Page 64 of Play For Me

The bus ride is uneventful.A lot of the girls have coursework to do—we’re missing class this afternoon and tomorrow—so things don’t get too rowdy. I try to focus on my own textbook, but it’s hard when I can hear her voice behind methe whole time. Cecelia doesn’t seem capable of sitting still for long. She bounces from seat to seat, chatting with teammates, going over game strategy with others. I even hear her helping a freshman, who seems kind of panicked about missing a lab tomorrow, with her Bio homework.

I almost have to laugh. It figures that I of all people would develop a ridiculously massive crush on the most extroverted person I’ve ever met.

We stop three times for bathroom breaks and a late lunch at Panera. I make sure to stay with the other trainers so I don’t do something stupid, like kiss the team captain in front of everyone.

We get busy again once we finally get to the hotel shortly after six. The players have some down time to get settled before their mobility session and team dinner, but the training staff has to get a conference room set up for stretching and treatments. So I follow my colleagues and start unloading everything we just loaded up this morning, and try hard not to think about Cecelia somewhere in this hotel, possibly lounging around on her bed.

The coaches run the mobility session in the hotel’s main ballroom while the training staff starts treatment on players who are rehabbing injuries or feel like they need some extra help. It doesn’t escape my attention that Cecelia never shows up.

I sit with the training staff during the catered team dinner, but I once again find my eyes following her whenever she gets up. This time, it has nothing to do with my ceaseless inappropriate thoughts. I continue to watch her during the team meeting, while the coaches show the girls game tape of their opponent and drone on and on about strategy.

Cecelia is in pain. She’s not limping, not quite, but there’s a definite tenderness in the way she puts weight on her left leg. The injured leg. It’s subtle. I don’t think anyone would notice it if they weren’t watching her as closely as I tend to do. Maybe my stupid obsession with her has its benefits.

I wait until the meeting finishes and most of her teammates are leaving before I call her out on it. I know I won’t get anywhere if I draw attention to her injury in front of the other girls—or, God forbid, her coaches. I don’t have to worry about her leaving before the others. Cecelia is usually the last person in any training room or on any practice field. The consummate captain.

“I was surprised not to see you in the treatment room earlier.”

It doesn’t escape my notice that she won’t meet my eye. “I felt like I needed the mobility session more,” she says.

“How about we go there now?” I press. “I’d like you to get some time with the foam roller.”

“Oh, I can do that in my room.” She tries to step around me, still not meeting my eye, but I get in her way.

“Cecelia. Let’s go to the treatment room.”

She lets out a long sigh and then turns on her heel, not saying a word as she stalks to the attached meeting room where the staff set up for treatment.

“Where do you want me?” she asks, voice clipped, arms crossed over her chest.

I gesture to the table. “Hop up. Let me check it.”

She pulls herself up with her arms to sit, instead of jumping up, and I pretend not to notice as I pull on my gloves, the simple barrier that helps me stay in “trainer mode” instead of the other place my mind wants to drift to whenever I see her outside of a treatment room.

I start at her quad, using slow, careful pressure. “Any pain here?”

“No.” Then she sighs. “Lower.”

I slide my hand down and feel heat around the knee joint. Swelling. It’s not bad, but it is noticeable.

“When did this start bothering you?”

For a second, I think she’s not going to answer me. She’s gone right back to that sullen, closed-off girl she’d been when we first started working together. Pissed off that someone noticed her pain and dared to call her on it.

“Cecelia,” I urge, and she exhales, some of the tension and anger slipping from her shoulders.

“I think it was sitting on the bus for so long,” she says, twisting her leg this way and that, wincing a little. “It got tight.” Her voice drops to a mumble. “And maybe a little swollen.”

“Muscle tightness and joint swelling sounds like the kind of thing you should tell your trainer about,” I point out. “You know, since he’s the guy who helps you with your stretchesandpacked about a hundred ice packs for this trip.”

She tries to glare at me, but there’s no real heat to it. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” she says. “Are you gonna help me, or not?”

“Of course I’m going to help you,” I say calmly. “I’ll always be here to help you. You can trust me. You should know that.”

She looks away, like she’s embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” I move her knee gently through flexion. “You sat for more than five hours. This is normal.”

I watch her face as I bend the knee a little more. No wince—good. “We’ll do some soft tissue work before I get you on the Game Ready.” I meet her eye. “Tell me if anything hurts. Don’t tough it out.”