Page 17 of Offside for Christmas
But apparently, three days of Cole Hansen was enough to crack that carefully constructed facade.
She grabbed her coat and her keys.
If he thought he could just blow off physical therapy because he was too important or too proud or too whatever to show up, he had another thing coming.
The drive to O'Brien's Pub took exactly ninety seconds—one of the perks of living in a town where everything was seven blocks from everything else. Ellie parked in the loading zone (she'd move it if she got a ticket; this wouldn't take long), marched around to the side entrance that led to the upstairs apartments, and climbed the narrow staircase two steps at a time.
Apartment 2B. End of the hall.
She pounded on the door with the side of her fist. Hard.
Nothing.
She pounded again. "Hansen! Open the door!"
Rustling sounds from inside. A muffled curse. The shuffle of footsteps.
The door opened, and Ellie's brain momentarily short-circuited.
Cole Hansen stood in the doorway in nothing but gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair sticking up in about seventeen different directions, eyes still heavy with sleep, and an expression that said he'd been dragged unwillingly from unconsciousness and wasn't happy about it.
No shirt. Just abs and the kind of shoulders that came from a lifetime of professional athletics. And that scar on his rightshoulder—angry and red and somehow making the rest of him look even more—
Stop it. Focus. You're angry at him.
"What the hell—" Cole started, his voice rough with sleep.
Ellie pushed past him into the apartment before he could finish the sentence. "You missed PT."
"I overslept." He scrubbed a hand over his face, squinting at her like she was an unexpected natural disaster. "What time is it?"
"Eight twenty. Your session started at eight." Ellie looked around the apartment, taking in the details. There were duffel bags still packed against the wall, the empty surfaces, the complete lack of anything personal except a single photo frame on the windowsill. "You set an alarm?"
"...No."
"Of course you didn't." She turned to face him, taking in the details of the apartment. There were duffel bags still packed against the wall, the empty surfaces, the complete lack of anything personal except a single photo frame on the windowsill. "You haven't even unpacked. You've been here three days."
Cole moved to one of the duffel bags and pulled out his phone, squinting at the screen. The movement made him wince—shoulder still bothering him, good—and when he looked up, his expression had shifted from sleepy to irritated.
"I don't see how that's your business."
"It's my business when my patient doesn't take his recovery seriously enough to show up on time!" Ellie heard her voice rising and tried to rein it in. Professional. Calm. "Cole, we had an appointment—"
"It's eight in the morning. In December. In Vermont." He moved past her toward the kitchenette, opened a cabinet, and stared at the two mismatched mugs and single box of coffee likethey'd personally offended him. "Nobody should be functional at eight in the morning in December."
"The rest of the team was at practice at six AM. Mac, Luke, Jamie, Tyler—they all showed up. You're not special."
"I'm not on the team yet." Cole turned to look at her, and there was something sharp in his eyes now. "You won't clear me, remember? So technically, I don't have to follow their schedule."
"Because you keep missing sessions!" Ellie threw up her hands, and there went her professional composure completely. "How am I supposed to evaluate your progress if you don't show up? How am I supposed to design an effective treatment plan if you can't be bothered to—"
"I had a late night, okay?" Cole's voice had an edge now. "I'm sorry I'm not on your perfect little schedule."
"Doing what? Sulking in your unpacked apartment?"
The words came out harsher than she'd intended, and she saw Cole's expression close off immediately. Walls slamming down. Defenses activating.
"Excuse me?"
