Pucking Around: Chapter 40

True to his word, Ilmari takes me to a bar and grill down on the water that serves chicken wings and sweet potato waffle fries. Apparently, this man doesn’t understand the concept of ‘cheat day’ because, while I order my weight in chicken wings, fries, and celery with blue cheese dressing, he orders a grilled salmon fillet with steamed broccoli and a side of island rice. He doesn’t even order a beer. What hockey player doesn’t drink beer on cheat day? Instead, he drinks water with lemon like it’s his job.

We stay at the bar for almost two hours. The weather is lovely, and we’re seated outside. The ocean breeze ruffles my hair as I interrogate him on every aspect of his pain and self-medication strategy. He’s finally forthcoming, answering every question I ask with more than nods and one-syllable words.

We leave the restaurant and head back to the exam room at the practice arena. I shut the door. “Why don’t you lie down. I’ll do an exam and test your range of motion a bit, okay?”

He says nothing, which I’m learning is Ilmari for consent. By the time I turn around, the big bear of a man is lying on my exam table. He relaxes back, one arm slung over his face as he takes a few deep breaths.

I rub my hands together to warm my palms. “Do you have any visible bruising in the area?”

“I didn’t this morning.”

I purse my lips, my gaze clinical as I take in the thick cut of his muscular thighs. “Bruising can sometimes take a day or two to come to the surface. If you had any muscle tearing in last night’s game, we may not see immediate proof. Can I check for any swelling or discoloration?”

He nods.

He’s only wearing a pair of athletic shorts. This will be easy to navigate. I clear my throat. “I’ll need to…work around your shorts a bit. Is that—”

Before I can finish my sentence, he drops both hands to his shorts and gives them a tug.

“Oh, no—Mars, you don’t need—”

But it’s too late. Ilmari slips his shorts down his hips with one hand while doing his best to cover himself with the other. The man has huge hands, but I can still see some of what he’s working with.

Sweet baby Jesus.

I step up to the table and complete a quick visual inspection of the skin around his groin and upper thigh. No bruising. No swelling. “Does this hurt?” I gently palpate the crease of his groin with my fingers.

“No,” he says, body stiff.

“Try to relax for me.”

He grunts, muttering something in Finnish. He does that a lot. I can only imagine it’s a curse of some kind…probably directed at me.

I shift my fingers over, running down the line of his adductor muscles. “How about this?”

“No.”

“What’s your pain level right now?”

“Three. I’m always at a three,” he clarifies.

“You can pull your shorts back up.” As he does, I add, “I don’t see any discoloration, but that doesn’t mean we won’t in a day or so. The area feels slightly hot to the touch, which can be a sign of a strain. So definitely do the ice routine like we discussed.”

He nods, taking a deep breath, his gaze on anything but me. Am I making him uncomfortable? Typically, I’d ask if they want another person present for this kind of exam, but seeing as I’m the only one he’s trusting with this, I imagine his answer is a big fat no.

“I’d like to do some range of motion tests to narrow down if your pain center is really your groin, or if it lies deeper in your hip joint,” I explain.

“Do anything, Doc.”

I do a few basic range of motion exercises, telling him to stop me when he feels pain. I’ve seen his range of motion on the ice. He can do a full split. “Let’s do a five-second squeeze test.”

Before I can explain, he’s already shifting his knees up off the table and placing his feet flat. The motion has his athletic shorts sliding down into his crotch, exposing the whole length of his bare, tree-trunk thighs.

I smirk down at him.

“This isn’t my first cow show,” he says.

I snort, the sound turning into a choked laugh as he frowns up at me.

“What?”

I shake my head. “It’s ‘rodeo.’ This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“Right,” he murmurs. “Well, it’s not. You can fist me, Doc. I don’t mind.”

And now my professionalism has officially left the building. I’m crying I’m laughing so hard.

Ilmari sits up. Scowling at me. “What did I say now? That is the five-second squeeze test, yes? You put your fist between my knees, and I squeeze. I’ve done it a hundred times.”

Oh my god, and now he’s pouting. He doesn’t like being teased. I clear my throat. “Yeah, champ, that’s how the squeeze test goes. Now, lie back and let me fist you.” I snort again, because, apparently, I’m twelve.

He lays back down and then goes still. “It’s something sexual, isn’t it?”

I chuckle, tapping his knees. He lifts them for me, bringing his feet flat once more. “Yeah, Mars. It’s sexual.”

He raises a brow at me. “Will you tell me?”

“No way,” I reply with a laugh, positioning my fist between his knees. “Consider it homework. Hey, that could be your contribution to the group chat this week—ask the guys to explain fisting to you. Go ahead and squeeze,” I add.

He rolls his eyes, placing enormous pressure on my fist as he squeezes as tight as he can. “It’s not hard to imagine what it means. I assume it’s when you take your fist and place it inside the—”

“Ooooookay, and that’s five seconds,” I say over him, tapping his knee again. “How was that?”

“Maybe a four.”

I nod, taking more mental notes. “Okay, you can get up. We’re done for now.”

He sits up but doesn’t get off the table. “Well?”

“I don’t want to engage in wild speculation.”

“Is it wild speculation when you’re a hip and knee expert? You must have an opinion.”

I glance over at him. “Okay, well…first impressions? I don’t actually think it’s a groin pull.”

His hopeful expression falls. “You think it’s something worse.”

“No, not necessarily worse, just…different,” I reply. “I think the problem is deeper inside your hip. I think it might be your labrum. It’s a common injury in ice hockey and soccer given your constant overextension. And you’re likely to feel it like a groin pull, but not actually have outward symptoms of a pull,” I add.

“Does it require surgery?”

“Not always.”

“But sometimes?”

I nod. “But then so do some groin pulls,” I add. “I’ve seen cases of both. If any tear gets bad enough, it’ll require surgery to fix it. That’s what we need to ward against from here on out. If your labral tear isn’t too bad, we can rehab it, and get you on a strict strength and conditioning regime to get those hips as strong as possible.”

“I’ll do whatever you say, Doc,” he replies.

I smile. “I don’t want you to worry, okay? We’ve got a plan. And you played great this week. Go home and rest. And you’re gonna call in sick for your Monday practice, right?”

He nods, his expression darkening.

“I’ll speak to your strength and conditioning team and say you’re working with me. Then Wednesday is the travel day up to Pennsylvania, so you can rest then too,” I add, ticking the days off on my fingers. “Friday and Sunday are game days. I really wish you’d skip the first one—”

“No,” he mutters.

“Davidson suits up for a reason, you know. He’s a damn fine goalie—”

“He’s a sieve—”

“He’s your teammate!”

Ilmari crosses his arms, glaring at me. “I have to start.”

I just shake my head. “On your head be it then.”

He nods, his gaze falling to his hands folded in his lap.

“Hey,” I murmur, stepping closer.

He glances up sharply, his stormy blue eyes narrowed.

“I’ll be watching, okay? You’re not alone, Mars. I’ve got your back.”

He holds my gaze for a moment. He has nothing of the pretty boy looks of Jake or a sweet puppy like Langley. No, Mars Kinnunen is all man. He’s rugged and sharp-edged and not my type at all. And yet, I feel inexplicably drawn to him.

Then he slips off the table and suddenly the air in the room seems to vanish. He’s a whole foot taller than me. His chart reads 6’5”. Closing the space between us, he surprises me by wrapping me in a tight embrace.

I go stiff, his scent filling my senses as he wraps his strong arms around my shoulders, his chin dropping to rest on the crown of my head. Recovering from my surprise, I wrap my arms loosely around him, hugging him back.

“Thank you, Rachel,” he says for the second time today. Then he’s pulling back, leaving me chasing his warmth and his scent that smells like my every dream of home.