Page 5

Chapter five

Holt

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuckity fuck.

I plaster on what I hope is a convincing smile as I wait for Dr. Jansen to speak. She takes a few more steps until she’s standing directly in front of me. Up close, I realize how short she is. Well, compared to me, she is. But also she’s pretty.

Strike that, she’s gorgeous.

I shouldn’t be thinking about her that way.

But I can’t help it. I have eyes. I’m not blind.

Plus, she’s the exact opposite of Kat as far as looks go.

Kat was bottle blonde. Dr. Jansen has black hair.

Kat’s makeup was always too much, between her fake ass long eyelashes and her swooshing eyeliner.

Dr. Jansen’s makeup appears to be very natural, if she’s even wearing any, which I like.

Nope.

None of that.

She works for the team.

She’s the new doctor.

Not someone I should be thinking is pretty. On second thought, thinking she’s pretty is probably okay. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating a woman’s beauty. What I shouldn’t be doing is comparing her to my ex.

“How’s your right hip feeling?” she asks .

I rear back slightly. “It-it’s fine.”

Lies. Lies. Lies.

I’ve had the tiniest twinge of pain in my right hip for the past few weeks. During games, I’ve been able to push it away and do my job. But once the adrenaline wears off, like it’s doing now, I can feel it hurting again.

She meets my gaze, crossing her arms. “I think that’s bullshit, Abbott. So let’s try again, shall we? How’s your right hip? Your leg?”

I sigh, too tired to argue and ready to get home. “It hurts a little. I’m used to it though. Part of being a hockey player is always having a few aches and pains.”

She blinks up at me for a second. “Come to my office tomorrow morning at eleven, and we’ll see what’s really going on.”

She doesn’t give me a chance to protest as she brushes past me and continues down the hallway. Gritting my teeth, I hurry after her, my long legs eating up the distance between us.

“Wait up,” I say, grabbing her arm.

That’s a mistake because when I touch her, it feels as if I put a fork in a socket and got zapped by electricity. Or at least that’s what I assume it would feel like. I jerk my hand away.

What the hell?

Her eyes flash to her arm where I touched her before she peeks up at me, and I wonder if she felt it too.

“What?” she asks.

“I’m fine, Doc.”

Her nostrils flare. “It’s Dr. Jansen,” she grits out.

Interesting.

I thought I saw her react earlier when I called her Doc, but I wasn’t sure. She might be pretty, but she sure seems to have a stick up her ass about being called Doc. I don’t know why. That’s what we call Dr. Walt and he doesn’t care.

“Right. Dr. Jansen, I don’t need to come in and see you. I’ll spend more time stretching, and in an ice bath, and I’ll be fine. Maybe see the massage therapist. ”

She crooks an eyebrow at me, pinning me with an expression that says ‘ Don’t you dare argue’. “I’ll be the one to make that decision. After I see you tomorrow morning. In my office. Eleven.”

“Fine.”

Without a word, she continues down the hallway, and I stay rooted to my spot, watching her until she’s out of my sight and I’m staring at the empty hallway.

“You ok, Holt?” Wes asks.

I blink, turning to see my friends and their partners standing behind me. “Yeah. Tired,” I mutter. “Night.”

“I’m going to suggest you be listed as day-to-day, but I suspect it will be a few weeks of rest and physical therapy,” Dr. Jansen says the next morning after she’s had me do a few exercises and stretches.

She called in Dr. Walt and had me repeat a couple of them. Then the two of them whispered together before asking Craig to come into the room.

That should have been the first sign something wasn’t right.

“Two weeks off, at least?” I sputter.

“Probably more than two, but we’ll reassess at the two-week mark and see how things are progressing. Do you agree, Dr. Walt?”

“I do. I’ll talk to Coach Weaver.” Dr. Walt turns to me. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but it’s better we get this resolved now, early in the season, instead of letting it get worse.”

“If you continue to go about your normal routine without treating this now, it could get to the point of possibly requiring surgery to correct. I’d really like to avoid that,” Dr. Jansen says.

I run a hand through my hair. Can’t argue with that, I guess.

“Fine,” I grit out, even though it’s anything but fine.

“Come back after the team meeting, and we’ll go over your treatment plan,” she says .

I give her a curt nod before walking out of the room, trying not to spiral into the worst-case scenario. Hopefully, it’ll only be for a game or two, not the couple of weeks she estimated.

I take a few deep breaths as I walk into our team meeting, and slide into a seat at the back instead of sitting with my friends in the front row.

I’m not ready to face them because one of them will know right away something’s wrong.

That’s one thing I both love and hate about this team—you can’t keep secrets, at least not for too long. And I’m not ready for this to get out.

It’s a shame because you have so much potential. If only you didn’t shackle yourself to the Storm. Probably why you haven’t won a Vezina yet. You’re almost to the peak of your career, and what do you have to show for it?

I scrub a hand down my face, trying to push Kat’s words out of my head.

But it’s hard when she said them to me so many times while we were together, that now I wonder if she was right.

She knew right where and how to twist the knife, always bringing up the fact that I hadn’t won the league’s trophy for best goaltender.

“How are you?” Sebastian asks, dropping into the seat next to me.

“Fine.”

He studies me for a second before leaning over and whispering, “we’ve got your back with whatever is going on.”

He meets my eyes before turning to face the front where Coach Weaver is talking. I’m left speechless, my mouth gaping open. What the fuck was that? He and I aren’t really close. My gaze flirts to the front of the room where my friends are sitting. Maybe one of them clued him in.

Or you’re that obvious.

I force myself to stop thinking about it, and focus on the meeting as Coach tells us about the siblings’ trip being planned for next month. A trip I’m sure Hadley, my little sister, will want to go on as long as I’m back to playing.

What happens if it takes me longer than expected to recover from this injury?

Or if I never recover ?

Suddenly it feels like a million degrees in here. I inhale, trying to calm my heart that’s now racing, but a lump feels like it’s lodged in the back of my throat. I shift in my seat, trying to relax, but I can’t.

“Everything okay?” Sebastian whispers.

All I can do is nod as I fight to take a deep breath, feeling like an elephant is sitting on my chest.

“Holt?” he asks, putting a hand on my arm, but I shake him off as Coach ends the meeting.

I stand and somehow make it out into the hallway, bumping into someone coming the other way.

“Abbott?” Dr. Jansen continues talking, but I can’t make out what she’s saying in my panic-induced haze. “Holt.” She puts a hand on my arm, and I finally look at her.

She inhales sharply when I meet her gaze. “Are you okay?”

I want to tell her I’m fine, but I can’t. Frankly I’m tired of pretending I am. I shake my head. She grabs my hand and pulls me into an empty conference room, where she directs me into a chair before sitting next to me.

“I think you’re having a panic attack. Can you breathe with me?” She takes a breath, and I close my eyes, doing what she says.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, just breathing. Every time I inhale, I get a whiff of something sweet and floral. Lilacs or jasmine, I think, and I realize it’s her.

It’s Dr. Jansen.

I like how she smells. I probably shouldn’t—she’s my physical therapist. My doctor. I need to keep things professional, but does that mean I can’t appreciate how she smells? Nothing wrong with it if I keep it to myself.

The perfume Kat used to wear always gave me a headache. She even changed it a few times, and they each had the same effect on me. I thought I was allergic to perfume. Turns out I was probably allergic to her.

“You feeling better?” Dr. Jansen finally asks after a few minutes.

I take a couple more deep breaths and realize I do indeed feel better .

“Yeah.” I stare down at the floor suddenly, very aware of what she witnessed. I haven’t had a panic attack in years. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Rebecca,” she murmurs, almost too quietly for me to hear. I meet her chocolate-colored eyes. “No reason for all the formality right now, Abbott.” She huffs out a laugh.

My lips quirk up in a small grin. “Holt, Rebecca. Not Abbott.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think twice about them. “And thank you,” I whisper, staring at the table in front of me.

“Do you get panic attacks often?”

“It’s been years. Since high school. I don’t know what set it off.” Lies.

“Major stress can cause them. Like the news that you might not play for a few weeks.”

I swallow. “That’s probably it.”

“We can go to my office to discuss your treatment plan if you’re ready.”

I run a hand through my hair, thankfully no longer feeling like an elephant is sitting on my chest or a golf ball is lodged in the back of my throat.

“Sure.”

She leads me out of the room and down the now quiet hallway.

I’m sure I have a million text messages from the guys wondering why I disappeared so quickly after the meeting, but right now I don’t have it in me to explain it to them.

Because unlike Dr. Jansen—Rebecca—who didn’t ask for an explanation, and took it at face value that my panic attack was because of the news I would be out for a few games, they wouldn’t.

They’d want to know what was really going on.

They’d ask a million questions. I’d be forced to admit that not only am I struggling with my game, but I’m injured and can’t play. And my relationship failed months ago, and I’ve been lying to them.

All things I just don’t want to talk about right now.