I follow, trying not to look smug. I am pretty sure I fail.
Doc’s office is as sharp and utilitarian as she is. No soft lighting, no art prints, just shelves lined with binders full of injury reports and player stats that look heavy enough to double as weapons. The desk is bare except for two chairs and a single photo frame turned face down. I wonder who she’s mad at.
Aside from us.
The only nod to comfort is the mini fridge wedged beside an old radiator, probably filled with electrolyte shots and enough caffeine to power the whole building through another blackout.
My teammates never shut up about Doc. Constant locker-room banter about how she’s too fit to be a coach. Not that they don’t respect her; they do. Everyone does. It’s just the kind of crude joking that fills dead air between showers. And sure, she’s objectively beautiful, but I’m not a fucking idiot. You don’t reduce the woman who controls your starting lineup to a punchline.
Plus, if she ever heard them, they’d all immediately regret the fact that they were born with balls.
Coach Carmichael shuts the door behind us, lets out a sigh, and leans back against the wall, arms folded. He’s the good cop, which makes Doc the full-blown MI5 operative in this scenario.
She doesn’t sit.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” she says. “I’ve ignored a lot this season. Bags swapped, rooms flipped, conditioning gear going mysteriously missing. Fuckingglitter,” she glares at me, and I gladly take the heat in Blake’s place. “I figured you were all blowing off steam. Getting the rivalry out of your system before playoffs.”
She steps closer. I stop breathing.
“But now your underclassman teammates are coming tomeabout it.Roommates.” She glares at me. Mental note: kick Chase’s ass. He’s the worst roommate alive.
“Even the damn student athletic trainer said she’s ‘emotionally fatigued’ by your drama,” she continues. “So, unless you’re aiming to be benched for the rest of the season, you better start talking because this fucking elevator bullshit was the last straw.”
Blake opens her mouth to deny everything, but I beat her to it.
“The lift wasn’t either of us.”
Doc raises an eyebrow.
“Ma’am,” I add.
She definitely does not believe me. “No?”
“No, I mean it. I’ve pulled some daft stunts this year, fair enough. But locking Blake in a broken lift? That’s not a joke. I’d never do that to her. And it wasn’t her, either. She looked ready to collapse when it jammed.”
Blake turns to look at me, startled.
“So what was it?” Carmichael asks, tone measured. “Coincidence?”
“Mechanical failure, maybe,” I say. “But it wasn’t me.”
Doc watches me with unsettling stillness, her arms crossed so tightly I hear the fabric of her windbreaker strain.
“The thing is,” she says slowly, “facilities says that the elevator passed inspection two weeks ago. No history of issues. Someone shut it down manually.”
Blake’s head jerks toward me, her eyes narrowing.
“How, exactly, would I shut it down whileonit?” I ask. “Had to have been some other kind of problem.”
Doc tilts her head, her voice low and pointed. “Or someone thought it’d be funny. And if I find outanyoneon my roster had a hand in helping you out with a prank like this? I won’t just bench you for a game or two. I’ll pull your spots from the playoffs, and I’ll make sureyouspend your entire final season on the bench, captain or not, explaining to everyone else how you blew it.Whoexactly would you have me replace you as goalie? As captain?”
The silence has gone taut. Practically buzzing. I refrain from verbally accepting that last part for the compliment I know it was.
I swallow hard and glance at Blake. She’s still glaring, but not at me anymore. Her eyes are fixed on the spot just over Doc’s head. “It wasn’tus,” she finally says.
Doc stares at us for a long beat, and I can’t tell if she’s gauging our sincerity or debating how much trouble she’d get in if she gave in to her violent urges.
“Fine,” she says finally. “But you’ve used up every last ounce of benefit of the doubt, Keller. Same goes for you, Aster.”
