Pucking Around: Chapter 39

Doctor Price is wrapped around me, the curve of her thighs tucked above my hip bones. The weight of her pressed so close has me wholly distracted. Her warm breath fans across the back of my neck. I’m fighting the urge to throw her across the room…or flip her down to the mats and tuck her under me and—

I groan, shaking my head. If we stay like this much longer, I won’t be able to hide the effect she has on me. I relax my body and she relaxes hers. Slowly, I loosen my grip on her arms and she slides herself down my back, dropping down to the mats.

She steps away from me, leaving me swaying on my feet. I rub my face with my hand, smoothing it over my beard with a soft groan.

“So,” she says, breathless. “Umm…is that a yes? Will you let me help you?”

I turn around, meeting her gaze for the first time without the crutch of the mirror. “You have no idea the pressure I’m under.”

“I know about the Olympic scouts,” she replies, crossing her arms under her breasts. She’s wearing a teal Rays polo with black leggings, her hair up in a knot like mine. A few dark tendrils frame her face. I want to brush them back. My hand twitches with it. I curl it into a fist, holding it at my side.

It’s not like playing injured never happens. You could ask any player on this team, and they’ll point to at least one part of their body causing them pain. It’s all about balance. How injured can you be and still perform? I’ve played with broken fingers, a bruised rib, a mild concussion—

“Ilmari,” she murmurs, her hand brushing my forearm. “Hockey isn’t the only thing that matters, you know.”

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 a doctor, 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 carry everyone—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.”

“I am alone! 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 to live. 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 are short. Life is long!”

I don’t want to hear this now. I can’t hear 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 means everything to 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. My last chance. 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 be so much worse than that, Mars. We could be dealing with hip flexor pulls, a labral tear, bursitis. You could need surgery—”

“Okay,” I soothe, placing my hand on her shoulder. “Just breathe.”

She jerks away. “Just breathe? Are you kidding? You’re trying to calm me down when you’re the one with an injury you won’t let me properly treat!”

“It doesn’t hurt off the ice,” I say. “And I’ve been compensating in the net, not using butterfly as much. Too wide a stretch with my right leg hurts, so I’ve been gravitating to my left post. That way I can push off with my left to reach the right post. I think it’s working. It’s—”

“It’s madness,” she snaps. “You can’t just guard half your damn net and hope nobody notices.”

We both go quiet. Her seething. Me waiting.

Slowly, she takes another calming breath. “Okay, I can’t deal with this right now. I’m starving and I need caffeine. Here’s what we’ll do.” She points a finger at me. “You’re gonna take me to lunch somewhere away from prying eyes and ears. You’re gonna feed me, and get me some caffeine, and then we’re gonna come up with a plan.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Because I’m not gonna let you do this alone for another minute. Do you hear me? Everyone in this building gets to care about the game first, including you. But I don’t. You are my priority, Mars. Your health. Your wellbeing. We’re gonna figure this out.”

I watch her walk away, my gaze on the gentle sway of her hips. My roiling emotions are shredding me open. No doctor has ever put me first. It’s always about the needs of the game. You’re in this business too long, you start to feel like a cog in a big machine, utterly replaceable.

With one impassioned speech, this doctor has ripped me from the machine and put me in the safety of her hand. She’s fierce. My dark-haired lioness.

“Leijona,” I mutter under my breath.

I have no choice but to trust her now. And she’s taking a risk too. She’s as much in the safety of my hand as I am in hers. I’ll tell her everything. I’ll keep her safe. I vow it now: Rachel Price won’t regret helping me.

“Rachel,” I call after her.

She turns at the door, one hand on the push bar.

“Thank you,” I say softly, feeling my breath coming easier for the first time in weeks.

Her eyes narrow at me. “You better not make me regret this, Kinnunen. Now, let’s go. I’m about to scarf down the biggest plate of chicken wings you’ve ever seen.”

Mun leijona. I follow her with a smile.