“Yeah?”
“Control is useful.Isolation isn’t.I don’t delve into my player’s personal lives, but I’m not oblivious.”
The sentence landed like a puck to the mask—loud, harmless, unforgettable.I stood when she gestured.“You’re clear for limited practice tomorrow,” she said.“No contact.Prove you can follow orders.”
“Copy.”
Dalton taped the joint, strapped on a compression wrap, and told me the bruise was “borderline charming.”I managed a grin.He handed over two ice packs and a schedule: cold at noon, stim at sixteen-hundred, follow-up after weights—lower body only.Orders, signed and timestamped.Easy—compared to the mess in my head.
Locker room traffic thinned; teammates drifted toward class and breakfast.Ryan lingered by the exit, phone in hand.When I passed he lifted his brows:you alive?I answered with a thumbs-up too fast to look sincere.
He didn’t chase me.
Campus noon rush smelled like wet wool and burned espresso.I cut through it, keeping my bad arm tucked close.The plan—new plan, better plan—formed with every step: tighter schedule, no dead minutes, no off-script distractions.Dalton, class, early bed.Minimum variables, maximum control.
Stony Creek’s hallway felt hotter than usual; maybe the radiator, maybe my pulse.Our door stood ajar the habitual two inches.I pushed in.
Austen sat cross-legged on the rug, laptop beside him, three-color ledger grid chalked across a legal pad.He looked up the second the door clicked.
“Dalton clear you?”he asked.
“Conditionally.”I nudged the door closed with my foot, dropped my gear bag next to the dresser.
His gaze skimmed the wrap peeking from my sleeve.“Pain level?”
“Manageable.”I crossed to the fridge, stowed the professional-grade ice packs.
He set the pad aside, unfolded from the floor.“Coach meeting?”
I shrugged—tight movement.“Standard accountability talk.”
He waited.When nothing more came, he dusted chalk from his palm and pointed at the desk where two fresh oat bars sat.
“Thought you might want fuel,” he said, tone light.
“Thanks.”I didn’t move toward them.
Quiet filled the room, not the easy kind.The radiator hissed like it noticed.
Austen tapped a finger on the legal pad.“I’m free after eight if you want to, you know, hang out or something.”
Eight meant two hours after stim, perfectly inside the no-excuse window.I opened my mouth to say yes.What came out was, “Might run film instead.Need to tighten angles before Stonehill.”
His posture didn’t change, but something in his face did—a small shift around the eyes, like he’d taken a breath and held it.“Okay,” he said after a beat.“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe.Depends on how the shoulder tracks.”
A nod—neutral, professional.He reached for the pad, flipped the top sheet, began uncapping highlighters.Yellow, blue, green, precise clicks.“Let me know.”
The colors blurred.I turned to my dresser, yanked out a clean T-shirt—smelled like his detergent because we’d mixed laundry last week.I shoved it back, grabbed another.
“You should eat something,” he said, still not looking up.
“Later.”I cinched the drawer shut, harder than necessary.
Another silence.This one throbbed.
He capped the markers, lined them edge to edge.“How limited is limited practice?”
