26. Sean
26
Sean
Out on the ice, I'm grinding through another grueling practice, pushing past the stabbing pain in my shoulder that's become my constant companion. I'm determined to handle it on my own terms—no more leaning on those damn pills that nearly ruined everything.
Every pass, every shot is a test of willpower, and I'm not about to fail. Not when I've come this far. My muscles scream in protest as I launch another puck toward the net, watching it sail past the goalie's outstretched glove and slam into the top corner with a satisfying ping. The familiar rush of satisfaction barely has time to register before I'm setting up for another shot, ignoring the way my shoulder threatens to give out. The pain radiates down my arm like liquid fire, but I grit my teeth and push through it. This is what separates the pros from everyone else—the ability to perform even when your body's begging you to stop.
As the session wraps up, I'm catching my breath at center ice, sweat freezing against my neck, when Sam Cortez, our team's physical trainer, flags me down. His face is serious, a clipboard clutched like a shield against his chest, and I already know this conversation isn't going to be the highlight of my day.
“Can we talk a sec, Sean?” he asks, eyes scanning the area to ensure we’re somewhat private.
“Sure thing, man,” I respond, skating over to the bench, feeling the ache in my shoulder with each movement.
Once we’re settled away from prying ears, Sam gets straight to the point. “I’ve noticed you’ve been favoring your left shoulder more than usual. What’s going on?”
There’s a hesitance in me, a split second where I consider brushing it off. But Sam’s a good guy, and hell, maybe it’s time to try some honesty. “It’s been acting up. I’ve been managing it—”
Sam raises an eyebrow, cutting me off. “Managing it, or masking it?”
I chuckle, caught in the act. “A bit of both, I guess. Got any tricks up your sleeve that don’t involve a prescription pad?”
He nods, pulling out a small booklet from his bag. “I can show you some stretches and strengthening exercises that might help alleviate some of the pain. But Sean,” his tone drops a notch, “if there’s something structurally wrong, you need to get it looked at properly.”
I nod, knowing he’s right, but not ready to face that possibility head-on just yet. “Let’s start with the stretches,” I suggest, eager to cling to any sliver of hope that doesn’t involve doctors and diagnoses.
"Try this one." Sam positions my arm. "Slow and steady."
"Jesus." The stretch sends daggers through my shoulder. "You sure this is helping?"
"Trust the process. A little discomfort now means less pain later."
I grunt through another rep. "That's what they all say."
"Form matters more than force." His hands adjust my posture with practiced efficiency. "You're compensating with your neck."
"Old habits." A familiar ache spreads across my muscles, but underneath there's something else - a whisper of relief.
"One more set. And Sean?" He demonstrates the next movement. "Accepting help isn't the same as giving up."
"Could've fooled me." But I follow his lead anyway, wondering when I stopped being the guy who'd power through anything.
“Now, remember, these are just band-aids, Sean. They’re not a cure,” Sam reminds me as we wrap up.
“I know, I know. But I appreciate it, man. And this stays between us, right?” I add, the weight of potential headlines about my injury lurking in the back of my mind.
“Of course,” Sam assures me with a nod. “Just take care of yourself, alright? And think about what I said. Getting a proper diagnosis might not be the worst play here.”
Sam then reaches into his bag again and pulls out a small, unmarked bottle.
"I've got something else you might want to try," he says, glancing around before handing it over discreetly. "It's an herbal treatment. Not exactly FDA approved, so you didn't get it from me, okay?"
I eye the bottle warily. "Herbal, huh? What’s it supposed to do?"
"It can help with the pain and improve mobility," Sam explains, "but take it easy with it at first. It packs a punch, and I don’t want you passing out or anything dramatic. And naturally, don’t take too many, don’t mix with alcohol – all that good stuff.”
"Thanks, Sam. I'll give it a shot," I reply, tucking the bottle into my bag. Anything to keep me on the ice.
Leaving the rink, my phone buzzes with a new message. It’s from Yasmine, and it reads, “Hey Sean, thinking about that spark we had...maybe it's time to rekindle? ;)”
I exhale sharply, a mix of annoyance and disbelief clouding my face. Just when I thought I could steer clear of past drama, it comes skating back in.
Before I can dwell on it too much, another notification pops up. It's Jake, sounding like a lifeline. “Just wrapped up practice. Beer?”
Perfect timing. "Definitely," I text back, eager to escape the tangled web Yasmine is trying to weave around me again.
As I drive to meet Jake, I stash the bottle Sam gave me in the glove compartment, planning to test it later when I don’t have to be anywhere or make any decisions. Just in case it hits as hard as Sam warned.
Meeting Jake at our usual spot, I slide into the booth, grateful for the familiar and the familial. "You’re a sight for sore eyes, bro," I greet him, clapping him on the shoulder.
Jake grins, sliding a cold one across the table. "Rough day on the ice?"
"You could say that. Plus, ex-girlfriend drama on top of it," I confide, glad for the chance to unload a bit.
Jake raises an eyebrow, taking a swig of his beer. "Ex-girlfriend drama and Sean Ice? Now there’s a shocker."
I chuckle, shaking my head. "Yeah, well, trying to shake off the past isn't as easy as I hoped."
Jake, always the investigator, leans in with a smirk that says he's not letting this one go. "Come on, spill it about Yasmine. What’s the real story?"
I sigh, taking a long pull from my beer before diving in. "Alright, here’s the deal. Yasmine and I, we had a thing in high school—well, 'thing' is overstating it. It was more like a brief fling, but you know how stories get blown out of proportion."
Jake nods, his expression a mix of amusement and intrigue.
"She’s been telling people we were high school sweethearts, which is news to me," I continue, rolling my eyes. "Last I checked, she moved to California, married some hotshot director. Thought that was the last I’d hear of her."
"And now she’s back?" Jake probes, eyebrow raised.
"Exactly," I confirm. "Shows up out of nowhere, starts spinning these tales to Aubrey, making it sound like we’ve got unfinished business. Honestly, man, she’s nuts. Always was a bit off the deep end. I don’t want anything to do with her."
Jake chuckles, shaking his head. "Only you, Sean. So, she just decided to stir up trouble for the fun of it?"
"Seems like it," I shrug, frustrated just thinking about it. "I have no clue why she’d lie to Aubrey about us. Maybe she’s bored with her director hubby and needs some drama to keep her entertained."
Jake signals the bartender for another round. "You gonna tell Aubrey the whole story?"
I nod, taking another sip. "Yeah, I have to. I don’t want any secrets between us. Especially not Yasmine-sized ones. Aubrey deserves the truth, and honestly, she can handle it. She’s tough."
"Good man," Jake nods approvingly. "Keep the past in the past, especially the crazy parts."
We clink our glasses together, the sound echoing like a pact. "To staying sane and staying out of the drama," I toast.
"To sanity and simplicity," Jake adds with a laugh.
As we settle into the evening, the weight of the Yasmine debacle feels lighter somehow. Sharing it with Jake, getting it off my chest—it’s like shedding old skin. I'm ready to focus on what matters: Aubrey, Luke, and leaving the ghost of crazy exes where they belong—in the past.
Jake catches my keys as I make a move to grab them off the table. “Whoa there, hotshot. You sure you should be driving?” He’s got a ‘big brother’ tone, which it’s kind of amusing, actually.
I pause, giving it a thought. We’ve had a couple of drinks—nothing major, but enough that the last thing I need is trouble. “Yeah, you're right,” I concede, slipping the keys back on the table. “Let’s not risk it.”
“Uber it is,” Jake says, already pulling out his phone to book a ride. Responsibility might not be as thrilling as racing down backroads, but it sure saves on headaches the next day.
As we wait for our ride, my phone buzzes. Another message from Yasmine. This one’s even more loaded with winks and innuendos. I let out a long sigh. Blocking her might send her off the deep end, and the last thing I need is Yasmine going full psycho mode like she used to when things didn’t go her way back in high school.
“I’ve got a feeling this is gonna be a headache I can’t shake off easily,” I mutter, showing Jake the text.
He glances at the screen and whistles low. “That’s...persistent.”
“Persistent is a polite way to put it,” I grumble, locking my phone.
The Uber pulls up, and we pile in. I lean back against the seat, trying to find a comfortable spot for my shoulder, but every bump in the road sends a jolt of pain shooting through it. I grit my teeth, a reminder of the day’s earlier exertions and the unending annoyance of my injury.
“Gonna have to deal with her, aren’t you?” Jake asks, noticing my discomfort—not from my shoulder, but from the Yasmine situation.
“Yeah, sooner rather than later,” I admit. “Before this turns into an even bigger circus.”
We ride back to the ranch mostly in silence, the countryside passing by in a blur. My mind is a mix of strategies for handling Yasmine, ways to explain this mess to Aubrey without it sounding like a disaster, and how to finally address this shoulder pain that’s becoming more of a constant companion than I’d like.
As we pull up to the ranch, I’m resolved. Tomorrow’s going to be about solutions, not problems. But first, a good night’s sleep, if my shoulder and my phone notifications will let me.