Chapter 186: Typical Vipers

The physical therapy room smelled of eucalyptus, heating creams, and cold rubbing alcohol.

It was a space designed for recovery, but every time I stepped inside during a playoff run, it felt more like a mechanics shop for broken athletes.

​I settled onto the padded massage table, lying on my stomach with a low, controlled exhale. The thick medical adhesive patches pulled tightly against the skin of my neck, shoulder, and collarbone, concealed safely beneath the high collar of my athletic shirt.

Lower down, my trap and neck were covered, but my lower back and legs were exposed for the work Nate needed to do.

​Nate, the team’s primary physical therapist, snapped on a pair of latex gloves and squeezed a generous dollar-sized drop of warming oil into his palms, rubbing them together before pressing his hands into my lower back.

​"You’re tight, Cap," Nate remarked, his thumbs immediately sinking into the hardened knots along my lumbar spine. "Lower back is locked up like a vault, and your hip flexors are completely shot."

​I gritted my teeth, burying my face into the padded headrest to keep from making a sound. "Just work it out, Nate. I need to be fluid on the ice by Thursday for practice. Can’t play off the Vipers as I am, you know."

​Nate shifted his focus down, his palms sliding heavy down the back of my hamstrings and inner thighs.

As his hands worked over the tight muscles, his thumbs brushed past the faint, fading yellowish-purple shadows left on the skin of my upper inner thighs—the lingering remnants of Reid’s large, relentless hands gripping me during the heat.

​Fortunately, in a violent collision sport like hockey, skin took a beating constantly so there was no suspicion whatsoever.

​"Got some nasty deep-tissue bruising on the adductors here," Nate commented casually, digging his thumb into a tight knot just above my knee to flush out the lactic acid. "Must’ve taken a nasty knee-on-knee or a heavy stick check during Game 1."

​"Yeah," I rasped out into the headrest, my fingers gripping the edges of the vinyl table as the pressure sent a sharp ache straight to my sore hips. "Puck battle along the boards. Got pinned and so I got benched."

​"Typical Vipers," Nate grunted, completely buying the athletic excuse without a single second thought. He grabbed a heated towel, draping it over my lower back, and continued working the deep knots in my calves. "Well, the inflammation is pretty severe, but there’s no tear. You’re lucky, Evans. Rest it today, stick to the hot baths, and let McCoy run the line drills. We’ll get you loose enough to skate by Game 2."

​"Thanks, Nate," I murmured, closing my eyes beneath the headrest.

​Through the thin wall separating the physio suite from the main arena, the muffled, sharp sounds of practice echoed—blades biting furiously into the ice, pucks slamming against the plexiglass boards, and Coach Devin’s whistle screaming through the air.

​Among those sounds, one pair of skates hit the ice with a distinct, ferocious power. Reid.

​I could hear the heavy, aggressive thud of his body checking a dummy against the boards, leading the first line just as Devin had ordered, almost as if I could see it.

He was skating with an unhinged, desperate intensity—channeling every ounce of his protective Alpha rage into the ice, keeping his promise to carry the team so I could rest the broken pieces of my body.

​I let out a slow, steadying breath into the dark of the face cradle, the heavy warmth of the heating pack settling into my lower spine.

Nate grabbed a second heated towel, wrapping it tightly around my right calf before sliding his hands down to cup my ankles.

He rotated my left foot in slow, firm circles, testing the joint mobility while checking for any lingering strain along the Achilles tendon.

​"Ankles look good, Cap," Nate said, applying a cool, analgesic rub around the joint bones. "Flexible, no swelling. Your lower body is taking most of the tension in the hips and lumbar."

​"Good," I muttered into the leather headrest, letting the icy-hot sensation soothe the sharp ache in my joints.

​Nate wiped his gloved hands with a paper towel, unceremoniously snapping the latex off his wrists and tossing them into the trash bin. "Oh, by the way... Jax asked about you before he headed out this morning."

​I paused, blinking into the dark space of the face cradle as the name registered. It felt like a lifetime since I’d last spoken to our lead medical trainer. "Jax? Where’d he go?"

​"Got called away for an emergency stint," Nate replied, reaching for a clean hand towel to wipe down his arms. "The league pulled him to oversee treatment for some high-profile athletes across the country. Word is he won’t be back until maybe the finals—if we make it that far."

​"Hm. He must be busy," I muttered, my voice muffled against the vinyl cushion.

​"Yeah, we’re all busy," Nate chuckled dryly, tossing the towel onto a hamper.

Jax was the medical trainer who took care of Reid’s ankle when he nearly broke it during that game mid-season.

"Jax literally saved his leg, honestly. McCoy owes that man a steak dinner." Nate said. "And I heard you did pretty much a lot of heavy lifting to make sure our star rookie didn’t permanently ruin his skating career. Kidus to you, Cap."

"Yeah," I whispered.

​A faint memory stirred in my mind—Reid sitting in this exact room weeks ago, snarling through his teeth as Jax taped up a severe sprain, stubbornly refusing to let me go since he feared he would pull the muscle and that would be the end of it.

I practically became his nanny, staying at his place and taking care of him, and he made sure to push my buttons even harder while we were cohabitating. In the end... well, a relationship was the result of all of that.

​"Time sure flies," I rasped softly, closing my eyes as the warmth of the towels seeped deep into my aching muscles.

​"Alright, Cap, that’s it for today," Nate said, patting my shoulder gently. "Stay on the table for another ten minutes to let the heat sink in. Then get changed, go home, and stay off your feet. I want you in a hot bath this night and an ice bath first thing tomorrow morning."

​Hot bath, then ice bath. "Got it. Thanks, Nate."

​As the door clicked shut behind the therapist, leaving me alone in the quiet room, the distant, thundering sound of Reid’s skates slicing through the ice outside sounded louder than ever.

I closed my eyes for a second, but before I knew it, I had slept off, the lingering exhaustion pulling me under into a deep, needy sleep.