Page 74 of Offside for Christmas
Matthews pulled up something on his tablet, showing it to Coach. "High-intensity plyometric assessment. Box jump followed by an immediate lateral explosive movement. It's what we use with the Bruins to separate players who are truly ready from those who are just 'good enough.'"
Ellie's blood ran cold. "That's reckless. His stabilizing muscles aren't conditioned for that level of explosive impact yet. He's ready forgameconditions—skating, shooting, checking. Not experimental stress tests designed to prove a point."
"It's not experimental. It's standard in elite facilities." Matthews's tone was so reasonable, so condescending. "But ifyou're not comfortable with advanced assessment techniques, I understand. This is probably outside your scope of practice."
The dismissal in his voice made something snap inside her. But before she could respond, Cole spoke up.
"I'll do it."
"Cole—" Ellie started.
"I'll do the test." His eyes were hard, his jaw set. "I'm ready. Let's prove it."
"Cole, you don't need to prove anything—"
"Yes, I do." He looked at Matthews. "Set it up."
Ellie wanted to argue, wanted to put her foot down, but Coach was nodding, and Matthews was already moving equipment, and Cole had that stubborn set to his shoulders that meant he'd made up his mind.
Matthews grabbed a medicine ball—twelve pounds, Ellie noted with growing dread, heavier than necessary for someone still in recovery—and positioned Cole about ten feet from the wall.
"Simple overhead power test," Matthews explained, all confidence. "Explosive overhead throw against the wall, catch the rebound, repeat for ten reps. Tests shoulder power, stability, and dynamic control under load."
"This is unnecessary," Ellie said quietly. "He's not cleared for ballistic movements yet—"
"Noted." Matthews stepped back. "Whenever you're ready, Cole."
Cole moved into position, gripping the medicine ball. Ellie could see the determination in every line of his body.
"Cole, please—" she tried one more time.
He met her eyes. Trust me.
Then he raised the ball overhead and threw.
The first throw was decent—powerful enough, controlled. The ball hit the wall and rebounded. Cole caught it, absorbing the impact, then immediately reset for the second throw—
And that's when it happened.
The acceleration phase of the throw stressed his shoulder at the worst possible angle. His rotator cuff seized, and Ellie saw the moment the pain hit—his face contorted, the ball left his hands off-target, and his right arm dropped immediately to his side.
He stumbled backward, his left hand instinctively reaching for his right shoulder.
"Cole!" Ellie was moving before she'd even processed it, professional training kicking into overdrive.
"I'm fine—" Cole started, but his voice was strained.
"You're not fine. Sit." She guided him to the table, her hands already assessing, palpating the shoulder with practiced efficiency. "Where's the pain?"
"Anterior deltoid. Sharp." He winced as she pressed. "Fuck."
Ellie's fingers moved systematically, checking joint integrity, testing range, assessing inflammation. Her mind was racing through possibilities, diagnoses, treatment protocols.
"It's not the joint," she said after a moment, relief and fury warring in her chest. "Minor deltoid strain from the impact. The muscle wasn't conditioned for that level of explosive stabilization yet because it didn't need to be—game conditions don't require plyometric box jumps."
She turned to Matthews, her voice cold and precise. "This is exactly why my protocol works. We build the foundation before testing the roof. You don't test a recovering joint with experimental stress that won't occur in actual gameplay. He was ready for Saturday. Completely ready. Ready to skate, to shoot, to take checks and give them back. Now, because of your recklesstest, he needs at least a week of rest and anti-inflammatories. You didn't accelerate his recovery. You just delayed it."
Matthews's confidence had evaporated. "I was just following standard—"
