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“Not a problem.”

“Number.”

“Three.”

I gestured to the table. “Lie down.”

He did, and I placed my hands on his hip, palpating the muscle.

The tension was worse, the muscle fibers knotted in a way they shouldn’t be after a day of rest and ice.

“When did you skate?” I asked.

He stared at the ceiling. “I didn’t.”

“Brashe.”

“I… Alright, I tested it on the ice. Only twenty minutes. I didn’t do anything major, just skated.”

I stepped back, flinging my hands up into the air. “Are you kidding me?”

“It felt better. I thought⁠—”

“You thought you knew better than the person who spent years studying this?”

His jaw flexed. “Playoffs start in six days.”

“And you won’t be playing in them if you tear this.”

“It’s bad enough I’ll miss game one. I can’t miss more than that.”

“You will if you keep being an idiot.”

He sat up, his voice harder now. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

His hands clenched on the edge of the table, his knuckles paling. “If I’m not on the ice, I don’t have a place here.”

I stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“I’m a weapon in the net. If I can’t do that—” He flexed his shoulders.

Oh shit. I saw fear underneath the stoic mask now.

“You think they’ll get rid of you?” I asked softly.

“I know how this works. You’re only worth what you did last.”

In professional sports, loyalty only extended as far as your last good game.

“I can’t be the one who makes us lose in the first round of playoffs,” he said.

I moved closer, not as his physical therapist now but as a person who understood what it felt like to be afraid of disappearing. I’d felt that way my entire life.

“You’re not costing anyone anything,” I said. “But if you reinjure this trying to prove something, you will.”

He looked at me like he was waiting for me to confirm something he already believed.