Page 66 of Goalie Secrets

“There are regenerative treatments we could try to increase blood flow in the area and accelerate healing in damaged tissues,” Vanya offers. “But that would require recovery time.”

“What? Like a day?”

“A week after each treatment.”

Shaking my head, I state dismissively, “That is also out of the question.”

She huffs at her iPad, stabbing the screen with an angry finger. Probably the way she would like to stab me in the eye right now.

But what Vanya sees as stubbornness is just the way hockey players are. Injuries are part of life. I’m nothing special in that regard. Unless I have to be carried off the ice on a stretcher, I’m staying in front of my net.

Kyle lifts his hands in surrender. “If you start feeling worse—”

I wave him off. “I’ll stay on top of it. In the meantime, am I going to get treatment today or what?”

Vanya looks the way she did at our first meeting. Insulted but unwilling to reveal her emotions. “He’s due for the TENSmachine and needling on the shoulder,” Vanya states placidly. “Are you free to do it, Kyle? I need to catch up on some files.”

“Yeah, I’ve got him. It’s been a while, big guy.”

By the time Kyle washes his hands and arranges the equipment, Vanya is long gone.

I hated the sound of my voice when I begged Jeremy to take the test results seriously. That entire meeting is a reminder that he will choose his career over his own well-being. In which case, why even go through the tests?

Because you insisted on them, Vanya.

It finally makes sense why Kyle hadn’t ordered them until I forced him to. As involved as he is with his clients, my boss prioritizes hockey over everything. The measure of success for both of them is Jeremy’s ability to stay on the ice. Every other part of his life is second to goaltending.

Am I the only one who sees Jeremy as a patient who needs specialized care due to his condition? Is he always going to be the invincible Mavericks star goaltender to other people, before an actual person with vulnerabilities and needs?

I’m not asking him to quit permanently, but we need a plan that lessens his time on the ice and that implements more aggressive rehabilitation of muscles around the tears.

What I wanted to suggest—before he basically cut me off—is a process that injects a patient’s own platelet-rich plasma to accelerate healing in damaged tissues, including microtears in the labrum. Not that he asked for details. He was too busy brushing me off.

Why is he so goddamn stubborn?

There’s no answering that infuriating question during this busy workday, so I let it go. Other patients will prioritize their well-being, even if he won’t.

Jeremy’s name pops into my text notifications. Throughoutthe day, I choose to ignore him. As shown by my public begging and indignant outburst, my reactions to Jeremy are borderline desperate. No one else has to see how hard it is to control my emotions when it comes to him.

In my office at the end of my last appointment, I brace myself for his texts.

Jeremy:I know the meeting didn’t go the way you planned, Vanya, but we should talk. I’m off tonight. Can I make you dinner? Something better than old olives, I promise.

An hour later…

Jeremy:My doctor is working so hard. Is she too busy to text me back? Good thing I’m cooking for her or she’d starve to death.

A few minutes later…

Jeremy:I’m making you Paches. It’s a Guatemalan version of tamales. Even if you’re mad at me, you’re still hungry, right?

Later in the afternoon…

Jeremy:C’mon beautiful, come over at seven or I’ll have to bring this extra food to my teammates and they’re already spoiled rotten by my mom’s cooking.

A few minutes ago…

Jeremy: [picture of him in front of a stove with a Santa hat and suspenders on a bare chest]