“Eight hours with you?” Jason says dryly. “I’ll behave.”
“Good boy.” Coach claps once, the sound cracking the room, then strides out, leaving the door yawning and orders hanging like neon.
Silence swells. The fluorescent buzz comes roaring back. I set the timer with hands that do not tremble. Professionalism isn’t a mask. It’s armor I forged.
Jason watches me, unreadable. “Epoxy, huh?”
“Try not to wriggle,” I say, because jokes are cheaper than honesty. I lift the cold pack, check blanching at his fingertips, re-seat the wrap. “You heard him. Travel. Practice. Rehab.”
His smirk is familiar and dangerous and softer at the edges than it should be. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
“No,” I say, refusing the bait. “You’re stuck with me.” I tidy my kingdom of supplies and let my lungs remember air. I can do this. I’ve done harder things than keep my hands steady while my history sits three inches away and breathes like a dare.
I send Jason to wash up and log his notes while the timer ticks down. When the door swings behind him, the room exhales. I don’t. I strip my gloves, drop them in the biohazard, and lean my hips against the counter long enough to feel the ache in my lower back remind me I’ve been standing for hours.
“Girl.”
Sophie slides through the door like she owns the hinges, curls sprung from a pencil pretending to be a hairpin. Two paper cups steam in the morgue-light. She thrusts one at me. “Tea. Your nervous system looks like it could use a hug and HR would frown if I provided one.”
I take it, wrap my fingers around the heat, try a joke. “Do they make OSHA-approved hugs now?”
“They make posters,” she says, then angles herself to see my face and the hallway at once. Tactical best friend stance. “Saw Coach come in swinging his whistle. Heard ‘epoxy.’ Please tell me he wasn’t talking about your spine.”
“My spine is fine,” I say. “It’s my calendar that just lost civil rights.” I explain in bullet points—travel, practice, off-day protocols—keeping my voice neat, my facts neater. When I finish, Sophie’s mouth is a flat line.
“That’s… a lot of proximity.” Her eyes flick to the door Jason used, then back. “You okay?”
“I’m employed.” The answer fits like a too-stiff shoe. I sip the tea. Lemon and resolve. “Manageable. I set a plan. He’ll follow it.”
“He’ll try,” she says. “He’s a border collie in a wolf suit. Brilliant, loyal, easily distracted by shiny objects and open gates.”
“Thank you for that clinical assessment.” I restock the tape drawer, because putting objects in order tricks my brain into believing everything else can be arranged, too. “I’m fine.”
Sophie crouches beside me, shoulders bumping. “You don’t have to be heroic. You can ask for a reassignment.”
“No, I can’t.” I close the drawer with my hip and meet her look. “It’s my call. It should be me. I know his tells. He listens to me.”
“Uh-huh.” Her head tilts, eyes softening with something that makes my chest want to cave. “And when you say ‘he listens,’ do you mean his wrist listens… or the rest of him?”
Heat pricks my cheeks. I busy my hands with sanitizer until my skin squeaks. “It’s not about him.” Not a lie. Not the whole truth. “It’s about the team. We need him healthy.”
“We also need you healthy.” She taps my cup. “And I’m not talking about carpal tunnel.”
I look at the wall clock. The second hand drags like it’s pushing through honey. “I know the lines,” I say. “I drew most of them.”
Sophie gentles. “Then keep them. Promise me. No after-hours. No closed doors. If you need a buffer, I’ll be your barnacle. I will third-wheel like it’s my religion.”
A laugh escapes, thin but real. “I don’t need a barnacle.”
“You always do,” she says, bumping my shoulder. “Look, I’m not the morality police. I like sparks. I burn things for fun. But the rules protect you, too. Remember who gets crushed when headlines roll downhill.”
The image lands hard—my badge turned in, my locker emptied, my name floating in a comment section like bait. I picture Jason’s face in the same storm and hate that I knowexactly how he’d handle it: jaw set, eyes cold, taking the hit like it’s a bill he expected to pay.
“I won’t be a headline,” I say. It feels like a vow and a plea. “I’ll be careful.”
“Good.” Sophie nods, decisive. “And if being careful stops working, you find me and we unmake the problem before it makes you. Deal?”
“Deal.”
