Page 5 of Body Check

three

. . .

Amelia

My head spins as Derek, my new boss, takes me on a tour of the training facility. So far, the Boston Grizzlies’ layout doesn’t look all that different from the Colorado Dragons’ lair I recently left. Hallways are different, the suite of exam rooms is on a different offshoot from the main dressing room, but for the most part, once you’ve been in the bowels of a few training facilities, they all start to look alike.

We make our way through the dressing room and down another hallway before entering a bright, airy lounge. There are floor-to-ceiling windows illuminating the space, a selection of couches and armchairs, a ping-pong table, assorted tables and chairs, and three refrigerators.

“This is where the players hang out most,” Derek says, sweeping his arm wide. “You can take breaks in here if you’d like, but the food is reserved for the players.”

“Got it.” I didn’t expect them to feed me. All I need is a place to fill up my water bottle and a place to store my lunch bag, and I’m good.

There are a few players in the lounge. They look over at us with interest.

The guy on the left is a bearded, burly beast of a man. He nods, his eyes doing little to disguise his curiosity. The man beside him, dark-skinned with a short beard and kind eyes, glances at me and immediately returns to peeling an orange. The redhead cocks his head, studying me for a second, before he shakes his head and then returns to their conversation.

But it’s the man in the center of the lounge who catches my attention.

He’s tall, maybe the tallest in the room. His light brown hair looks soft, and his short scruff highlights his square jaw. His eyes, though—they’re wide, unblinking, and he’s staring at me with horror on his face.

What’s his deal?

Blinking a few times, I focus on Derek again.

“This is Amelia. She’s joining our team as a physical therapist,” my boss says. “Please help her feel welcome with us.”

“Nice to meet you,” the redhead says. “I’m MacGregor.”

“Forward,” I reply.

His face scrunches. “I’m not making a pass at you. I’m⁠—”

“You’re a forward. That’s the position you play.” I roll my lips inward to hide my smile. “You’re primarily a center, right? Though sometimes you play on the left wing. Never the right.”

Chin hitching up, he stares at me through narrowed eyes. “How do you know that?”

“I have a dossier on each player. And you have a history of left ankle issues.” Cocking my head, I study him. He’s a ball of tightly coiled tension. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure we’re keeping you in excellent shape.”

MacGregor nods tightly.

The dark-skinned man beside him laughs. “I’m Logan.”

“Defenseman. Paired with Pope last season.” He signed with Washington during the free agency period.

“And good riddance,” MacGregor mutters.

My eyebrows go up.

“We’ve got a good group of guys this season,” Logan says. “We shouldn’t have any more issues.”

“Right. Well, we’ll make sure your hip is taken care of.”

“Shit, how do you do that?” The bearded, burly guy says in wonder. “I’m Gonzales. Most guys call me⁠—”

“Gonzo,” I finish.

“Yeah. Did you memorize the files or something?”