Page 14 of Offside for Christmas
Ellie didn't move. Didn't even shift her weight. She just looked up at him with those warm brown eyes that had gone absolutely glacial, and when she spoke, every word was precise and sharp as a skate blade.
"First, don't call me sweetheart. My name is Ellie, Dr. Winters if you're feeling formal, but never sweetheart. Second, you can glare at me all you want. You can try to intimidate me. You can throw whatever attitude you've got in your arsenal. I've handled bigger egos than yours, and I'm not impressed." She took a step closer, and somehow that made her seem taller. "Third, you're here because you screwed up in Chicago and nobody else wants you. This is your last chance, and we both know it. So you have two options: work with me, do the actual physical therapy, heal properly, and maybe salvage your career. Or call your agent and tell him you're retiring at twenty-eight because you were too stubborn to listen to the one person who's actually trying to help you."
The room was silent except for the hum of the heating system and Cole's slightly elevated breathing.
He stared at her. She stared back, unflinching.
And Cole realized, with something that felt uncomfortably like respect, that she wasn't afraid of him. Not even a little bit.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked finally, his voice rougher than he intended.
Something changed in Ellie's expression. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Show up every day. Do the work—the real work, not the half-assed version you've been doing. Be honest with me about your pain levels. And maybe lose the attitude." She moved back to her tablet. "Though I suspect that's asking too much."
"The attitude's part of the package."
"Then I guess we're both going to hate the next six weeks."
"Already do."
"Good." Ellie pulled up what looked like an exercise protocol. "Mutual understanding is important in a therapeutic relationship. Now, let's start with some basic mobility work. I need to see how you move before I can fix how you're broken."
The next forty-five minutes were, without exaggeration, some of the most frustrating of Cole's life.
Ellie put him through a series of exercises that looked deceptively simple—shoulder rotations, resistance band work, wall slides—and every single one of them hurt. Not the sharp, immediate pain of an injury, but the deep, grinding ache of muscles that had been compensating for too long, of a joint that wasn't moving the way it was supposed to.
And through it all, Ellie watched him like a hawk.
"You're favoring the left again," she said for what felt like the hundredth time.
"Because the right hurts," Cole gritted out, arms shaking as he held a resistance band at shoulder height.
"That's exactly why we're doing this. You need to push through the discomfort, not the pain. There's a difference."
"Feels the same to me."
"That's because you've been ignoring your body's signals for six weeks. Time to start listening." She demonstrated the movement herself—arms out, perfect form, making it look effortless. "Like this. See how my shoulders stay level? You're dipping your right side."
Cole tried again, hyperaware of her eyes on him, and managed to keep his shoulders even for about five seconds before the burning in his rotator cuff became too much.
"Better," Ellie said, which felt like high praise coming from her. "Again. Three more reps."
He did three more reps. Then five more after that. Then a completely different exercise that somehow hurt worse.
"You know hockey?" he asked during a brief water break, partly because he was curious and partly because he needed to think about something other than the fire in his shoulder.
"I know bodies," Ellie said, adjusting the tension on a resistance band. "The sport is just context. Hockey, football, basketball—mechanically, your shoulder works the same way regardless."
"That supposed to impress me?" Cole muttered.
"Not trying to impress you. Trying to fix you."
He raised a brow. "You talk like you’ve handled pros."
She didn’t look at him when she said, "I’ve handled worse than pros."
His focus sharpened. "Meaning?"
