Page 137 of Over the Line

“I’m good.” I winced as I shifted in my seat, trying like hell to find a comfortable position. “My back’s still pissed off about last night.”

“Man,” Temo growled from beside Craws. “I should’ve kicked his ass for that.”

I shrugged tightly, which hurt like hell. “Eh. It wasn’t that bad. I just landed weird, I think.”

“Still. It’s the principle of it. You touch the goalie, you get your ass kicked. You dent the captain, you swallow your teeth.” He shook his fist. “That’s the rule.”

My teammates within earshot all nodded and murmured their agreement.

I just chuckled. Dirty hit or not, I appreciated the protectiveness.

What I did not appreciate was my body relentlessly punishing me for it. I’d taken hundreds of hits and tumbles in my career, and I’d always—or, well, more often than not—bounced back with no issue. Even as I’d gotten older and my body had become less forgiving, a collision like that didn’t usually mess me up.

Something about last night, though—fuck.

With a defeated sigh, I turned to Barns. “Can you grab my bag out of the overhead?”

“No problem.” He undid his seat belt, got up, and pulled my backpack out of the bin. As he handed it over, he asked, “You want me to see if the flight attendants can get you some ice?”

I shook my head as I unzipped the bag. “Nah. This should help.” I reached in and produced a tennis ball.

Craws, Temo, and Barns all nodded, and Barns shut the bin and sat down again. We all kept tennis balls and similar things in our carry-on for times like this; one of our old trainers had taught us the trick, and we’d all taken it to heart.

Grimacing from the movement, I tried to tuck the tennis ball behind my back, but the spot I needed was too damn high.

Barns furrowed his brow. “You want me to…?”

I nodded and handed him the ball. “Between my shoulder and my spine. Left side.” I leaned forward, and he put the ball behind my back. “Down a little. Down. Right—yes. Right there.”

He let go, and I leaned back against the ball, pressing it hard into the angry muscle. It hurt like hell, but that was the process—dig it in and press on the sore spot until it started to relax. Which it would. Eventually. Theoretically.

“Thanks, man,” I croaked.

“Don’t mention it.” Concern was still etched all over his face. “You sure you’re good?”

“I’m fine.” I was… mostly. It wasn’t an injury, per se. Nothing that would keep me off the ice. It was just a bunch of muscle spasms, and they hurt.

I wouldn’t admit out loud under torture that an icepack probably would’ve helped. The truth was I hated putting ice on my back. My neck, my knee, my hip—fine. But something about putting something cold against my back was just—no. Absolutely the fuck not. Though if one of the trainers clocked that I was in this much pain, they might not give me a choice, the sadistic bastards.

C’mon, stupid ball. Work your magic.

“You sure you’re okay, captain?” Craws watched me, forehead creased with worry. “Did you fuck up your back last night?”

“I’m good,” I insisted. “Comes with age.”

“Aww, fuck.” Drizz scowled across the aisle at us. “Is that what we have to look forward to when we’re as old as you?”

I flipped him off. “If you live that long, kid. And that is not a guarantee at this point.”

He just laughed. “Yeah? How you gonna beat me up when you can’t move?”

I arched an eyebrow. “Just wait until I’m not in pain.”

Craws whistled. “Drizz, man, you are cruisin’ for a bruisin’. I would not tempt the captain.”

Drizz chuckled, but he wisely stopped pushing, and we all resumed our various card games.

I played some of my worst ever games of Hearts on that flight, mostly because I was so focused on getting this knot out of my back. Instead of getting better, though, it was moving up into my shoulders and my neck, and creeping down into my lower back. That was how it always happened—one muscle started bitching, and the pain spread like white-hot kudzu until everything hurt.