pucked By the captain

Chapter 1 - My Version* I did not get hired by the Seattle Storm to make friends. I got hired because I am good at my job. I am twenty four, I have a doctorate in sports physiotherapy, and I spent the last two years taping ankles and fixing knees for the United States women's national soccer team. When the Storm emailed me about a full time physio position, I thought it was a prank. Then I saw the salary and I stopped laughing. My first day started at six in the morning. The rehab room smelled like ice and rubber and sweat that never really leaves. And Jackson Cole was already in there. He was on the table without a shirt, ice on his right knee, tape on his left shoulder. He is six four even when he is lying down. He is the captain, the defenseman, the guy who got suspended twice last season for fighting and then did it again. He did not look at me when I walked in. You are early, he said. You are injured, I said. So we are starting early. That made him look. He has blue eyes that look cold until you see how tired he is underneath. He looked me up and down, from my sneakers to my ponytail, and decided he was not impressed. You must be the new girl, he said. I am Doctor Hart. Your new physiotherapist. He snorted. My new babysitter. They told me you were twenty four. Did they hire you straight out of college to save money. I have heard that joke before. I get it a lot when you are young and female and in a room full of men who have been hit in the head for a living. I dropped my bag on the floor and pulled on gloves. Grade two MCL sprain, AC joint separation on the left shoulder, chronic tightness in the hamstring, I said, reading his chart. You have not slept properly in three weeks. You are compensating on your right leg which is why your back is locking up. Your last physio cleared you too fast because you yelled at him. Jackson sat up. Even that small move made his jaw clench. You read my file. I read your body. The file just confirms you are reckless. Nobody had said that to him in a long time, I could tell. Usually people tell him what he wants to hear because he is the captain. I do not care if you are the captain. A knee is a knee. He leaned forward. Close enough that I could see the little scar on his lower lip and smell clean sweat and something like cedar. Expensive soap, probably. Listen, Doctor Hart, he said. I have six weeks until playoffs. I do not need a lecture. I need you to sign the paper that says I can skate. I need you to be able to walk without limping first, I said. Do you know who I am. Yes. You are the captain who is going to lose his captaincy if you tear your MCL completely because you would not do your rehab. For a second I thought he was going to throw the ice pack at me. Then he laughed. A short surprised laugh. Okay, he said. You have a spine. Good. I have a doctorate, I said. Now lie back. We need to check range. He obeyed but his eyes never left me. I tried to ignore it and placed my hands on his shoulder. His skin was hot. The muscle underneath was tight as concrete. I pressed gently around the joint. Does this hurt. Yes. And this. Yes. You are lying on half of them. I know. I want to see how long you will keep poking me. I stepped back and took off my gloves. I had felt enough. You are guarding, you are inflamed, you need manual therapy and cryotherapy and mobility work twice a day. No ice time for ten days. No weights for seven. He stared at me. No ice time for ten days. Are you insane. No. I am your doctor. Your coach already approved the plan. You can yell at him if you want but I am the one who decides when you touch a puck again. I went to wash my hands so he would not see that my heart was beating fast. I could feel him behind me, big and angry and used to getting his way. Then his phone buzzed. He looked at it and his whole body tensed. Coach, probably asking if the new girl quit yet. Jackson stood up. His knee buckled a little but he covered it. He came up behind me, not touching, but close enough that I could see both of us in the mirror. Me in scrubs, small and mad. Him in shorts, hurt and mad. You think you can fix me, Doctor Hart. His voice was lower now. I think I can get you to playoffs without surgery. If you listen. And if I do not. Then you will be the ex captain who needed a knee replacement at thirty because he was too stubborn to do his stretches. He was quiet for a long time. Then he reached past me for the consent form on the counter. His arm brushed mine. Warm. He signed it without reading. Eight weeks, he said. You and me. Every morning at six. Do not be late. I was never late. You were early because you could not sleep from pain. Do not tell anyone I could not sleep, he muttered. Confidentiality, I said. What happens in rehab stays in rehab. Even if I swear. Especially if you swear. That got a real smile out of him. A half smile, crooked and dangerous. The kind that makes half of Seattle buy his jersey. He picked up his shirt and left, limping a little, leaving the ice pack melting on the table. I let out a breath only when the door closed. My hands were shaking. I looked at his chart again. At the bottom the old physio had written patient non compliant, aggressive, recommend transfer. I took a pen and crossed it out. I wrote patient in pain, will comply with correct approach, eight week plan started. Outside I could hear sticks hitting ice. Practice starting without its captain. And for some stupid reason my pulse was still fast. I told myself it was because it was my first day. First patient. Most difficult man i n the NHL. That was all. It had nothing to do with the way he looked at me when I told him the truth. Nothing at all.