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Chapter four

Rebecca

“Coming to the game tonight?” Sutton asks, peeking into my office as I’m sitting at my desk typing up my notes about the players I saw this morning.

“Yep. I’ll be there.”

“Good. Good. You’re going to sit in the team’s family section, right? I’ll save you a seat.”

I tilt my head, staring up at her. “No, probably not. I think I’ll be behind the bench for most of the game. Otherwise, I’ll probably be up in the team’s box.”

“You’re more than welcome to come sit with me. I don’t know who else is going to be there, but we’re always in a section near the Storm bench. Let me give you my number, and you can text me if something changes.”

“Sure,” I say, even though I’m certain nothing will change.

She may have said management doesn’t care about staff being friends with the players and their families, but it still feels weird to me.

It’s a professional line I don’t think I can cross.

Even if Sutton insists everyone is more like a family here.

Maybe that’s the case for her. After all, she’s not their doctor like I am.

I pull my phone out of my desk drawer, and she rattles off her number. I add her as a contact and send her a quick text.

“Hope to see you tonight,” she says, backing out of my office, and with a wave, she’s gone .

Later that evening, I’m walking down one of the many hallways at the arena, hoping I’m heading in the direction of the ice so I can observe the team during warm-ups. As I round a corner, I see Craig Blackwell, the head athletic trainer, striding toward me.

“Hey, Dr. Jansen.”

“Mr. Blackwell.”

“Craig’s fine.”

I clear my throat. “Right. Right. Sorry.”

“I was coming to find you. Wanted to make sure you know where you’re going.

I know you won’t be behind the bench during every game, but this will be a good way for you to see the guys in action on the ice.

” He shakes his head. “You’ll learn quickly that most of these guys will play through just about everything without a word.

We take care of them when we notice issues, but there’s only so much Dr. Walt and I can spot. ”

I nod, following him down the hallway. He points out where the extra medical supplies are kept, as well as where the paramedics are. Finally, we walk out to the Storm’s bench. I rub my hands down my arms as the cold hits me, grateful I decided on a long-sleeve shirt.

Mr. Blackwell walks me through the night’s schedule, and a few minutes later, the players step onto the ice for warm-ups. I take a few minutes to pay attention to each of the guys, cataloging how they move and stretch.

I study Holt Abbott, the team’s starting goaltender, and the guy in the net tonight. I watch as he gets down on the ice to stretch and do some splits.

Holy shit, this guy is flexible.

My eyes widen at the routine he goes through, but I frown when he stands up and a grimace crosses his face for a split second.

If I hadn’t been so focused on him, I would have missed it.

I make a mental note to pay attention to how he moves and reacts tonight to try to figure out what caused the pain he clearly felt.

I’ve seen a few hockey games on television and even been to a few, but nothing could prepare me for being behind the bench. I can’t help cringing a few times as players crash into the boards, and a fight breaks out in the first few minutes.

Add to it all the yelling and screaming from the fans. The coaches barking plays. The players hollering at each other and the other team, not only on the ice but across the benches too.

I should have worn ear plugs.

I’ll most definitely need to take a couple of Advil when I get home.

Before I know it, the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the first period.

During the second period, I focus on observing Abbott. I excuse myself from my spot behind the bench and make my way around the arena until I’m next to the net where I can get a better view of him.

I’m mesmerized by the way he moves with catlike reflexes when the puck comes toward him.

How he does a split on the ice to block a shot as if it’s nothing.

The way he uses his stick to push the puck away from the net at one point.

How he catches the puck in his glove before I can even register that it’s been shot toward him.

The man is a beast.

But as confident as he is, there are times I notice he flinches slightly when he stands back up or moves in certain ways.

Halfway through the period, a goal gets through him and into the net.

I don’t blame him; there’s a bunch of guys in front of him.

After that, there’s an apparent change in the way he reacts and plays.

He seemingly loses all confidence in his ability as a goaltender.

He’s still good, great even, but there are moments of hesitancy in his movements.

I spend the third period up in the team’s box so I can see the players from a different view and get a break from the noise. The Storm eke out a win, scoring the winning goal with seconds left of the game.

As I’m walking down the back hallways after the game, on my way to my office to grab my bags, someone calls my name.

I pause, turning around to see Rhodes’s wife standing in the hallway with two people I don’t know. I plaster on a smile I hope is convincing, all the while internally grimacing. All I want is to go home and take a hot shower and put my feet up .

“Hi, Mrs. Rhodes. Good to see you again,” I greet her.

“It’s just Madison. I didn’t realize you were here tonight. You should have sat with us.”

“Right, Madison. Sorry. Old habits.” I shrug. “I was working.”

“Ah ok, well next time you’ll have to join us.

Oh, do you know everyone?” She points at the couple with her.

I shake my head. “This is Aubrey Fairchild, soon to be Aubrey Thompson.” She points at the woman standing to her left.

“And this guy”—she points over her shoulder—“is Brody, Aub’s fiancé.

He used to play for the Storm until he retired. ”

He waves at me, and I return the gesture.

“Y’all, this is Dr. Rebecca Jansen. The team’s new physical therapist.”

“Nice to meet you all,” I say.

“We’re going to say hi to the guys. Want to come?” Madison asks.

“Ummm.” I hesitate, unsure of how to answer the question. Technically, I’m not hanging out with them outside of work, so I’m not really crossing the line into friend territory. “Okay. I need to run back to my office and grab my stuff.”

“We’ll wait for you,” Madison says.

I make my way to my office, where I grab my purse from the bottom drawer of my desk. Habit has me pulling out my phone to check if I have any missed calls from my dad or stepmom. My mouth drops open when I see I have a voicemail from my brother.

What the hell does Mason want?

I’m surprised he even called, given what he said the last time we talked. I blow out a breath. Probably more of the same old shit he usually says.

I lock my phone and shove it back into my purse.

“Rebecca, are you okay?”

Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I see Aubrey standing in the doorway. “Sorry, I’m coming.”

She steps further into my office. “I hope we’re not overstepping. We want you to feel welcome here. If you don’t want to come with us, say the word, and I’ll make an excuse for you.”

I give her a small smile. “Thank you. I’m good, just tired from today. ”

I grab the rest of my stuff, and we make our way back to where the rest of the group is waiting. A few minutes later, we’re standing in the hallway outside the locker room. Sutton joins the group, and they start chatting. I keep quiet, not paying much attention to the conversation.

Eventually, Rhodes comes out of the locker room and walks over to Madison, giving her a quick kiss before greeting the rest of us.

Behind him is another guy whose name I can’t remember. He smacks Rhodes on the shoulder before heading over to Sutton and me.

“Sutton, love,” he says in a British accent that would make any woman swoon.

The look he’s giving her has fire behind it, and I wonder what that’s about.

Nope, I’m not going to wonder because it’s none of my business.

He opens his arms for a hug, but she shakes her head. He drops his arms with a frown.

I’m distracted by Abbott walking out of the locker room, noticing how he favors his right leg slightly. I was right. To the untrained eye it’s unnoticeable, but to me, someone who studied gait and movement, it’s quite conspicuous.

As he walks past us, I turn on my heel, and without a word to the others, hurry after him.

“Hey, Abbott. Got a minute?”

I think he doesn’t hear me as he carries on walking. But after a few steps he comes to a halt, his shoulders falling as he turns around.

“Yeah, Doc?”