Page 39 of Moms of Mayhem
My attention snapped up to the screen, and I frowned at Frankie. “Who?”
“A woman in town was a physical therapist for a clinic back in New England, working with a buddy of mine. He swears up and down she’s great and can do the in-person checks for me. We can probably knock two birds out here too and have her check on your mom’s recovery when she’s out of rehab.”
“Who?” I asked again, racking my brain for anyone that fit that bill. As far as I knew, we didn’t have any PTs in Linwood. It was a small town, but I’d also been gone for a long time.
“Emily Meyers,” Frankie said, and I let out a sharp laugh. “Goes by Emmy, I think.”
I scrubbed a hand across my face, then pinched the bridge of my nose. Of course it was fucking Emmy.
“Problem, kid?” Frankie asked.
I looked up to see every single face on the screen studying me. Gavin’s little face stared daggers at me, looking like he was about to blow a gasket.
“Nope.” I popped the P, trying to think through how I was going to go about avoiding Emmy when I was contractually required to see her daily.
"Good,” Dr. Carter said. “You’re working on everything Frankie went over before you left town last week?"
“Yes, I’ve been keeping up my stretches like you showed me.”
“Great,” Frankie said. “Just remember you’re five weeks out of hip surgery, not auditioning for Cirque du Dumbass. Nothing risky.”
Dr. Carter let out a snort, then held up a hand in apology.
Frankie barreled on, immune to everyone laughing at his odd quips. “Apparently Emmy owns a Pilates studio in Linwood now. Starting next week, let’s add some Pilates into your rehab. It’s excellent for stabilizing the core and reactivating those deep hip and pelvic muscles.”
My brows hit my hairline. “Pilates?”
“That’s a great idea.” Dr. Carter pointed at the screen, and suddenly I hated that he and Frankie seemed to be on the same team. “If you start with mat work, I’ve seen it work wonders with athletes post-op.”
Frankie nodded. “We’re aiming for precision and control, not reps. If you’re compensating or shaking, you’re doing too much.”
I nodded slowly, still trying to picture myself in a Pilates studio. “But?—”
Frankie didn’t even slow his stride. “The only ‘but’ I want to hear is yourson the Pilates mat,doing your clamshells like God intended.”
Several of the people on the screen chuckled. One even wheezed. I just sighed like a scolded puppy, keeping my thoughts to myself.
“Depending on how you’re doing at your next physical,we’ll add some light resistance work in the next week,” Dr. Carter went on, “but still no skating or running.”
"When can I get back on the ice?"
“If everything stays on track, maybe around week 12. No contact drills until closer to 16 or 20. We’ll reassess as we go.” Dr. Carter stood and gave me a firm look. “Stay smart and we can get you back in time for the Stanley Cup, if the Yeti make it that far without you.”
“Sooner,” I said through gritted teeth. “I need to be back for playoffs.”
“You try to shortcut this, Conway,” Frankie said, and I glanced up at the screen to see him leaning in, “and the only thing you’ll be back for is a second surgery and a front-row seat in a suit.”
He raised a brow, waiting a beat to let his words sink in. “You don’t rehab faster by cutting corners. You rehab faster by not screwing it up.”
I opened my mouth, ready to argue, but Coach Tremblay cut me off before I could say a word.
“You heard them, Conway. Follow Dr. Carter’s instructions, do your clamshells like a man, and stop pretending your hip isn’t ready to send you into retirement if you don’t listen.”
I scowled at the screen, but Gavin’s wide-eyed expression and flared nostrils reminded me I didn’t have much leeway here. “Fine.”
Frankie gave me a look that was a mixture of pride and exasperation. "Good. I’ll see you back here in a week. Don’t make me send a team of clamshells to your house."
“That’s not even a thing,” I mumbled, sounding an awful lot like the teenager I’d dropped off at school afew hours ago.
