. “Then I guess we’re officially doing this. I look forward to working with you, Tabitha. I really hope you’re as good as they say.”

I take his hand. His grip is firm, warm, and he holds on just a fraction longer than necessary. Our eyes lock.

“Try me,” I say.

Something flashes in his expression. Amusement, maybe. Or interest.

“I intend to,” he says, and releases my hand. “See you tomorrow. Eight AM. Don’t be late.”

He walks away, and I stand there like an i***t, watching him go.

It’s not until I’m in my car that I let myself process what just happened.

I said yes.

I’m going to be traveling with a professional hockey team.

I’m going to be Michael Lee’s physical therapist.

I’m terrified.

But also, and I hate that this is true, I’m excited. This is huge. The kind of opportunity that could completely change my career trajectory. The pay alone is almost double what I make now, and the experience? Working with elite athletes, being part of an organization?

This could be everything.

Or it could be a complete disaster.

I’m going with everything for now. Disaster can wait.

By the time I get home, I’m running on pure adrenaline and the dregs of the coffee that’s now a permanent part of my hair.

Mei is on the couch with her laptop when I walk in. She takes one look at me and her eyebrows shoot up.

“What happened to you?”

“I had a very chaotic day.”

“I can see that.” She sniffs the air. “Do you smell like coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you smell like coffee? And not in a cute ‘I stopped at a café’ way. More like an ‘I bathed in espresso’ way.”

I drop my bag on the floor and collapse next to her. “Smell my hair.”

She leans over and sniffs, then pulls back with a grimace. “Oh my God, Tabitha. You smell like Starbucks exploded on you.” She reaches out and touches a strand of my hair near my face, then pulls her hand back. “And it’s sticky. You have sticky coffee in your hair.”

“I know.”

“How? How do you have sticky coffee in your hair?”

“Because I ran into someone. Literally. There was coffee. It went everywhere. Some of it went in my hair.”

Mei stares at me. “You need to start locking your doors and watching where you’re going.”

“I know.”

“Did you at least apologize to whoever you assaulted with your clumsiness?”

“I gave him my business card and told him to send me the dry cleaning bill.”

“Him?” Mei’s grin is immediate and evil. “Was he cute?”

“That’s not the point of the story.”

“So he was cute.”

“Mei.”

“Fine, fine. So why do you look like you’ve been through a war? What happened after the coffee incident?”

I take a breath. “I got a new job.”

Mei blinks. “What?”

“Ellen called me in. There was this whole thing. A hockey team needs a physical therapist, and she wants me to do it.”

“A hockey team? Like, a real one?”

“The Denver Frost.”

“Holy s**t, Tabitha! That’s amazing!” She grabs my shoulders. “Wait, why do you look terrified? This is good, right?”

“It’s great. It’s a huge opportunity. Career growth, better pay, working with elite athletes…”

“But?”

“But I start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow as in…”

“Eight AM tomorrow. I have less than twenty-four hours to prepare, I’ve never worked with athletes before, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to screw this up spectacularly.”

Mei pulls me into a hug. “You’re not going to screw it up. You’re amazing at your job, Tab. You’ve got this.”

“You have to say that. You’re my best friend.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true.” She pulls back, studying my face. “You deserve this. You deserve something good.”

My throat tightens. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Definitely.” She grins. “Now go shower. You smell like a coffee shop, and not in a cute way.”

I don’t sleep well.

Every time I close my eyes, I’m running through worst case scenarios. What if I can’t handle the pressure? What if the players don’t respect me? What if I make a mistake and someone gets hurt?

What if Michael Lee is exactly as difficult as his file suggests and I can’t deal with him?

By the time my alarm goes off at six AM, I’ve convinced myself this is a terrible idea at least four times.

But I get up anyway.

I put on my best scrubs, the navy ones that actually fit well and don’t have any mysterious stains. I twist my hair into a neat ponytail. I look at myself in the mirror and practice my confident face.

“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “You’re qualified. You’ve worked with difficult patients before. This is just another job.”

My reflection doesn’t look convinced.

I grab my bag and head out before I can talk myself out of it.

The Denver Frost training facility is even more intimidating in daylight.

It’s all glass and steel and success, making my little office at the clinic look like a janitor’s closet. I park in the designated visitor spot, I’ll get a permanent one later, apparently, and sit there for a full minute, trying to calm my racing heart.

“You can do this,” I mutter. “You’re qualified. You’ve got this.”

I grab my bag and walk inside before I can chicken out.

A receptionist greets me with a warm smile. “You must be Tabitha! Right on time. I’m Monica. Coach Patterson is waiting for you in the team room. I’ll take you there.”

She leads me through a maze of hallways, chattering about the facility, the team’s schedule, where I can find coffee. Very important , and about twelve other things I’m too nervous to fully absorb.

We stop in front of a set of double doors.

“Here we are,” Monica says. “Good luck!”

She leaves before I can ask what I need luck for.

I take a breath, square my shoulders, and push open the doors.

The room is full of men.

Large and muscular men. Half dressed men in various states of athletic wear, all turning to look at me as I walk in.

Yes. This is my new life. A room full of sweaty jocks.

“Ah, perfect timing!” A man that looked like he was in his fifties with a whistle around his neck, Coach Patterson, I assume, waves me over. “Guys, listen up! This is Tabitha Reynolds, your new Personal Trainer . She comes highly recommended, so I expect you all to treat her with respect and actually listen to her when she tells you to ice something or stretch or whatever else you’re supposed to be doing. Got it?”

There’s a chorus of “Yes, Coach” that sounds more amused than sincere.

“Tabitha, welcome to the team,” Coach says, and there’s genuine warmth in his voice.

“Thank you,” I manage, scanning the room.

Looking for him.

But Michael’s not here.

“Welcome aboard!” One of the players, a tall blond, absurdly good looking, grins at me. “I’m Carter. If you ever need anything, just ask. I’m very helpful.”

“He’s very annoying,” another player calls out. “I’m Rodriguez. Ignore Carter.”

“It's impossible to ignore me, Rodriguez. I’m too charming.”

There’s laughter, and some of the tension in my chest eases. They seem normal. Friendly, even.

I smile. “Thanks. I’m looking forward to working with all of you.”

“Even when we’re being idiots?” someone asks.

“Especially then. Job security.”

More laughter in the room.

Coach Patterson claps his hands. “All right, enough. You’ve got practice in twenty minutes. Tabitha, let me show you to your office, and then you can get started with Lee.”

I follow him out of the room, hyperaware of the eyes tracking my exit.

“They’re good guys,” Coach says as we walk down another hallway. “They’re Loud, but good and they’ll look out for you.”

“And the captain?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “Michael Lee?”

Coach’s expression shifts. Just slightly.

“Lee’s…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “He’s going through a rough patch right now. The injury, the recovery, it’s been hard on him. He’s not usually this intense. Just be patient with him, all right? He needs someone who won’t give up on him.”

“I don’t give up easily,” I say.

“Good.” He stops in front of a door. “He’s in Room 312, down that hall. Good luck, Tabitha.”

He walks away immediately.

I stand there for a moment, staring down the hallway.

Room 312.

Where Michael Lee is waiting.

I grip my bag tighter, and walk.

The door to Room 312 is closed.

I knock once, wait two seconds, and push it open.

The first thing I see is skin.

A lot of skin.

Michael is sitting in what looks like a large metal tub filled with ice water, his head tipped back against the edge, and his eyes closed. His chest is bare, water droplets clinging to the defined muscles of his shoulders and abs, and there’s a tattoo winding up his ribs that I definitely should not be staring at.

I freeze in the doorway.

He opens his eyes and looks directly at me.

“Tabitha,” he says, and there’s amusement threading through his voice. “You’re early.”

“I’m right on time,” I correct, forcing my feet to move forward. Don’t let him get under your skin. “Eight AM, like you said.”

“So eager to see me already.”

Such a narcissist.

“I’m just punctual. Huge difference.”

He smiles, slowly. “Come in. Close the door. Unless you want the entire team to hear our first session.”

I close the door.

The room suddenly feels very small.

“I’m here to assess your shoulder,” I say, setting my bag down on a nearby bench. “We need to establish a baseline for your range of motion, strength, and pain levels before we can create an effective treatment plan.”

“That sounds very official.”

“It is official. I’m your physical therapist.”

“Right. My physical therapist.” He’s still watching me, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my pulse kick up. “So what do you need me to do?”

“Get out of the tub would be a good start.”

“I can’t do that.”

I blink. “Why not?”

“I’ve got another ten minutes in here. Ice baths are timed. You should know that, being a professional and all.”

He’s mocking me.

“Fine,” I say, pulling out my tablet. “Then we’ll start with questions. How’s your pain level today, on a scale of one to ten?”

“Three.”

“Your range of motion?”

“It’s limited.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Not really.”

I look up from my tablet. He’s grinning at me.

“You’re not taking this seriously,” I say.

“I’m sitting in a tub of ice water at eight in the morning. I’m taking this very seriously.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

I set the tablet down. “Look, I get that you’ve been through this before. With other therapists. But I’m here to help you, and I can’t do that if you’re going to be difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult. I’m being accurate. My pain level is a three. My range of motion is limited. What else do you want me to say?”

“I want you to actually cooperate.”

“I am cooperating. I’m sitting here, aren’t I? Answering your questions.”

“Barely.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

My jaw tightens. “Excuse me?”

“If you can’t get the information you need, maybe you’re not asking the right questions.”

“Or maybe you’re just being an ass.”

The words are out before I can stop them.

For a second, he just stares at me.

Then he laughs.

Actually laughs, with his head tipping back, the sound echoing off the tile walls.

“There it is,” he says, grinning at me. “I was wondering how long it would take.”

“How long what would take?”

“For you to stop being so polite.” He shifts in the tub, and I try very hard not to notice the way the water moves over his chest. “You were all yes sir, no sir yesterday. I wanted to see the real you.”

“Congratulations. You found her. She thinks you’re an ass.”

“Good. I like her better already.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“Come here,” he says.

“What?”

“Come here. You said you needed to assess my shoulder. So assess it.”

“You’re in a tub.”

“And you’re all the way over there. How are you going to examine me from six feet away?”

He’s right. Damn it, he’s right.

I walk over slowly, stopping at the edge of the tub.

“Closer,” he says.

“I’m close enough.”

“Are you?” He raises his right arm, the injured one, out of the water. “Because I’m pretty sure you need to actually touch me to do your job.”

My heart is pounding. This is ridiculous. I’ve examined hundreds of patients. This is no different.

Except it is different, because none of those patients looked at me the way Michael is looking at me right now.

I kneel down next to the tub, bringing myself level with him.

“I’m going to check your range of motion,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I reach out and place my hands on his shoulder.

His skin is cold from the ice bath, but underneath, I can feel the heat of him. The solid muscle, the strength. I press gently, testing, and he doesn’t flinch.

“Lift your arm,” I instruct.

He does. Slowly. I can see the moment it starts to hurt, the slight tightness around his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

“That’s good,” I say. “You can lower it.”

He does.

“Rotation next.” I adjust my grip, my fingers pressing into the curve of his shoulder. “Nice and slow.”

He rotates. The movement is stiff, restricted.

“You’re compensating,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “Favoring the anterior deltoid. Have you been doing your exercises?”

“Every day.”

“All of them?”

His jaw tightens. “Most of them.”

“Michael.”

“The posterior raises hurt.”

“They’re supposed to hurt a little. That’s how you rebuild strength.”

“They hurt a lot.”

I sit back on my heels, studying him. “If you don’t do the exercises, you won’t get better. You know that, right?”

“I know.” His voice is quiet. “I just…”

He stops.

“Just what?”

He looks at me, and for the first time since I met him, there’s no cockiness, no amusement. Just exhaustion.

“I’m tired of hurting,” he says simply.

Something in my chest cracks.

“I know,” I say softly. “But the only way through it is through it. There’s no shortcut.”

“I don’t want a shortcut. I want to play hockey.”

“Then you have to trust me. And you have to do the work. All of it. Even the parts that hurt.”

He holds my gaze. “And if I do? Will you get me back on the ice?”

“I’ll do everything I can.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“It’s the only answer I can give you.” I stand up, putting distance between us. “I can’t make promises I might not be able to keep. But I can promise I won’t give up on you. Even when you’re being an ass.”

He smiles. Just a little. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Please do.”

I turn to grab my tablet, and that’s when it happens.

“Tabitha.”

I look back.

His hand shoots out, catches my wrist, and pulls.

I don’t have time to react.

One second I’m standing, and the next I’m falling forward, and then I’m in the tub with him, ice water closing over my head.

I surface, gasping, furious.

“What the hell…”

And then I realize where I am.

I’m sitting in his lap.

Straddling him.

Our faces are inches apart.

And I can feel every single inch of him beneath me, including his very hard, very obvious erection pressing against my inner thigh.

We’re both breathing hard.

Neither of us moves.

His hands are on my waist, steadying me, and his eyes are locked on mine.

“Told you,” he says, and his voice is rough. “You needed to get closer.”