Page 78 of Pucking Around

I jerk away from her. “I’m nothing if I can’t play.”

“It’s just a game—”

“You don’t understand.” I turn away from her.

She huffs. “You think I don’t understand the pressure to perform? I’m adoctor, Mars. Lives are literally at risk in my job. I’ve stood at the operating table over a person cut open from groin to hip, their bones exposed. Can you say the same?”

I glare down at her. “I carry the weight of the entire game on my shoulders. Which means I carryeveryone—my team, my coaches, you, the people selling tickets, the men serving hotdogs. Tens of thousands of people, every game, every night. I’m the goalie.It’s all on me.” I emphasize every word of that last sentence, leaning down closer to her face.

Her hand presses lightly against my chest. “You’re not alone, Ilmari.”

“Iamalone! That’s what it means to be a goalie. One man in the net, and it’s me. I have to be able to play—”

“No, you don’t actually. You have to be able tolive. Are you really content to grind your body into the ground, doing what is likely irreparable harm? That’s pain and damage you may have to live with forever—”

“Nothing is worse than the pain of not playing,” I snap. “Hockey is the only thing that matters to me!”

She leans away, eyes wide, shaking her head in disbelief. “I swear to god, you guys are worse than addicts! You think there’s nothing more to life than chasing that thrill you think you can only find on the ice. But here’s a newsflash for your, Kinnunen: hockey careers areshort. Life is long!”

I don’t want to hear this now. Ican’thear this now.

“You’ve had an impressive career for a goalie,” she goes on. “You’re already thirty. I’m guessing you’ve got maybe two years left before they force you out. Four if you’re lucky.” She leans in, tone flat. “But we both know that at the rate you’re grinding down those hips and knees, you won’t be one of the lucky ones.”

I turn away, desperate to block out her cutting words.

“They’ll bench you,” she threatens. “You’ll have to watch as a younger, clumsier man takes your place. They won’t force your retirement right away because you’re Mars Kinnunen, NHL darling, first player to sign on to the Jacksonville Rays. You’re their shiny star. You’ll help sell so many tickets…all while you collect dust on the bench—”

“Stop it,” I growl.

“Washed up duster—”

“Stop bloody talking!”

“Then stop hiding your head in the sand! What will you do when your two years are up? Hmm? Who will Ilmari Kinnunen be when he’s thirty-two and retired? Do you want to be the forty-year-old getting a double hip replacement? Do you want to live in a first-floor condo because you just can’t bear to take the stairs?”

“I won’t let them bench me,” I declare, knowing full well the power isn’t in my hands. “The scouts have to see me play. This meanseverythingto me! My entire life has been building to this moment. My family legacy is to play for the Finnish National Team. My grandfather played, my father. Now, it’s my turn. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. The timing has never been right before, but this is my chance. Mylastchance. Please, Rachel—”

This calms her down, this raw truth exposed. I hate laying myself bare to this stranger, but she won’t stop needling me, splitting me open.

“Help me,” I plead, holding her gaze. “Help me stay on the ice, and I’ll do anything you say.”

She huffs, glancing around the dark studio. Finally, she faces me, her hands back on her hips. “If you expect me to help you stay on the ice, doing everything I say starts right now. There can be no in-between here, Mars. You’re taking a risk by playing injured, and I’m taking a risk by helping you hide it.”

I nod, the weight of this secret lifting slightly from my chest. I told someone. Rachel knows. I don’t have to carry this alone anymore. “Tell me what to do.”

“Well, first thing is an exam. You know, the one you’ve been ducking away from for the last month?” she adds with a pointed look. “I assume that’s the real reason our schedules became utterly incompatible, right? You were avoiding me?”

I nod again. I should feel ashamed, but I don’t. I’m a desperate man. I’ll do anything to stay on that ice, even hide from my own doctor in a utility closet…which I did last week…twice.

She lets out a slow breath. “This is fucking crazy. I don’t even know how to do this. We need scans—”

“No scans,” I growl. “Scans make it official.”

She makes a strangled sound. “Well, how the fuck do you expect me to do this without scans? You’re having groin pain, right?”

I nod for a third time.

“Yeah, the problem is that there’s easily fifty things that can present as groin pain,” she replies. “You may have a muscle strain, or you may not. It could besomuch worse than that, Mars. We could be dealing with hip flexor pulls, a labral tear, bursitis. You could need surgery—”