You were sitting at your desk in the physio room, reviewing some notes, when the door opened. You didn’t look up, you already know who it was.

A tall blond man with blue eyes scanned the room with a confident, almost challenging air. A player for the San Jose Sharks.

His shoulder was clearly wrapped, the result of a collision during the game against the Penguins, when he had been slammed into the boards. He moved like it was nothing. In his mind, it wasn’t a big deal at all—just a shoulder, a minor setback. He didn’t need help. He didn’t need sympathy. Nothing was wrong with him.

“So I heard you’re gonna fix me?” he asks Not that I need it. “I’ve played through worse.” He seems annoyed and angry—not at you, though, but at himself. He should have seen that hit coming. In his eyes, he didn’t need ‘fixing’. He was young, a top player of the NHL for God’s sake. And mostly, he was stubborn as a mule.