“Perfect.” I grinned. “This will only take a minute.”
My fingers moved across the muscle, noting the tightness and swelling of the tendon. Yeah, he had definitely strained his hamstring. A faint bruise already peppered the top of his skin, and in a few more hours, it’d be so pronounced that the fans in the nosebleed seats wouldn’t miss it.
“No pain?” I asked, but I knew what I was doing was likely causing him some serious pain. Injuring him further? No. But making his life a living hell? Definitely yes.
He shook his head again, but his jaw clenched ever so slightly at the same time.
I tightened my grip even more and noted the boisterous sounds of the locker room grew silent. “Still no pain?”
“No. Pain,” he answered, but he couldn’t stop himself from wincing.
No pain, my ass.
“You’re still good?” I pushed my fingers a little harder into his skin.
A normal someone with a pulled hamstring would have been screeching in pain, but Mitchell was a hard-ass. The man could tolerate more than the average person. It’s why he was a great athlete. And his ability and contribution to this team was exactly why I wasn’t going to let him play. He needed to rest his leg. He needed to get healthy again, or else his next game would probably be his last.
We stared at one another for a long moment, his face hard as stone while my fingers continued their assault, my gaze unwavering in its patient challenge.
Until, finally, he broke.
“Fuck,” he grimaced. “Fine. Fucking fine.” It was all he said, and I didn’t push further. I wasn’t going to be an asshole and make him say the words.
As I let go of Mitchell’s leg, Eddie came over to stand beside me. “Not good?” he asked.
“I’m not clearing him to play today. I want an MRI on his leg and get him in an ice bath,” I directed. “We’ll reassess our game plan with his injury once we get the results back.”
Mitchell stared down at the floor, and I patted his broad shoulder. “I’m not doing this to be an asshole,” I whispered for his ears only. “I’m doing this because I want you back on that field, and I want you to finish the season knowing you can look forward to future seasons.”
He nodded but didn’t meet my eyes.
“Dayum, Doc. You’re a bit of a ballbuster,” Owens said as he replaced Eddie’s vacated spot beside me. He was bigger than a house and one of the offensive lineman on the team.
I glanced over at him and smirked. “Yeah, you should remember that the next time you clean the vending machine out of my favorite peanut butter M&Ms.”
He grinned and rubbed both hands down his rotund belly. “You know I gotta keep my figure in tip-top shape.”
“You need to switch out those M&Ms for protein,” I teased. “I mean, fuck, at least switch to Snickers.”
Owens grinned and then his eyes moved toward Mitchell. “You’re really not playing today, Mitch?”
“Nope.” Mitchell glanced up and nodded toward me. “Dr. Ballbuster won’t clear me.”
His lips turned up ever so slightly into a faint smile, and I grinned back.
Eddie kneeled beside Mitchell with his bag of supplies. “Just gonna wrap you up real quick,” he said as he got to work.
Commotion filtered in from the front of the locker room, followed by the words, “You’ve got to be shitting me. You’re not clearing Mitchell?”
I didn’t even turn around to answer whoever was rudely questioning my judgment. “No, I’m not shitting you,” I responded and watched Eddie cover Mitchell’s leg in an ACE wrap. “He can’t play if he wants to be able to actually finish the season.”
“How long?” the irritated voice asked from behind me.
“Until his hamstring is strong enough to avoid reinjury,” I answered.
“He needs an MRI, and for fuck’s sake, get his ass in an ice bath.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo with a hamstring injury, so if you don’t mind, I’ll be in charge of treating my patient,” I responded as I turned on my heels to face whoever the fuck thought they knew more about medicine than I did.
I came face-to-face with a brilliant pair of hazel eyes, a handsome face, and a tall, muscular frame clad in a sharp suit and tie. And Lord Almighty, he was wearing that suit.
He stared back at me, his body visibly bristling in irritation.
I knew that face. I’d never personally met that face, but I sure as hell knew that face.
Well, shit. It was Wes Lancaster, owner of the Mavericks and my boss.
Since I hadn’t signed on to the organization until late in the preseason, and Wes Lancaster spent a hell of a lot of time on the road, this was the first time I was officially meeting him in person. We’d had a brief phone chat when he welcomed me to the team, but that conversation lasted all of two minutes.
I had a feeling this was about to be the epitome of an awkward introduction.