Page 94 of Offside

“Don’t.” She set the bottle down. “I’ve been watching you in practice. Your release on the backhand has shifted about two inches left and you’ve been rotating differently on the draw. How bad is it?”

“It’s manageable.”

“Ryan.”

“Rotator cuff. It flared after the Chicago game. I had it assessed. It’s not structural, just inflamed. I’ve been doing the band work.”

“You had it assessed by who?” She was incredulous.

I knew better than to answer.

Her eyes went to the ceiling briefly. “You went to the training staff.”

“You have twelve guys on your⁠—”

“You are the captain.” She stood, moved behind me and pressed two fingers into the muscle at the back of my shoulder. I kept my face neutral through an effort of will. “That is not inflamed,” she said. “That is truly angry.” She worked her thumb into the knot at the base and I felt it release in a slow flood of relief that told me exactly how much I’d been compensating. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

“Because you’re—” I stopped.

“Because I’m what.” It wasn’t really a question, but she stopped too.

She was already working through the answer herself. I could see it, the calculation moving behind her eyes, the professional concern sitting right up against her understanding of exactly why I’d made the call I’d made. How it would read if the captain walked into her treatment room ahead of twelve other guys. How carefully we’d both been navigating the line between what she was to me and what she was to this team.

Her expression went to reluctant acceptance.

“After the road trip,” she said. “First thing when you’re back, you come to me. Not the training staff. Me.” She pressed once more, firmly, and I exhaled. “After dinner I’m spending twenty minutes on this properly.”

“Maren, I don’t want to spend tonight doing physical therapy⁠—”

“Twenty minutes. Then I’m off the clock and the rest of the night is yours.” She held my glare until I nodded. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

She went back to her seat and picked up her wine glass and the matter was closed because she’d decided it was. I’d stopped trying to argue with her in professional mode somewhere around the third week of knowing her. It didn’t work and she was always right anyway.

I watched her drink her wine and thought about nine days, and then said, “I want you to come on the road with me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I travel with the team, Ryan. That’s⁠—”

“Not this trip. I know this trip is already set.” I turned my glass in my hands. “But I want that. I want to look up from warm-ups and see you in the stands. I want to take you to dinner somewhere that isn’t Phoenix.” I paused. “I want you in a hotel room that isn’t in Phoenix.”

She studied me for a moment. Color had risen in her cheeks. “That last part.”

“You’ve only been on one road trip so far.”

“And nothing happened,” she said.

“We made a date…sort of,” I replied.

Maren laughed. “Yeah, sort of.” Her smile was so genuine, so relaxed. I was going to miss it.

“I’m just saying.” I watched her over my glass. “Nine days is a long time. We should probably FaceTime.”

She raised both eyebrows this time. “FaceTime.”

“Stay connected. Architecturally. Some of these cities are very interesting.”

“Are you suggesting phone sex?”