Page 100 of Bleacher Report
In the locker room, Kendall doesn’t waste time.
"Sit down," she orders, already snapping on a pair of gloves.
I drop onto the bench, grinding my teeth as she examines my arm.
"This is going to suck," she says almost kindly.
"No shit," I grunt.
Before I can brace myself, she grabs, twists, and with a brutal pop, my shoulder slides back into place.
I grunt out a curse, sweat beading on my forehead, but I don’t black out.
Small miracles.
"The good news, I think your shoulder is going to be fine, but I want to see you tomorrow before early morning skate. We’ll take X-rays if something seems off tonight. The bad news…you’re out for the rest of the game," Kendall says, her tone leaving no room for argument.
"I can play," I snap, already trying to stand. Somehow proving to Kendall that I’m ready to get back out there.
But she’s a hard ass as the Hawkeyes doctor, and she doesn’t let anyone push her around.
"You can’t," Coach Wrenley says from behind her, arms crossed. "She’s the doctor here. If she says you’re done, you’re done."
I glare at both of them, breathing hard, but deep down, I know they’re right.
Still. Doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.
Kendall tapes me up quickly and efficiently, hands steady.
"Practice tomorrow," she says quietly. "Come see me first thing. I want to reevaluate it after you’ve iced it all night."
I nod stiffly.
It’s not good for my shoulder, but not career-ending.
I’ll take it.
Back on the bench, I watch my team.
I sit on the far end, shoulder throbbing under the ice pack tucked into my jersey.
The guys are gassed, scrambling for any chance to pull ahead. Every shift, every shot, I want to be out there helping. Instead, I sit and watch.
My eyes drift up into the crowd.
Peyton’s sitting again, but she's wringing her hands, her eyes locked on me, her eyebrows downturned with concern like she’s willing me not to fall apart.
Something in my chest squeezes tight.
Bethany used to hate coming to games unless there was press coverage involved. Whereas Peyton’s here for me. Not the team—not the win.
I can see it in the way she’s not watching anything but me across the ice—concern in her eyes, her fingers clamped together tight, almost like she’s praying for me to be okay.
We lose three to five.
No one’s fault. We played hard, and so did they. But the weight of it feels crushing. Another uneasy feeling that Everett could have a reason to trade me. Especially if this injury is worse than Kendall thinks it is.
The buzzer sounds, and I skate out for the handshake line. I’ve played with or against most of these guys over the years, and respect for their hard-fought win is how it’s done.
