Page 139 of Pucking Around

We stopped by the hotel first, leaving our bags at the front desk. Then she made us run by a coffee shop. She said if she had to face Halla again without caffeine reinforcements, she might be spending the night in jail.

“Here’s how this will go,” she says, her eyes narrowed at him, travel cup of coffee firmly in hand. “You’ll perform a physical exam. And we want X-rays and an MRI. If we confirm it’s a labral tear, I want—”

“You expect me to administer a cortisone shot to ease pain in the joint,” he says, clearly annoyed. “I know, Price. This ismypractice, remember?” He glances to me. “What do I get in return?”

She inches in front of me, shoulders squared at her former boss. “You get the warm and fuzzy feeling of knowing you weren’t a total fucking asshole to my injured patient,” she replies for me.

The corner of his mouth quirks like he’s impressed. I’m not surprised. She’s a lioness. And she’smine. I don’t even bother fighting the urge to inch closer to her.

“And the dinner you promised?” he says, glancing between us.

She scoffs. “Oh my god, will you stop saying it like that? I never promised you a dinner with Ilmari. You were the one who suggested it. I just thought you were trying to be a nice fucking person. I didn’t know a seafood dinner would come with so many strings attached.”

“We will go to dinner,” I say, my fingers brushing down the small of her back. I really don’t want to have to pry her off him when she decides to scratch his eyes out.

She relaxes slightly, flexing her shoulders. She takes the smallest of steps back towards me, her shoulder brushing against my chest.

He glances between us, his smile spreading. “Fine. We are agreed.”

We spendthe rest of the afternoon at the clinic. Halla performs a full physical exam, including stress tests and range of motion exercises. He has me walk and run on a treadmill before I show him my pre-game stretching routine. When I attempt a full split, the pain in my right hip is enough to have me groaning.

“Okay, that’s enough,” says Rachel, stepping in. “We don’t want to make any tears worse.”

“Agreed,” Halla mutters. “I’ve ordered the additional tests.”

Hours later, I’ve survived a series of X-rays and a kind of MRI that involved inserting dye into my hip joint. It’s nearly five o’clock by the time Halla returns. “His scans are ready,” he says, his eyes on Rachel. “Would you like to consult with me, Doctor Price?”

She bolts out of her chair, setting her bag of pretzels and diet soda aside. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“I want to see them too,” I say, rising to my feet.

“You’re not a doctor, son,” he says in Finnish.

“It’s my body,” I reply. “And I’m not your son.”

“English,” she interjects, giving me a scowl.

“Fine. Come with me, both of you,” he says in English.

He leads us down the hall to an imaging room and shows Rachel scans of my hip. They talk quietly, pointing to various parts of the black and white images. They don’t seem concerned. Rachel just nods as he talks, her dark brows narrowed in concentration.

“Here’s what you need to see,” he says gesturing to a new image on the screen.

“There it is,” she murmurs, sighing with relief as she leans in, her finger tracing over the ball joint of my hip. “Mars, come here.” She takes my hand to pull me closer. “Look here. See this dark spot? That’s the tear in your labrum.”

I narrow my eyes, noticing a little black dot in a strip of white that coats the ball of my hip joint. I’ve been in this sport long enough to know the dangers of a labral tear. It’s a common injury for goalies, but it’s a first for me.

“It’s small,” Halla adds. “I don’t think it needs surgery to repair it. Not yet, at least.”

“I agree,” she murmurs. “Will you do the cortisone injection?”

“Yes, that should give him some relief.” He turns to me. “Your hip is already on its own way to recovery. And I don’t like doing procedures when I don’t have to. You need to moderate your physical activity while you heal. Do nothing to risk that hip. Compensate on the ice as much as possible. I trust Price to supervise.”

She nods, the look of determination on her face telling me there’ll be no escaping her now.

“You should sit out at least a week of practice and games if you can,” he adds. “If the corticosteroid gives you relief, and your pain feels managed, you can play. If it gets worse, get more scans. We may need to go in arthroscopically and do the repair.”

“How long would that take me off the ice?” I say, my gaze still fixed on that tiny black dot on my scan.

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