Page 7 of Offside for Christmas
"I'll do my job," she said, which wasn't a yes but wasn't a no either. "If he shows up, follows the protocol, and actually puts in the work, his shoulder will heal. If he doesn't, that's on him."
"Fair enough." Mac headed for the door, then paused. "Hey, El? For what it's worth? You're allowed to not fix everything. Sometimes broken things are supposed to stay broken."
He left before she could ask if he was still talking about Cole Hansen or about something else entirely.
After practice, Coach Davies called Ellie into his office.
The space was exactly what you'd expect from a man who'd been coaching hockey for thirty years: cluttered withplaybooks, motivational posters that were definitely older than Ellie, a coffee maker that should probably be classified as a fire hazard, and approximately six dozen photos of past teams covering every available surface.
"Sit," Coach said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
Ellie sat, coffee in hand, and waited. She'd known Coach Davies since she was twenty-three and had just finished her doctorate in physical therapy. He'd given her a chance when most teams wanted someone with more experience, more credentials, more everything. She'd spent the last four years proving he'd made the right call.
"You read Hansen's file?" Coach asked without preamble.
"Cover to cover. Separated shoulder, grade two AC joint injury, cleared by Chicago's medical team six weeks post-injury." Ellie pulled out her phone and opened her notes app. "But Coach, something's off. The range of motion numbers they reported don't match the injury timeline. A grade two separation typically takes eight to twelve weeks to heal properly with consistent PT. He was cleared at six."
"Your gut telling you something?"
"My gut's telling me he either healed impossibly fast, or someone's lying."
Coach leaned back in his chair, which protested with a loud creak. "Find out which."
"That's the plan. I've scheduled his evaluation for tomorrow at eight. Full assessment—range of motion, strength testing, pain response, the works. If he's hiding something, I'll find it."
"Good." Coach's expression softened slightly. "But Ellie? Careful with this one."
"Careful how?"
"He's got a reputation. I'm not just talking about the bar fight. Word around the league is he's..." Coach paused, choosing his words carefully. "Difficult. Closed off. Pushes people away. Idon't want you getting caught in the crossfire if he decides to be an asshole."
"I can handle difficult patients, Coach. I've been doing this for four years."
"I know you can. But there's difficult, and then there's Hansen-level difficult." Coach pulled up something on his computer and turned the screen toward her. It was a scouting report, the kind teams passed around when evaluating potential trades. Under "Character Concerns," there were at least a dozen bullet points. "Guy's burned bridges at every team he's played for. Doesn't get along with coaches. Fights with teammates. The bar incident was just the final straw."
Ellie scanned the report, her professional mask firmly in place even as something uncomfortable twisted in her stomach. She'd worked with difficult athletes before—the ones who thought they knew better than medical staff, who skipped appointments, who played through injuries because their ego couldn't handle being benched.
But this felt different. This felt personal.
"I'll be professional," she said, meeting Coach's eyes. "Whatever his issues are, they're his to deal with. My job is to get his shoulder functional. That's it."
"That's all I'm asking." Coach closed the laptop. "And Ellie? If he gives you any grief—any at all—you come to me. I didn't bring him here to make your life harder."
"Why did you bring him here?"
Coach was quiet for a beat. "Because everyone deserves a second chance. Even the ones who've burned through their first five chances already."
Ellie left the facility at six PM, drove the three minutes to Main Street, and parked in front of Winters & Co., her parents' bakery.
The smell hit her the moment she opened the door—cinnamon, vanilla, fresh bread, and the particular sweetness of her mother's famous gingerbread cookies. It smelled like home. Like childhood. Like every Christmas memory she'd ever had.
"Ellie-bear!" Her mother emerged from the back, flour dusting her apron and a smudge of frosting on her cheek. At fifty-three, Caroline Winters looked essentially the same as she had when Ellie was a kid—round face, warm brown eyes, perpetual smile. "Try this new recipe."
Before Ellie could protest, a still-warm gingerbread cookie was pressed into her hand.
She took a bite. Perfect. Obviously. Her mother's cookies were always perfect.
"It's incredible, Mom."
