She doesn’t look at me again. She grabs her bag from the chair, movements jerky and uncoordinated—the first time I’ve ever seen her be anything less than precise. She practically scrambles for the exit, sneakers squeaking against the floor.
“Ivy!”
The door slams shut, the sound echoing through the quiet room, leaving me alone with the taste of her still on my tongue—and the crushing weight of Marcus’s warning finally hitting home.
7
IVY
Nothing to See
The cognitive testing equipment hums softly in the assessment room, and I'm already regretting the choice to schedule Declan Hawthorne last.
"Next," I call out, cross-checking my tablet.
The testing started well enough. Professional. Controlled. Exactly how I needed it to be. Yesterday, I tested some players.
Today, Jake Morrison was the first. At six-foot-two, he had the presence of a team captain. His warm brown eyes and shaved head made him look more like a philosophy professor than a hockey player. There was a faded tan line on his ring finger where a wedding band used to sit, and he wore a watch that looked like a family heirloom.
"Dr. Chandler." He shook my hand firmly. "I appreciate what you're doing here. My nephew had a concussion last year playing high school football. Scary stuff."
I relaxed slightly. "That's exactly why this research matters. Early detection can change outcomes."
The baseline test went smoothly. Jake treated each protocol with the seriousness of a game-day drill.
Misha Volkov came next, the team's Russian goalie. With ice-blue eyes and blonde hair, he had the kind of stoic expression that made me wonder if he was plotting world domination. A small Orthodox cross tattoo peeked from beneath his shirt collar.
"You are a doctor?" he asked in a thick accent.
"Yes. PhD in biomechanics."
He nodded once then proceeded through every test in silence. The man was unnervingly focused, with sharp reflexes.
Tyler Chen followed. At five foot eleven, he looked compact but powerful. His undercut hairstyle and the scar cutting through his left eyebrow gave him a perpetually skeptical look. He leaned against the exam table.
"So, Doc, if I fail these tests, do I get out of conditioning drills?"
"No."
He winked. That was weird.
"You're Marcus's sister, right? He's been territorial about you being here."
My jaw tightened. "I'm here as a researcher, not as anyone's sister."
"Relax. I'm just saying the guy threatened to break Connor's face if he even looked at you wrong."
"Connor?"
"Hayes. Our rookie forward. He's got a crush on anything with a pulse."
Connor Hayes came in next, and I immediately understood Tyler's warning. Sandy brown hair fell across his forehead in an effortlessly messy way, and bright blue eyes lit up his boy-next-door face.
"Hi. Dr. Chandler, right?" he said, grinning. "I'm Connor. This is so cool. I mean, not cool that we're studying brain injuries. That's terrible. But cool that you're here to help prevent them. Do you need a research assistant? I took a psychology class in college."
"That's... not necessary. But thank you."
His grin widened, revealing dimples. "If you ever need someone to grab coffee or explain hockey rules or..."
