“What the hell is this?”
He wasn’t asking. He was planting blame like a flag.
I pivoted toward the cabinet instead, fingers already opening drawers, pulling gauze, saline, the syringe kit. My hands knew the order even if my head didn’t. Pain relief. Assessment. Contain the damage.
“Answer me,” McAvoy said. “He was cleared. He was supposed to be fine.”
Theo sucked in a breath, steeling himself. Holly hovered near the door, phone in her hand, screen dark but ready. Her mouth had gone thin. She was already thinking past this room.
I pressed a hand to Theo’s ribs, light enough to register, firm enough to anchor. His eyes slid shut. A sound slipped out of him that punched straight through me.
“I need space.” My voice came out steadier than I felt.
“What you need,” McAvoy shot back, “is to tell me how my best defenseman blows his shoulder to hell in the biggest game of the season.”
Holly stepped forward then. “We have reporters already circling the tunnel. I need to know what we’re saying.”
Theo’s fingers dug harder into the table. Sweat beaded along his hairline. I could see the tremor start in his forearm. Shock flirting with him now.
“Hey,” I murmured, leaning close. “Stay with me. Look at me.”
His lashes fluttered. He nodded once. Barely.
McAvoy slammed a fist into the wall. Bottles rattled. “I want an explanation, Hopper, and I want it now.”
“That’s enough,” I snapped. The words surprised all of us. Including me. “There are more important things than a trophy. He’s hurt.”
McAvoy’s glare burned through me. “And you kept us in the dark about it.”
The room went quiet, as though the air itself leaned in to listen. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Theo groaned. Low. Ragged. His good hand groped for mine and missed. I caught it and held on.
Holly’s voice slid in, tight but gentle. “Reese. If there’s something we don’t know, now would be the time.”
I pressed my thumb into Theo’s palm. Hard enough that he hissed and focused.
“Hopper,” McAvoy said again. “Talk.”
Theo’s eyes were shut. His jaw worked. Sweat slid from his temple into his hair. His breath came shallow, then stuttered, then steadied like he was wrestling it into submission.
“This was it,” McAvoy went on. “This was the game. We were right there. How the hell did this happen?”
I reached for saline. The bottle tipped against my trembling fingers. I righted it. Lined it up on the counter with the others. Gauze. Wrap. The syringe kit I hadn’t touched yet.
Theo’s pained moans vibrated through the table. Through me.
Holly’s voice layered over McAvoy’s. “All season we’ve pushed transparency. It’s why fans trust us. If this comes out wrong—”
“When,” McAvoy corrected.
“When,” she agreed, eyes still on me. “They will always find out.”
The room pressed inward. Fluorescent lights, the whine of a vent that had been there all season and chose now to matter. The table creaked under Theo’s shifting weight.
I stood there, split clean down the middle.
Every instinct screamed to lean in. To stabilize the joint. To get ahead of the swelling. To make the pain stop.
