“Understood,” I say. My knuckles ache where I’m not clenching.
“You may go.”
Julia’s look says: knife’s edge—thanks for not bleeding on the carpet. I nod once and leave before the room hears me breathe.
The corridor outside is cooler. Carpet hush. Compressor thrum. A ghost of skates biting ice from the bowl. Plan first; feel later.
Notes app open as I walk:Maddox—Day 12 post-strain | 72-hr optics protocol.
— AM: shorten on-ice volume 15%, keep intensity, clean mechanics—no compensation
— Midday: manual + contrast, add gentle nerve glides
— PM: proprioception ladder
— Checks: pain scale pre/post every block
— No hero reps
Trophy photos line the wall—frozen joy, blood turned archival by lenses. Jason appears in frame after frame, different years, same jaw. I redirect that thought into anatomy: masseter tension, TMJ load—stress tells whether you like it or not.
Stairs. Two at a time. Nolan’s voice tries to follow: discretion, precedent. Julia’s: triage, seventy-two. Mine answers: patient, protocol, outcomes. Steady.
Training-suite smell hits before the door—sanitizer, wintergreen, laundry. Home. I slide in, erase yesterday’s board with ruthless strokes like sanding rumor off surface. Fresh headers:Mobility | Load | Recovery.Where instinct to push whispers in Jason’s voice, I pencilhold. Where caution overcorrects, I writetrust mechanics. I add:COACH NOTE: No late-practice sprints, badge it on with a magnet. Cryo cart restocked. Drawers lined: tape, scissors, kinesio strips, sleeves. Ritual calms the part of me that hates what “distance” looks like.
I add a final line at the bottom, small but clear:If pain > 3/10, STOP. Text me.Unprofessional to put that where anyone can see. It might keep him honest when pride wants to lie.
Footsteps scuff. The handle turns.
Sophie slips in sideways like the hallway grows ears. Curls wrangled into a lopsided bun, pen skewered through it like a warning. She clocks the wiped board, the restocked cart, theText meline and whistles low.
“This is a cliff, Ry. Please tell me you brought a parachute and not a YouTube video on growing wings mid-fall.”
“I brought a plan.” I point at the board because pointing at my chest gives too much away. “Fifteen percent volume cut. Mechanics clean. No hero reps. Tunnel access for acute.”
She prowls closer, reading. “And an engraved invitation for him to text you.” Brow up. “Subtle.”
“It’s called compliance support,” I say. “Temporary.”
“Temporary like that plant you kept alive three years out of guilt?” She softens. “Okay. Guardrails. Every choice passes the headline test: ‘Trainer defies optics protocol’—bad. ‘Trainer abandons rehab mid-cycle’—worse. ‘Trainer maintains outcomes while telling gossip to get bent’—best. Aim there.”
“Already aiming.” It tastes like steel. “I won’t leave him unsupported and call it medicine.”
“Didn’t ask you to.” She bumps her forehead to mine. “I’m asking you not to stop being smart because he makes you feel… things that rhyme with ‘insane.’” A beat. “If this goes nuclear, I’m your first call. Counsel, PR triage, burner phone. I’ll torch the internet and salt the earth.”
“Tempting,” I admit. “But let’s keep the Wi-Fi.” I squeeze her. “Thank you.”
“Marching orders?”
“Find me the assistant and Adams in ten—everyone reading the same sheet. And if you see Jason—” her brows vault, “—remind him texting me is for pain above a three. Not loopholes.”
“On it.” She’s halfway to the door when heavier footsteps hit the hall. A familiar shadow slices across the frosted glass, phone held like a weapon.
Miles fills the frame, tall, tired, vibrating with an anger that wears worry. No hello. He thrusts his phone—screen blazing—until the blown-up image hits like a flare. The bench shot. Tighter crop. Uglier caption. My face tipped toward Jason’s. His hand near my cheek. No tape, no temp, no context. Just implication in HD.
“You can’t save him,” Miles says, voice too calm. “And you’re about to cost us both our jobs.”
“Subtle,” Sophie murmurs.
