Page 17 of Offside

“I’m going to keep saying that.”

“I figured as much.” A low chuckle escaped his lips.

I huffed out a small laugh and continued.

I worked deeper, following the restriction, and he stopped talking. The treatment room had that silence that happened when two people were both working hard at being quiet.

“How’s that feel?”

He rolled the shoulder experimentally. “Better.”

“That’s twenty minutes of work you could have had two weeks ago.”

“I hear you.”

“I wonder sometimes.” I moved back to his side, back to a distance that was slightly more manageable, and pressed along the anterior capsule. He was watching the wall again. I watched my hands. “Does it actually land, or do you hear me and file it somewhere?”

“It lands.”

“Two weeks, Ryan.”

“It won’t be two weeks next time.” He said it with a quiet certainty that made me believe it was true.

I finished the work, stepped back, and came around to face him. He was watching me directly now, not the wall, and I’d been right about what I’d felt in this room. It was all over his face for about two seconds before he tucked it away. Careful containment.

I wrote some things down and handed him the exercise sheet because it gave me something to do with my hands besides put them back on him.

He was still shirtless in the most distracting way possible, but I soldiered on. I crossed my arms and met his gaze, commanding his attention. “Ryan. The guys follow your lead,” I said. “If you come in early, they come in early. If they see you grinding through it⁠—”

“They grind through it.” He gave a resigned sigh and a tight nod. “Yeah. You’re right. I know.”

“I know you know. I’m saying it anyway.” I softened my tone as I picked up on his self-reflection taking the shape of disappointment. In himself? “Griffin called it pathological self-sufficiency.”

A line appeared at the corner of his eye. Genuine amusement breaking through. “Griffin said this?”

“He volunteered it. Unsolicited.” I tilted my head. “It seems to me he’s described you very accurately.”

“That’s unsettling.”

“He’s known you since college. He’s got a lot of material.” I nodded at the exercise sheet. “Monday. Come back and I’ll check progress.”

He read the sheet then looked back up at me.

“You’re going to be annoying about this,” he said the lilt of a question in his tone.

“Relentlessly,” I agreed with a growing smile. “That’s the job.” I raised my eyebrows at him.

He watched me for a beat with an expression doing several things at once, none of which were strictly professional, then stood and picked up his water bottle, and the treatment room shrank somehow. I dropped my gaze to my clipboard. I definitely didn’t watch his spectacular muscles flex as he put his shirt back on.

“Monday,” he said from the doorway.

“See you then,” I confirmed, and stared at my clipboard until I heard his footsteps disappear down the hall.

I stood there for a moment.

I had my hands on him for twenty minutes. And that was going to happen every Thursday for the foreseeable future, and also whenever else his shoulder tightened up, and also possibly his hip flexors and his hamstrings and whatever else decided to need attention over the course of a full hockey season.

This was fine. This was completely fine. I was a professional and this was my job and I was going to be absolutely fine. I envisioned myself as the dog in the meme, drinking his coffee while surrounded by flames, saying, “This is fine.” Nothing about having my hands on Ryan Lindqvist’s body was fucking fine. I heaved a labored sigh.