“Fine.”
“Scale of one to ten.”
“Four. Maybe five.”
“So realistically a seven.” She made a note on her tablet without looking up. “You're still compensating. Favoring it without realizing.”
“I'm not?—”
“Jace.” She looked at me then, expression flat. “I can tell when you're lying about pain. Don't.”
I exhaled hard and told the truth. “Seven. Yeah.”
“Better.” She moved to my leg and started to work on my hamstring. “This is tighter than yesterday. You overdid it.”
“I followed your protocol.”
“You followed my protocol and then did extra work when you thought no one was watching.” Her voice wasn't accusatory. Just factual. “I can see the inflammation. The muscle fatigue. You can't hide it from me.”
Busted.
“I need to be ready,” I said quietly.
“Then stop doing stupid shit that sets you back.” She pressed harder on a knot, and I hissed through my teeth. “You promised me you'd be honest. You promised you'd follow the plan. That includes not adding extra reps when my back is turned.”
“I'm just trying to?—”
“I know what you're trying to do. And I'm telling you it won't work.” She switched to a different angle, working deeper into the muscle. “You can't rush healing, Jace. Your body doesn't care how badly you want to play in prelims. It heals on its own timeline.”
“What if that timeline isn't fast enough?”
“Then it isn't fast enough.” She looked at me. “But if you keep pushing past your limits, you'll make it slower. You'll re-injure yourself. And then instead of maybe being ready for prelims, you'll definitely be out. Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“Then trust the process. Do the work I tell you to do. Nothing more, nothing less.” She stepped back, wiped her hands. “You made me a promise, remember? That you'd be honest. That you'd follow protocol. I'm holding you to that.”
I thought about that conversation. About signing the compliance agreement. About choosing my career over my pride.
“You're right. I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize. Just do better tomorrow.” She checked her tablet. “You're done for today. Ice the shoulder for twenty minutes, then you're clear. And Jace?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever's happening with the media, with the photos, with all the noise—I don't care. That's not my job. My job is getting you functional enough to play hockey again.” Her voice was firm. “So when you're in this room, we focus on that. Nothing else matters. Understood?”
“Understood.”
She left, and I sat there in the treatment room alone, icing my shoulder and trying to compartmentalize. Trying to separate the rehab work from the media circus. Trying to focus on what I could control—the exercises, the recovery, the slow march toward being game-ready.
Everything else would have to wait.
I was halfwaythrough the ice protocol when the door opened and Rook walked in.
He stood in the doorway in workout clothes, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He looked at me for a long moment, then jerked his head toward the hallway.
“Come on,” he said.
