I turned to Tess slowly, and the answer was already written across her face. Guilt. Discomfort. The look of someone who’d been asked to carry something they never should’ve agreed to carry.
“Tess.” My voice dropped. Dangerous in how quiet it was. “Tell me you didn’t know about this.”
“Grant—”
“Tell me you didn’t know he’d had a previous hamstring tear and kept it out of his file.”
She looked away, jaw tight. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s really not.” The control I’d been gripping with both hands started to slip. “Did you know?”
“Yes.” The word landed soft, then hard. “I knew.”
The room went silent except for the hum of the overhead lights.
“How long?”
“Since before the season started.” She met my eyes, defensive now, like that could protect her. “He came to me in the summer. Said he’d had hamstring issues in the offseason and worked with a private physio to rehab it. He asked me not to put it in the official file because he didn’t want to be flagged as injury-prone.”
“And you agreed to that?” My voice climbed. “You agreed to hide a major injury history that could end his career?”
“He was cleared to play.” She pushed the words out like they were a shield. “The private physio signed off. He passed all my tests. And you know how this works, Grant. If I put it in his file, the front office starts asking questions. They start monitoring him more closely. They start seeing him as a liability.”
“He is a liability if he’s skating on a leg that could rupture at any second.”
“I was managing it.” Her hands curled at her sides. “I’ve been monitoring him all season, adjusting treatment, making sure?—”
“Making sure what?” I stepped closer, heat rising in my chest. “That he could keep lying about his body? That he could keep gambling with his future?” I could see her swallow. “You don’t get to place that bet, Tess. You don’t get to make that call.”
“It wasn’t a gamble. It was player autonomy. He wanted to play. He wanted to compete.” Her voice cracked into frustration. “And the system—” She cut herself off with a sharp shake of her head. “The system pushes everyone to play through pain. You know that. You’ve done it yourself.”
“That’s different.”
“How? How is it different?”
“Because I’m an adult who gets to destroy his own body if he wants.” The words came out rough. “He’s twenty-six and terrified of being benched. He doesn’t have the distance to understand what he’s risking.”
Dr. Warren cleared his throat, pulling the room back onto its tracks. “Regardless of how we got here, the current situationis clear. Mr. Hartley needs to be shut down. Shoulder rehab for six weeks minimum. Hamstring rehab for at least eight to twelve weeks to stabilize and actually heal. No skating. No training. Nothing that loads the leg or risks turning microtears into a full rupture.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until my lungs burned.
“I need to talk to him,” I said.
“He's sedated right now. The pain medication?—”
“I don't care. I need to talk to him. Now.”
Dr. Warren hesitated, then nodded. “Room 314. But keep it brief. He needs rest.”
I turned and walked out without waiting for Tess to follow.
Jace looked like shit.
He was propped up in the hospital bed with his left arm in a sling, an IV in his right, and a monitor beeping steadily beside him. His face was pale, bruised along the left side where he'd hit the boards. There was a cut above his eyebrow that had been stitched. His eyes were half-closed, glassy from pain meds, but they tracked to me when I walked in.
“Coach,” he said, and his voice was rough, slurred slightly. “Did we win?”
Of course that was his first question.
