“No contact, no extra sets.”I quoted Dalton before he could ask.“Harper’s orders.”
“Harper is sensible.”
I barked a humorless laugh.I looked up.He met my stare head on.
The urge to step closer, apologize, crawl back into last night’s calm scraped at my ribs.Control first, softness later.That was the rule.A rule I’d invented ten minutes ago, sure, but it felt safe.
I bent to retie a lace I hadn’t undone.“I’ll eat after stim.”
“Copy,” he said, echoing my earlier deflection.He swiveled to his laptop and typed.Keys clacked, steady.
I stood, shoulder complaining.“Heading to library.See you.”I grabbed my backpack, ignoring the oat bars on the desk.Door shut behind me with a soft latch.
The library’s business stacks were near empty at mid-afternoon.Perfect.I commandeered a cubicle, spread my management textbook on the table and read.Shoulder ached; I popped Dalton-approved acetaminophen, skipped water—water meant breaks.
Every ten minutes my phone flashed: Dad calling, then Dad again from a different number.I muted the screen, face down.Another notification—Austen, one line:
Don’t forget to ice.
I stared until the bubbles stopped.No reply.
Focus.
I shoved the textbook aside and queued the Stonehill film on my laptop.Left winger loved blocker side; nothing I didn’t know.Shoulder tight.I muted the commentary, let the images run until they meant nothing.
At eighteen-hundred my stomach complained.I ignored it—fifteen more minutes, then stim.Numbers said routine mattered.
Training room fluorescence buzzed above Dalton’s head.He strapped electrodes around the bruise; the current made the muscle twitch like an eel under skin.
“Pain?”he asked.
“Four.”
He didn’t look impressed.“Coach gave me leeway to bench you if you inflate numbers.Try again.”
I exhaled.“Five… maybe a five-point-five.”
“That I believe.”He adjusted the dial, watched my face.“After this, ice it for twenty minutes.”
“Got it.”
“And Carter?”He dropped his voice.“If you try to BS your way through this, Harper will notice.If there’s a problem, talk to her before she talks to you.Remember, missing a single game is better than a career-ending injury.Of all the guys in this program, you should understand that.”
I offered half a nod.
Back in Stony Creek the corridor smelled like overcooked ramen.Our door was shut.I pulled out my key, unlocked the door, and stepped in.
The desk lamp glowed, illuminating a single sheet of paper on my pillow next to the chessboard:White to move.Mate in three.We iterate.
There were also two unopened oat bars.
I sat, shoulder throbbing in time with my pulse.The quiet felt different—less shared, more vacant.My fault.
I picked up the page.First move:Knight to F6 check.Obvious.Aggressive.
I looked for the follow-up.Bishop takes…
My brain stalled.
