Rinkside Remedy

Zane's piercing blue eyes locked onto mine. "You again?" he said with disbelief. "What are you, my personal stalker?"

I bit back a sharp reply. If I let my pride take over now, I'd ruin my only shot. "No, not a stalker," I said, forcing a smile. "Just someone who can help."

He rolled his eyes and leaned back against the bench, rubbing his knee absentmindedly. "Why would I need your help? You're the broom guy."

Okay, ouch. "It's Christian, actually, in case you forgot. And I'm more than just the 'broom guy.' Look, I saw you limping. Your knee's are obviously giving you trouble. I can fix it."

His hand froze mid-rub, and he gave me a skeptical look. "Fix it? What are you, some kind of miracle worker?"

"Not exactly," I admitted, "but I know what I'm doing."

Zane scoffed. "Why would I trust you? I don't even know who you are."

I took a deep breath. "Because last time, when I got rid of your headache, you felt better. Don't even try to deny it."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Gotcha.

"Give me five minutes again," I repeated. "If I make it worse, you can break my leg, sue me, or do whatever you think will make you feel better. Deal?"

Zane studied me for a moment, clearly debating whether to go along with it. For a moment, I thought he was going to reject me outright. But then, to my surprise, he nodded. "Fine. But if you screw this up, I'm throwing you out myself."

Fair enough. "Great," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "I just need you to do one thing."

"What now?" he asked, already exasperated.

"I need you to take off your gear. And... uh, your pants."

Zane froze, his expression morphing into something halfway between confusion and revulsion. "Excuse me?

"Not in a creepy way!" I said quickly, holding up my hands. "I just need to get to your knee. You know, so I could do my thing."

He closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath before shaking his head. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Nope," I said, trying to look professional.

With a long, dramatic sigh, he started unstrapping his gears. When he got to his pants, I turned away instinctively, my face heating up. "Not looking," I said, though I wasn't sure why I even bothered. I'd have to face his bare leg eventually.

When he was done, he sat back on the bench in his compression shorts, his arms crossed and his glare locked on me. "Satisfied?"

"Almost," I said, kneeling down beside him. His leg was bent at an awkward angle, and I could see the tension in his muscles. "Can I touch your knee?" 

Zane raised an eyebrow, his frown deepening. "You're really not making this less weird, you know."

"Relax," I instructed. "You're making it worse by tensing up."

"Easy for you to say," he muttered.

I placed my hands gently on his knee, closing my eyes to concentrate. I bowed my head, hoping he wouldn't misinterpret the gesture. The motions came naturally; pressing, kneading, and finding the pressure points that felt off. My grandmother's voice echoed in my head, reminding me to trust my instincts.

Zane hissed when I pressed on a particularly tight spot. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Just hang on," I said. "It'll hurt for a second, but then it'll feel better. I promise."

He muttered something again under his breath and I'm pretty sure it wasn't a compliment, but he stayed still. I worked my way down to his calf, my fingers moving instinctively, feeling for knots and tension. There was a moment of resistance. His muscles practically screamed at me to stop, but then, like magic, the tension eased.

A thin layer of sweat started to cover my brow. Absorbing the pain and negative energy always came with side effects. Suddenly, I released a loud burp that echoed through the room.

"Again with that?" Zane said, shooting me a glare. "You have intestinal issues or something?"

"Like I said, it's normal," I replied quickly, brushing it off. "Just part of the process."

"Uh-huh," he said, clearly not buying it. But he didn't pull away.

When I finished, I leaned back on my heels. "Okay, try moving it."

He raised an eyebrow but did as I asked, bending and straightening his knee slowly. His expression shifted, first to surprise, then something closer to awe. "Huh."

"How does it feel?" I asked.

He hesitated, like he didn't want to give me the satisfaction of admitting it. "Not bad," he said finally. "Still feels a little tight, but better."

"I can fix that too," I said, standing up. "But not today. You'd need a full session for that."

"A full session?" he asked. "What are you, a spa?"

"Close enough," I retaliated. "And for the record, I'm not doing this for free. If you want more, you're going to have to put in a good word with the arena admin. They're planning on laying us off, so you might never see me again."

Zane snorted. "That sounds an awful lot like blackmail."

"Maybe," I said, grabbing my broom. "But if you really think your physical therapist can do a better job than me, then I guess this is goodbye.

"I'll think about it."  He muttered and stood up, testing his leg one more time before jogging back to the rink. Jogging. Not limping.

I allowed myself a small, triumphant smile.

After my shift, I sat in the breakroom, scrolling aimlessly on my phone while waiting for the bus. I hadn't heard a peep from Zane or anyone else about what happened. Maybe he wouldn't say anything. Maybe he'd forget all about me the second he stepped back onto the ice.

Or maybe not.

"Christian," my manager said, poking his head into the room.

I froze. "Yeah?"

"Can I see you in my office? Now."

My stomach dropped. "Oh. Uh... okay." It looks like I'm getting sacked today.

As I followed him down the hallway, my mind raced with possibilities. It's either Zane complained or I'm about to get fired.

When I stepped into the office, I saw Zane was sitting there, arms crossed, looking far too smug for my liking.

"This him?" Coach Eric asked, glancing between us

"Yep," Zane said. "That's him."