"Not yet." He drops into the chair, sprawling like he's settling in for a casual chat rather than a medical assessment. "But give it time."
I pull up the first protocol on my tablet, refusing to let him see how his presence affects me.
"We'll start with a reaction time assessment. You'll press the button as quickly as possible when the light flashes. Simple."
"Sounds boring."
"It's science, not entertainment."
The first light flashes. Declan doesn't move.
I wait. The light flashes again.
Still nothing.
"Mr. Hawthorne, you need to press the button."
"Do I?
He examines his fingernails with exaggerated interest. My patience, already worn thin from a full day of testing, frays further.
"This is a baseline assessment. It's important for your safety."
"Is it?" He looks up, pinning me with an intense gaze. "Or is it just an excuse to spend time with me?"
Heat crawls up my neck. "That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard."
"Then why are you blushing?"
"I'm not..." I press my lips together, refusing to engage. "The light will flash again. Please, press the button when it does."
He does, but his reaction time is deliberately slow. Impossibly slow. I've tested enough athletes to know what normal looks like. This isn't it.
"Again."
This time, he waits a full three seconds before responding.
"Mr. Hawthorne..."
"Declan."
"You're deliberately sabotaging this assessment."
"Prove it." His smirk is infuriating.
I set the tablet down forcefully. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Acting like a child."
"Maybe I just have slow reflexes." He shrugs, amusement dancing in his eyes. "It's tragic, really. It might affect my career."
"Your career is based on having some of the fastest reflexes in professional hockey. Try again."
We repeat the test. He fails spectacularly, his reaction times getting progressively worse.
By the time we move to the memory assessment, where he claims he can't remember a simple sequence of four numbers I showed him five seconds ago, my professionalism is hanging by a thread.
