Page 14 of Body Check

seven

. . .

Amelia

Work settles into a routine. This is my third hockey team; I’ve got the basics down. Each morning, I meet with Derek, the head athletic trainer, Dr. Hudson, the team orthopedist, and Trevor, the rehabilitation director, plus the two other PTs, Zac and Graham.

Is it unnerving being the only female on the team? A little. But I grew up with a single father and a brother. I’ve always thrived in male-dominated environments, and I’m not about to let something as simple as nerves get in my way. If it takes sheer spite to succeed in this world, by damn, I’ll do it.

We go over the known injuries on the team, the things we’re watching out for, and Trevor gives us directions. For the most part, I have flexibility to assign my patients exercises, but all the PTs have to run our long-term treatment plans past him. It’s not personal, even if being micro-managed rankles. At least it’s all three of us and not just me being singled out.

Dr. Hudson heads back to his clinic—he comes in for our daily meeting, and then examines anyone who needs seeing to before returning to his daily gig. Trevor goes back to his desk. Derek divvies up the caseload between me, Zac, and Graham.

Larsson is usually my first patient of the day. His right ankle is bugging him, and he likes to get it worked on before morning skate, and then focus on strength training and recovery. He can skate through the pain, but it still needs a bit of attention.

The quiet Swede is a joy to work on. He flinches when I touch him, so I make sure to warm my hands first, and then he does the exercises I select without griping. If only all my patients were as amenable as him.

After Larsson, my morning is a flurry of activity. Reynolds, Jenkins, and Sinclair all get treatments, and I’m just typing up the notes on Henry’s shoulder when there’s a knock on the door. Zac is on the ice with MacGregor and Graham is taking a coffee break, so I’m alone for once.

“Hm?” I glance over my shoulder at the noise, and then freeze.

Jason McKittrick is in the doorway, a stricken look on his face. For such a bold man, I’m surprised he’s so skittish around me.

“How can I help you?” I ask, putting aside my work tablet.

“My, uh, knee. It’s sore.”

“Hop on up.” I pat the exam table, pulling a fresh sheet of paper over it, and then grab a new pair of gloves.

McKittrick looks at me, then at the table, and then back to me. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I can wait for someone else.”

Hands on my hips, I glare at him. “Do you have a problem with me working on you?”

His throat bobs as he swallows. “No?”

“Because it seems like you do.”

“I don’t,” he says quickly. “It’s only…”

“What?” Is this because he’s seen me naked?

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he finally says.

“Right now, you’re just pissing me off,” I mutter under my breath. I pat the table again. “Come on, let me work out your issue and get you on your way.”

And out of my way.

He grunts as he steps up onto the table, stretching out. Even with our extra-long exam tables, he hangs off the edge. After all, he is the tallest player on the team at six-foot-six.

I start with a visual inspection. The skin isn’t broken or bruised; no acute injury. Leading with a soft tissue massage, I palpate the knee, watching his face closely for any hint of pain.

McKittrick grimaces when I touch him, and instead of backing off, I go deeper. His soft grunt gives me immense satisfaction.

“It’s your osteoarthritis,” I tell him. “We can get it straightened out.”

“Great. Awesome,” he grunts, as I continue to stimulate the area. “How about now?”

Finishing my exam, I offer him a hand, and he swings into an upright position. I take a seat on my stool and pick up my tablet, flicking to his file.