“Appreciate the scouting.”
He tipped an invisible cap and walked out.
I dressed quickly—compression leggings under faded jeans, team hoodie over a plain tee—and loaded gear into my stall to air.The shoulder throbbed as the adrenaline faded.I flagged down Dalton, the team trainer, as he moved down the aisle.He tossed me a heavy flex-pack of crushed ice.
“Twenty minutes,” he ordered.“Don’t freeze the nerve.I’ll see you on my table in twenty.”
I wedged the pack under my hoodie, hissing as the cold hit the bruise.
Ryan noticed the crinkle of plastic.“Cryotherapy already?We haven’t even hit the highway.”
“Dalton’s orders.”I adjusted the fit against my skin.“Said he doesn’t want me locking up before we get back to campus.”
“You know you’re a legend already, right?”
“Because of ice?”
“Because you’re the only guy here who walks in day one and posts a .920 against Morales.”
“It was practice.”
“Practice with Coach Harper filming every angle.Relax, Carter.Enjoy the dub.”
I didn’t correct him—because it wasn’t a win yet.Friday would decide that.
We headed up to the players’ lounge.Fluorescent lights flickered against trophy cases; smell of day-old coffee hovered.Ryan raided the snack shelf, tossing me a protein bar.
“You ditching afternoon weights to cry in an ice bath?”he asked.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He peeled open his bar.“You got time before film.Wanna grab real food at Buckman Grill?”
“Need to hit Dalton first.”
“Cool.Meet you after?”
“Yeah.”I checked my phone—8:57 a.m.Two missed texts, both from Dad.I didn’t open them.
“Everything good?”Ryan asked, nodding at the screen.
“Fine.”I shoved the device into my pocket.“See you in thirty.”
He eyed me but didn’t press, strolled off humming that same off-key pop punk.
The training room was half full—cross-country guys foam-rolling, a volleyball hitter ankle-deep in an ice bucket, our freshman defenseman getting his wrist taped.Dalton, the senior trainer, waved me to a table.
“Left shoulder still?”he said, digging an ultrasound wand out of a drawer.
“Impact bruise.”
“Shirt off.”He flicked the machine on.“New program’s been rough on you?”
“Finding angles.”
He spread gel across my deltoid, pressed the probe.“Just inflammation.You’ll be fine once the tissue stops yelling.”
I stared at the ceiling tiles, counting rivets.Dad’s texts burned in my pocket—probably congratulating me for making it here, probably reminding me what happens if I fall short.He’d been supportive in his own way since I left Glen Rock, but the subtext never changed:Don’t repeat my mistakes.
