Chapter 10
Ice baths weren’t all they were cracked up to be.
“Quite whining,” Amanda—or Mandy, as the boys called her—said. She was the head of PT and took absolutely zero shit. “I swear, you’re worse than the boys.”
“It’s really cold.”
“That’s kind of the point.” The other woman, petite and brunette, vivacious with curves for days—basically everything Brit wasn’t—glanced at the clock. “Two more minutes.”
Brit wasn’t sitting in a tub of ice, a la Major League, but with the combination of the cold stuff and some botanical version of IcyHot on her shoulder, she might as well have been.
Despite her discomfort, she had to admit the physical therapy suite was . . . well, sweet.
Pale grey walls were emblazoned with the Gold logo. White built-in cabinets held a variety of Mandy’s torture instruments. There was a stim—or TENS machine—in one corner, an ultrasound unit in another, and all varieties of tape, bandages, and braces.
She sat on one of the three exam tables and thought her dad would have loved it.
But then again, he had loved anything that involved putting bodies back together. If it wasn’t broken or bruised or sprained, he hadn’t been interested.
Wow. Really?
Maybe all the pucks to her head over the years were finally catching up with her.
She’d been in the suite an hour, first filling out her medical background forms, even though Mandy appeared to know everything about her, from her distaste of mushrooms—they’d ordered in for dinner—to the three fractured fingers her senior year of high school. Then she’d undergone Mandy’s prescribed treatment.
Which wasn’t bad or anything Brit hadn’t had experienced a hundred times over, but with all the memories cropping up and making her feel vulnerable, she was ready to get the heck out of there.
A couple-mile run would push the crap from her mind, and tomorrow she’d be able to function.
“I’d say you should probably take a day off—”
That cleared Brit’s mind right up. She shot her gaze toward Mandy, who appeared amused.
“I didn’t say you had to take the day off. Just that you could.”
Brit snorted.
“Yeah. Didn’t think that was likely.” Mandy snagged a roll of KT tape—a special type of kinesiology bandage that reduced swelling and bruising. “I won’t tell Bernard that you need a day off so long as you promise to tell me if the pain gets worse.”
“Of course.”
Mandy shot her a glare. “Seriously. Promise.”
Irritation and humor coursed through Brit, and she put her hands up in surrender, not for the first time since she’d walked in.
In the sixty-plus minutes she had come to know Mandy, she’d learned it was easier to accept defeat than argue with the therapist.
Clearly Max hadn’t been exaggerating in the shower.
“I promise,” Brit said.
“Promise,” Mandy pressed. “For real.”
“What are we, in second grade?” Brit rolled her eyes. “I promise. Or maybe I should say I solemnly swear to not overdo it?” She reached up with her good arm to hold her hair out of the way when Mandy bent to tape her shoulder.
“Yeah. Sure. You and every other professional athlete I know who pushes through injuries they shouldn’t.” The other woman huffed, finished the tape job, then leaned back and met Brit’s eyes. “You know what this means, right?”
“Um. No?”
Had Mandy not realized she was joking? Was she really going to tell Bernard—
“You’ve just locked yourself into a Harry Potter marathon with me.”
Relief coursed through Brit. She let out a breath, her heart settling. “That I can do. Harry Potter is everything.”
Mandy laughed, a delicate tinkling sound that counteracted her tough-as-nails demeanor in the PT suite. “Agreed.”
“Good. I’ll bring the popcorn.” Brit stood. “We done here?”
“Yup. Do those stretches, and we’ll reevaluate after tomorrow’s practice.”
Argh. But it was better than being benched over a stupid bruise. “Okay.”
She hightailed it for the door.
“Brit?” Mandy called.
Hand still on the knob, she turned. “Yeah?”
“Watch out for Mike Stewart,” Mandy said. “He always goes for the cheap shot.”
It didn’t surprise Brit that Stewart had taken the shot. Or at least that was what she assumed Mandy had meant with her cryptic statement.
The professional hockey community was fairly small considering the amount of teams in its various leagues. But over time, rosters tended to overlap as players moved up the ranks.
Brit had played on her fair share of teams. Owing to that, she knew a lot of people.
And hardly anyone liked Mike Stewart. He was crass. He was arrogant. He’d gotten popped for two DUIs in the last few years and had even spent the night in jail for a bar fight the previous season.
If there was one person she needed to watch out for, it was Stewart.
Except there was nothing she could do but keep her guard up. With a sigh, she walked to her stall in the locker room to finish packing up her backpack.
Keys, dirty clothes, wallet, phone. Her gear would stay, now in the hands of the equipment guys.
The room was quiet, and half of the lights were off, bathing the room in shadow.
Something moved on the far side.
It was so similar to that night that Brit had to bite back a gasp. But it was early, she told herself. There were still plenty of people around.
This wasn’t that night, and she was a lot more experienced now than three years before.
Multiple courses in self-defense, a can of pepper spray, and way too much money at a therapist would do that.
The shadow moved again, and speaking of spray, Brit reached into her backpack to grab the smooth metal can.
Frankie’s voice both soothed and startled her. “How’d PT go?”
Brit had completely forgotten they were supposed to talk after her session with Mandy. “Good—”
Her eyes flicked to the corner again when the shadow rotated.
Frankie’s gaze followed hers. “Eunice, could you come here?”
A woman in her mid-forties rose out of the darkness, walked toward them, and all the fear that had stiffened Brit’s spine dissipated. She realized that the older woman must have been cleaning something, given the towel and spray bottle in her hands.
“Brit, meet Eunice,” Frankie said.
“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Plantain.” Eunice extended her hand as though to shake before biting her lip and drawing it back.
Brit didn’t know if it was because the other woman wore gloves or just didn’t make a regular habit of shaking players’ hands.
She didn’t care about either.
Reaching across the space between them, she smiled and grasped Eunice’s palm.
“Nice to meet you too,” she said. “And Brit, please.”
The other woman’s smile lit up her face, settled the last of Brit’s nerves.
“Eunice helps with cleaning on practice days. She never misses a shift.” Frankie cocked his head, winked. “Unless her son is playing.”
God, Brit loved this sport. Loved the way it put a look of pride on parents’ faces, loved the way it lit up kids’ lives.
Of course, there were assholes, and people who got hurt or had negative experiences.
But all in all, she’d never been part of anything better.
The three of them chatted for a few minutes more, Brit learning that Eunice’s son was getting a shot at Junior As—a decent prospect for a California kid—and that he played center.
“She works in exchange for equipment,” Frankie said quietly once Eunice had gone back to her cleaning. “Couldn’t afford it otherwise. Bernard brought her on with the stipulation that she never work on a day her son plays.”
“You’re trying to soften me up to him.”
“No need,” Frankie said. “He’s a good man. You’ll see that soon enough. He’s hard as hell but . . .”
Brit sighed, even though in her heart she already knew the truth—having seen him interact with the team at practice.
She’d had bad coaches. Bernard wasn’t one of them.
“He’s good,” she said in agreement. Which really shouldn’t be annoying, but somehow still was.
Frankie grinned. “Now, you’re getting it.” He nodded toward Eunice. “And her son is the best-outfitted kid on his team with his NHL rejects.”
“Well, damn,” she mock-griped, thoroughly charmed despite herself. “Why’d you have to go and tell me that?”
“Can’t have you laboring under a misapprehension.”
She blew out a breath and slung her backpack over her good shoulder. “I could have labored for a few more days.”
“Better that you don’t. Come on.” Frankie gestured toward the hall. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
Brit felt relief at his words, which tempered some of her amusement. “I’m fine.”
Frankie didn’t reply, just started walking, and she had the feeling that even if she refused his offer, Frankie would still walk her to her car.
As Mandy had demonstrated, some battles weren’t worth fighting.
Especially when the outcome was what she needed deep down anyway.