It’s meant to be reassurance. It tastes like condescension. I swallow it whole so I don’t choke on it. “I trust you,” I say, and the truth of that makes the rest worse. “Let me update the sheets for the coaches.”
“Already printed.” He lifts a stack of paper, tidy, color-coded, like the universe is proving a point about how replaceable anyone can be. “I know it’s… not fair.” He drops his voice even lower. “Optics, they said. We just need to ride it out.”
We. I used to love how easy that pronoun was with him. Now it rubs my skin the wrong way. “Right.” I take a small, bracingsip of coffee and immediately regret it. “You should get them taped and out. It’s a long flight.”
He shifts, searching my face for a crack. “Riley… I can talk to Danvers. Or Julia. Or Ducks. They’ll listen to me.”
“They’ll listen to outcomes,” I say, too quickly. I make my mouth smile. “Get them a win and no one will care what color my badge is.”
He watches me for a beat that is entirely too intimate for a hallway. “You don’t have to be made of granite all the time, you know.”
“I’m not.” I step past him into the trainers’ room before the thing in my throat can turn into anything messy. Benches, tape rolls, the chemical tang of adhesive—finally, something that makes sense. I set the coffee down and pick up a roll of white tape like it’s a lifeline. “Go, Miles. I’ll finish the restock here.”
He doesn’t move. “You take care of everyone. Let someone take care of you for once.”
There’s the sting disguised as care again. It hits square and true. I keep my hands busy—drawer, labels, inventory list. “That’s sweet,” I say lightly, because lightness is armor, “and profoundly unnecessary.”
He exhales a laugh that’s not funny and rests a hand on the doorjamb. “Text me if you need anything.”
“I won’t.” I meet his eyes, make sure he hears what I don’t say: I can’t need anything right now. We stand like that for a breath too long, a quiet door propped open on a past that has nothing to do with the present, and then I rescue us both. “Go lead.”
He nods, that decent smile returning like muscle memory, and heads down the hall, clipboard tucked against his side like a shield. I watch him until he turns the corner, then let the inventory sheet curl in my fist. It crackles like thin ice.
The inventory list crackles back to flat as I smooth it on the counter. Order is a thing I can make with my hands: rows of tape, fresh scissors, alcohol swabs lined like little soldiers. The quiet of the trainers’ room has a heartbeat—the mini-fridge hum, the soft thup of the skate oven cycling.
Knuckles rap twice on the doorframe. Jessie again, but not alone. She’s flanked by Comms Director Patel, whose smile could sell ice to a Zamboni. He carries a leather folio like a verdict.
“Quick follow-up,” Jessie says, voice pitched neutral. Her eyes find the inventory I’ve lined up and soften by a millimeter. “We refined language.”
Patel opens the folio and lays two sheets on the counter, side by side. The header is the same—Clarifying Statement—but the body is new: We reaffirm our commitment to professional standards. We regret any confusion caused by images circulating online and appreciate our staff’s dedication to transparency during review.
“Better,” he says, tapping a manicured finger on regret any confusion. “No admission. You’re not ‘agreeing,’ only ‘reaffirming.’ We’d ask for your signature to acknowledge receipt and your initials beside that paragraph to confirm you’ve read it.” The pen appears in front of me like a magic trick.
My pulse jumps the way it does when a player goes down awkward and doesn’t get up right away. I set the pen back on the paper with two fingers. “I’m not signing anything without counsel.” My voice is steady; I cling to the steadiness like the boards.
Patel’s smile doesn’t dim, it just… tightens. “Of course. You have that right. We’re on a timetable, though—sponsors expect a statement today. Your refusal is also something we’ll need documented.” He slides over a third page: Acknowledgment of Declination. It has a blank for my name and time.
I look at Jessie. She doesn’t flinch. She also doesn’t look away. “We can note you’ll cooperate fully with compliance,” she offers, gentle. “And that you’re seeking counsel before commenting.”
That part I can live with. “You can write that,” I say, nodding to the declination line. “And I’ll sign to acknowledge that I declined today pending counsel.” I emphasize the last two words because the room needs to learn them.
Patel hesitates—calculating optics in real time—then turns the page toward himself and writes exactly what I said, neat as a rulebook. He slides it back. I read every word. I sign. The letters of my name look steady even though my ribs feel like a cage for something flying.
From the hall, a burst of laughter tumbles by—rookies, careless, alive. I want to be out there measuring ankles and not sentences.
Patel caps the pen. “Thank you for your professionalism, Ms. Lane.” He stacks the unsigned ‘clarifying’ drafts back into the folio like a card trick and tucks the signed declination behind them, smile reinstated. “We’ll proceed accordingly.”
Jessie lingers after he leaves. The door closes on the hum of the corridor. “You okay?” she asks, not PR now—Jessie the human, the one who has cried in equipment closets and then re-powdered her nose to brief cameras.
“No.” The truth comes out quiet and surprising. I straighten a label that doesn’t need straightening. “But I will be.”
She nods, eyes glossy but dry. “I’ll walk you through tomorrow’s interview structure later. For now… maybe avoid brand row.” It’s a bad joke, and I love her for trying it.
“Fine,” I say, and this time the word scrapes. When she’s gone, I wash my hands just to have a task, hot water turning my skin pink. In the mirror above the sink, I look like the trainer who fixes everyone else’s damage. I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear and go back to lining up tape as if I can tape the day into place.
My phone buzzes on the counter, a rude dragonfly trapped in a jar. I ignore it for one ring, then two, then cave because discipline has never silenced curiosity. The screen lights my palm: Jason.
The preview is a single line that makes my throat go tight.
