The hallway is quieter. The weight room noise fades behind me, muffled like it’s on the other side of a wall I’m not sure I can climb again.
I knock once.
“Come in.”
Coach Harding is behind his desk, laptop open, glasses perched low on his nose. He looks up and just…stares.
Not in a pity way.
In a measuring way.
Like he’s taking inventory.
Then he stands. “Brooks.”
“Coach,” I say, voice rougher than I want it.
He steps around the desk and grips my shoulder, firm. The kind of grip that saysI’m herewithout making it a scene.
“How you holding up?”
I give him the default answer because it’s muscle memory. “Good.”
Coach narrows his eyes. “Try again.”
My chest tightens.
I exhale. “I’m…doing the work.”
Coach nods slowly, satisfied. “That I believe.”
He gestures to the chair. “Sit.”
I lower myself carefully, knee stiff, brace pulling. The chair feels too small—like I’m bigger than I used to be yet smaller at the same time.
Coach leans on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to see you.”
“Yeah,” I manage.
He studies me. “Medical team says you’re progressing.”
“I am,” I say quickly, like speed will convince him. “PT three times a week. Strength work. Range of motion is improving. We’re building toward full load?—”
Coach lifts a hand. “I’m not questioning your effort.”
The words hit harder than they should.
He holds my gaze. “I’m checking your head.”
My jaw flexes. “My head’s fine.”
Coach’s brows rise. “Logan.”
I exhale slowly, throat burning. “It’s…frustrating.”
“That’s honest,” Coach says.
I look away at the edge of his desk. “It’s hard being here and not being…here.”
