Page 76 of Pucking Around

The soft hum of music has my ears pricking up in interest. I follow the sound as it gets louder. God, it’s intense, some kind of death metal. They’re shredding the guitars as a man with a deep voice growls and shrieks into his mic.

I turn the corner into the stretching studio and pause in the doorway. Only one row of lights is on, giving the room a dark, cozy feel. It’s framed in with mirrors on three sides, and a range of stretching tools are stacked on racks by the door—balance balls of various sizes, rubber bands, weighted medicine balls, straps, rollers.

But my eyes focus on the man in the middle of the room. Ilmari is alone on the mats, down on all fours, hips pulsing to the beat of the music. I know what he’s doing, it’s a groin muscle strengthening exercise. All the players do it. But I’m not gonna lie, watching Ilmari Kinnunen doing it alone in the dark feels almost pornographic.

He glances up and our gazes catch in the mirror. “Mitä helvettiä,” he curses, pausing the music as he pops up to his knees. “What are you doing in here?”

His back is to me, so I’m holding his stormy gaze in the mirror. The silence between us is deafening. “Looking for you,” I admit.

“You found me,” he mutters. “But I would like my privacy.”

I nod, crossing my arms as I lean against the open doorway, not leaving. “Show me.”

He raises a brow. “What?”

“Your stretching routine. Show it to me.”

“You’re not my physical therapist.”

My mouth curves into a smile. “Maybe not…but I amaphysical therapist. I have degrees in kinesiology and sports medicine, an M.D., and a license to practice physical therapy. I specialize in sports injuries to the hip and knee, and I’ve spent the last two years working at one of the top private sport rehab centers in the country. I’m not asking to watch you hump the mats because it turns me on, Kinnunen. I’m telling you, as a trained doctor paid by this team to protect the players to show me your damn stretching routine.”

Our stand-off continues as his reflection glares at me in the mirror.

I inch further into the room, kicking the door wedge out. The glass door whooshes softly shut behind me. His eyes track my movement. “I’m going to ask a few questions now,” I murmur. “You answer if you feel like it, okay?”

He makes no reply. He’s wearing a Rays tech shirt and a pair of Nike shorts. His trainers are the team style with his number embroidered on the heel: No. 31. He’s acting like prey, but we both know that’s not true. He’s all predator all the time. Three times my size and nothing but muscle. And I’ve cornered him. The fox has the bear on his guard. One wrong step, and he’ll eat me alive.

“On a scale from 0-10, what is your current pain level?”

He swallows, his eyes darkening. “Four.”

I nod. “And during your last game…what was your pain level then?”

“Eight.”

“Is the pain isolated to any specific spot?”

“Yes.”

I drop down cross-legged to the mats behind him. I let my eye trace the broad roundness of his shoulder, down his cut back to his hips. “Which side is it?”

Slowly, he shifts his hand, his palm splaying over his right hip.

I nod. I knew it had to be the hip. He wouldn’t be so casually perched on his knees if he was having meniscus or ACL pain at an eight. “How long?” I say, holding his reflection’s gaze.

“A while.”

“Goddamn it,” I mutter. “Have you told anyone? Or have you just been lying and compensating on your own?”

He says nothing, which is answer enough.

“Will you let me examine you?”

“No.”

I grit my teeth, frustration flashing across my expression in the mirror. “Mars, you—”

“I said no,” he snaps, snatching up his phone and getting to his feet. “I’m fine, and this conversation never happened.”

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