My Hockey Nemesis

The handle turned.

Before I could even close the chart, Arthur Pearson filled the doorway of the treatment room. He shut the door behind him with one hand, his hockey stick gripped in the other, and glanced around the space as if he were just checking into a hotel.

"So," he said, leaning the stick against the wall. "Am I early, or are you guys running behind?"

I didn't look up from my desk. "Get on the table."

A quiet chuckle escaped him. "Good to see you too, Lena."

He climbed onto the treatment table without another word. Even after a two-hour practice, there wasn't a hint of fatigue in how he moved. He looked entirely, infuriatingly at ease. I picked up his file, focusing hard on the print to avoid looking at the man sitting six feet away.

"Left shoulder," I read aloud. "Repeated impact injury. Pain with overhead movement, reduced range of motion. And according to the trainer, you've been playing through it for weeks."

"I've been busy."

I finally looked up, letting the file drop slightly. "Busy pretending you're indestructible?"

"Occupational hazard," he said, offering a small, easy smile.

"No. That's just stupid."

His lips twitched, but he didn't argue.

"Take the jersey off."

He pulled the heavy fabric over his head without complaint and tossed it onto the plastic chair nearby, leaving him in a black compression shirt.

"That too," I added.

Arthur paused, his eyes tracking mine. "You always this direct with your patients?"

"Just take the shirt off, Arthur."

"And here I thought I was getting special treatment."

I ignored the bait, keeping my eyes fixed on the chart. When I looked back, the thin, white lines across his shoulder and upper arm caught my attention before I could stop myself. Operative scars. The permanent receipts collected over a career in professional hockey.

Playing at this level always cost something. Some players paid with broken bones. Ethan had paid with his future. Our future.

I forced the thought down, hard. "Sit up straight."

He squared his shoulders.

"I'm going to examine the joint." I stepped closer, placing one hand lightly against the front of his shoulder. "Lift your arm to the side. Stop when it hurts."

He raised it slowly, but the movement ground to a halt before his arm was even parallel to the floor. His jaw tightened, a sharp knot forming at the muscle.

"Pain scale?" I asked. "One to ten."

"Six."

I stared at him. "Try again."

He let out a short, defeated sigh. "Seven. High seven."

"Let's stick with the truth." I took his wrist, guiding the arm through a passive rotation. "Don't help me. Let me take the weight."

"Trying."

"Try harder."

His eyes followed my hands, tracking every movement. It was unsettlingly intense. I rotated the joint a fraction more, and a sharp, quiet hitch in his breath cut through the room. I immediately eased the pressure.

"You've irritated the rotator cuff," I said, stepping back to grab the manual lotion. "Probably a partial tear, but we'll need the ultrasound to be sure."

"We had three games in five days," he muttered, looking defensive. "I didn't exactly have a choice."

"You always make terrible decisions with this much confidence?"

"Usually, I don't have an audience."

"You think playing through an injury makes you look tough."

"No," he said, the banter completely dropping from his voice. "I think it's my job."

"And when the joint finally blows out?"

"Then I'll deal with it."

"Right. Good luck with that."

A brief shadow crossed his face, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

"Lie back," I instructed. I rubbed a bit of lotion into my palms, stepped up beside him, and placed one hand beneath his scapula to stabilize the joint while my fingers worked into the tight tissue.

"Jesus, Arthur," I muttered, pressing into the upper trapezius. "This is like concrete."

"Hey, I've had worse reviews."

"From a medical professional?"

"No," he murmured, a hint of the smirk returning.

"Relax."

"I am."

"No, you're bracing. I can literally feel the muscle fighting me."

"You can tell, huh?"

His quiet laugh died instantly as my thumb caught a trigger point near the anterior deltoid. His entire body went rigid against the table. I stopped immediately.

"Too much?"

He swallowed hard. "No. I'm fine."

"Then let it go."

"I'm trying, Lena."

Something about the tone of his voice made me pause. I still had my fingers pressed lightly against the side of his neck to steady myself, and beneath my fingertips, his pulse was absolutely racing. It didn't add up. Nothing I was doing was painful enough to trigger a cardiac spike like that.

I forced myself to ignore it and moved my hands lower, working carefully just beneath the clavicle.

Arthur inhaled sharply, a sudden, ragged sound.

I frowned, pausing. "Does it radiate there?"

"No."

"Then why the reaction?"

"Reflex," he said quickly. Too quickly.

"You're a terrible patient."

"Yeah. So I've been told."

I reached for the roll of kinesiology tape on the counter. "Sit up."

He pushed himself up to a sitting position.

"I'm taping the joint to take some of the pressure off," I said, measuring a strip against his skin. "But it's only going to work if you stop acting like you're invincible."

"I'll take it under advisement."

"No, you'll actually do it." Not that I cared if his arm fell off mid-game.

He tilted his head, watching me work. "Bossy."

"I'm your physical therapist."

"For now," he murmured.

I froze, the second strip of tape hovering in the air. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He looked at me for a long beat, his expression unreadable, before he shook his head. "Nothing. Forget it."

The silence stretched between us, heavy and thick, as I secured the final anchor strips.

"You're skipping meals," Arthur said quietly.

I snapped my head up. "Excuse me?"

"You're living on coffee again."

"Since when is my diet any of your business?"

"It isn't." He met my gaze, refusing to look away. "Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

I looked away first, snapping the cap back onto the lotion bottle. "You're done. Get dressed."

He rolled his shoulder cautiously, testing the tension of the tape. "Actually feels a bit better."

"Good."

"I have a full-skate practice tomorrow."

"You also have common sense."

I started organizing the counter, keeping my back to him while he pulled his shirt and jersey back on.

"Lena."

Against my better judgment, I turned around.

"You're really good at this," he said. The tone wasn't arrogant, It was just honest.

The unexpected sincerity caught me off guard, sending a strange jolt through my chest. "I don't need your approval, Arthur."

"I know you don't."

"Then keep it to yourself."

He gave a single, slow nod, picked up his hockey stick, and opened the door.

The head therapist, James, was standing right outside in the hallway, clipboard in hand. "There you are. How does the shoulder look, Lena?"

"Recoverable," I said, stepping out into the hall. "Assuming he actually follows the protocol."

James let out a loud laugh. "Well, good luck getting him to do that."

Arthur just shrugged, leaning against the doorframe.

Turning his attention back to his clipboard, flipping a page. "Alright, Pearson is going to need manual therapy and rehab three times a week until he's cleared for full contact." He looked up at me. "You'll be handling his recovery track."

I froze. "I'm sorry?"

"You've already done the initial assessment and the taping," Marcus said briskly. "Continuity of care is the best option for the team right now."

"I really think someone else on staff would be a better fit for-"

"No." His voice wasn't harsh, but it carried the finality of a director. "We need our best hand on this, Lena. He's our starting defenseman."

The protest died in my throat. I couldn't push it further without risking my standing with the clinic.

Arthur gripped his stick, a faint, entirely unreadable expression crossing his face as he looked at me.

"See you Thursday, Doc," he said quietly.

Then he turned and walked down the corridor. Three sessions a week. With the exact man I had spent the last three years trying to forget. And after less than thirty minutes in a room with him, I had the terrifying realization that keeping my distance was going to be completely impossible.