Shoulder Blades Uneven Novels & Stories

One wing is slightly shorter than the other, like they ran out of wood partway through. Naomi turned her own bird over slowly in her hands, and there, exactly as described, one wing was shorter than the other, the wood slightly uneven, the unmistakable mark of someone who had run out of material partway through carving it. “That’s mine,” Naomi whispered. “Exactly. That’s exactly mine.”

Her hair was damp, her clothes changed into a dry gray fleece and dark jeans, but her face was still pale with residual shock. Nurse Sarah pressed her fingers gently along Cassian's collarbone, making him wince sharply, his jaw clenching tightly. "No broken bones," Nurse Sarah declared, stepping back and pulling off her latex gloves. "But you pulled the deltoid tendon right where it meets the shoulder socket. You're lucky you didn't tear it completely off the bone, Cassian. If you lift so much as a coffee cup with that arm in the next three weeks, I will personally lock you in the clinic ward."

There is a painful knot between my shoulder blades that started as a twinge but has grown in discomfort until I am actually in pain. I shift the baby in my arms, trying to relieve some of the pain. My purse slips off my shoulder and I almost drop my list. Cash lays a hand on my arm. “How about I carry Wren so that you can grab the things that you are in need of. It will make things a bit easier.”

I asked, turning around. Ronan sat on the edge of the wide armchair, leg extended on the ottoman I’d pulled over. He looked tired but determined, the kind of look that made my chest feel tight. “Hit me with it.” I brought over a set of light dumbbells and positioned myself beside him. “Seated shoulder presses with a twist. Keep the movement controlled. This will help with your stick handling balance once you’re back in net.” He took the weights and started the reps while I spotted him, hands hovering near his elbows for form.

We broke every clause, every line, every professional boundary. A sharp, throbbing ache in his left shoulder served as a grim reminder of his crash at the community rink, but the skin itself felt strangely secure. He shifted his gaze slightly, looking down out of the corner of his eye. Beneath the tangled sheets, the neat, professional matrix of black athletic tape was still perfectly intact across his collarbone—applied with the practiced, clinical precision of a hockey captain who knew exactly how to stabilize a teammate's injury.

After another round of beating, Hans rotated his shoulders, looking satisfied, as he said, "Hey, my shoulder doesn't hurt anymore!" Sebastian glanced at Hans and said, smiling, "Hans, you just had a frozen shoulder. It got better after you exercised, so you don't need any medicine." When Hans saw that Sebastian was talking to him, he smiled quickly and said, "Thank you, Mr. Ballard! If I hadn't come here, I wouldn't have had a chance to exercise." He stretched his shoulders and slapped Samuel again just as the latter stood up. A crisp slap resounded, and the other lens of Samuel's glasses shattered.

* She paused, taking stock of her various – *numerous­ ­*– aches and pains. Her shoulder blades were sore from where she’d laid pressed against the tub’s porcelain floor for too long. She grimaced – so was her back. Her wrists were on fire, and she’d bet her breakfast that she was sporting some gnarly bruises around her wrists, and – she moved a foot – *yep!*, around her ankles, too.

he said, circling me at an unhurried pace, hands clasped behind his back. "Every time you set your feet, left shoulder drops. It's a tell." "I know." "Then fix it." "I'm trying." "Trying is what you do when you're not sure you can. Fix it." I reset my stance. Squared both shoulders. He came at me from the right, a fast controlled strike aimed at my ribs, and I blocked it, stepped left, kept my shoulder up. He came again. I blocked again. He feinted high, went low, and I caught it on my forearm instead of my side, which was better than yesterday.

Instead, he pulled a towel from the bag and draped it around his neck, then walked over to the weights. He started a shoulder press with the dumbbells, lifting with perfect control. I gasped softly, unable to look away. His body was... incredible. Not just a six-pack, he had ten visible abs, cut and defined like they were carved from stone. And he wasn’t even flexing. But then, something else caught my eye. Scars. Faint at first, then clearer the more he moved. Jagged lines ran across his chest and stomach, some shallow, others so deep they looked like they should’ve been fatal. One thick scar snaked from his ribs up across his collarbone, disappearing into his neck.

10 minutes before James grabbed his injured shoulder and winced in pain as he opened the armrests around it. He raised his elbow to stretch the movement of the injured shoulder joint again. Painfully and a bit breathless, he stood in front of an old mirror to exercise his left hand. James took a shotgun on his right side and loaded all the bullets one by one with a bit of gasp.