The door clicks shut behind him, and I exhale slowly, then start wiping down the table.
A little later, Mark Dalton ducks into the room, tugging at the tape on his shoulder. I recognize him from the roster I memorized before day one—veteran defenseman, more than a decade with the Ice Foxes.
“Mind giving me a quick re-wrap?” he asks, peeling the edge loose. His tone is casual, like this is nothing new for him.
“Sure,” I say, reaching for the fresh roll.
He doesn’t flinch or hover, just lets me work. When I’m done, he flexes once and gives me an easy smile. “Perfect. Thanks, Charlotte.”
Simple. Professional. But the acknowledgment lands.
My phone buzzes from inside my duffel. I almost ignore it, but the screen lights up with a text from David.
Hey—Erin’s craving grilled food and the forecast looks like it should cooperate. Backyard BBQ on Sunday if you’re free?
I smile, thumb hovering over the screen.
Yeah, I’m in. Look forward to getting to know my niece better. Thanks for the invite.
I'm halfway through logging notes into the system when Dan pokes his head in from the hallway.
“Hey, Charlotte. Got a minute?”
I glance at the clock. “Of course. What’s going on?”
“Torres, rookie winger, tweaked his quad during practice,” Dan says. “Nothing alarming, but he’s milking it. Thinks chirping me counts as pain management. Mind giving it a look?”
I nod, already standing.
I follow him down the hallway to the secondary treatment room. Torres is still in most of his gear, minus skates, perched on the table with his helmet in his lap. He’s mid-story, grinning at one of the trainers.
“Reinforcements,” he says when he spots me. “About time. Dan was threatening to bring out the foam roller of doom.”
I smile as I pull on gloves. “Tell me what happened.”
“I saved the entire top line from a catastrophic collision,” he deadpans. “With my thigh. At full speed.”
“Heroic,” I murmur, already kneeling beside him. “Tell me exactly where it hurts.”
He points to a spot just above the knee, wincing slightly as I press around it. The tissue feels inflamed, but there’s no heat or bruising yet. Likely mild. Maybe a deep contusion at worst.
“You’ll live,” I say after a beat.
Torres grins. “I knew you’d be honest with me.”
“Someone has to be,” I reply, straightening. “You’ve got a maintenance schedule now. We’ll ice and mobilize today, then recheck range in the morning.”
I step into the supply room across the hall to grab more tape—one of the many places I’m still memorizing after only three days here.
As I step into the hallway, I catch a few voices drifting around the corner—from the direction of the players’ lounge.
“Not the same without Cap out there.”
“He barely has to say anything. Just makes you want to play harder.”
“Yeah. You feel it. Without him around, it’s like—”
“Like the room’s just waiting on him.”
