“I can and I did. The system requires accountability, Mueller. Without consequences, standards erode.”
Thompson doesn’t look up from his phone. “Your system has too many categories.”
“The system has the exact correct number of categories. Your discomfort with the system reflects your discomfort with rigor, not a flaw in the methodology.”
Hájek asks whether the coffee index accounts for altitude. Berger turns to him, clearly pleased that his expertise hasbeen requested. “Altitude affects atmospheric pressure, which affects extraction temperature, which affects flavor profile. It is a variable I have considered and decided, at this time, not to include. But I appreciate the question. It shows you’re taking the system seriously, Hájek.”
And just like that, he’s back. The broadcast restored. The rankings live. The voice filling the room the way Berger’s voice always fills the room, with certainty and conviction and the cadence of a man who believes his opinions are public services. Mueller disputes a data point. Berger dismantles the dispute. Thompson shakes his head. The table is back to normal.
After the game that night, a loss, Berger delivers a three-minute analysis of the power play’s structural failures that nobody asked for and everyone listens to because Berger’s unsolicited analysis has a way of being uncomfortably correct. He identifies two zone entries where the spacing collapsed, explains why the left-side option was open on the second unit’s failed set play, and rates the visiting locker room’s ventilation a three-point-nine. He disputes a call from the second period with enough detail to suggest he’s already reviewed the footage. He is, by every available measure, himself.
I’m almost convinced. I’m sitting in the visiting locker room pulling tape off my shins and listening to Berger narrate his way through the evening and I’m almost ready to call it what he told me it was. A bad night. One bad night and a guy who feels embarrassed about it.
Then Berger’s phone buzzes on the bench beside him.
He doesn’t check it. His hand moves toward it and stops. His fingers hover for a second, then he picks it up and turns it face-down without looking at the screen. I see a flicker of something, there and gone, the way a crack in a wall shows when the light hits at the right angle and disappears when it shifts.
He goes back to the ventilation rating. Full volume. The phone sits face-down on the bench and he doesn’t touch it again.
Nobody else sees it. But I do. And I don’t know what it means, but I know that a man who checks every notification, who rates every input, who catalogues every data point in his entire visible life, just chose not to look at his phone.
I pull my jersey over my head and I don’t say anything. Because Zay is right. All I can do is be there. But being there means watching, and now I’m watching and seeing more than I expected.
Chapter 14 — ZAY
Gary finds me charting Jensen’s range of motion. He leans in the doorframe with his coffee, which is where every conversation with Gary starts, and waits until I look up.
“Got a minute?”
“Always.”
He comes in and sits on the edge of the empty table, which means this is casual, not a meeting. Hájek’s chart is still open on my desk from the morning rotation, his neck looser on the left, responding to the mobilization protocol I adjusted last week. Mueller’s wrist is stabilizing. Jensen came in quiet and left quieter, which is standard for Jensen, and his range is where I want it.
“Coaching staff had questions about Marchetti’s full release timeline. I told them you’d put together a projection when you’re ready, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“I can have something drafted by Friday. Everything is tracking ahead of schedule. I want two more weeks of loaded resistance before I commit to a timeline on paper.” I closeJensen’s chart and set it aside. “Between us, I still probably want him in here through the rest of the season.”
Gary nods. “That’s what I told them. ‘Brooks will give you a number when the number’s ready, not before.’” He takes a sip of his coffee. “I defer to you on this one. You’ve been hands-on with the case from day one. I trust your judgment.”
When the coaching staff pushed for a faster release last month, he backed my protocol without asking me to justify it. My doctorate in physical therapy matters to him in a way that it doesn’t with everyone. He treats it as what it is, which is the highest clinical credential in the room, and he defers accordingly.
“Thanks, Gary. I’ll have the projection solid by end of week.”
He pushes off the table. “Good.” He pauses at the door. “Oh, and the feedback from Coach Bodie’s staff has been positive. Your communication with the strength team is exactly what I wanted when I brought you on, Brooks.”
He leaves and I reset my station, wipe the table, pull Mueller’s follow-up chart for this afternoon.
Tyler comes in around ten thirty. He’s carrying two coffees and holds one out to me.
“Grabbed you one. They finally fixed the machine in the staff kitchen.”
“Thanks.” I take it. The coffee is mediocre but the gesture is genuine. Tyler does this. Brings coffee, checks in, asks about my weekend with the same unhurried ease he brings to everything in this building. He is between patients the same way I am during morning skate. He leans against the counter while I prep tape for my next session, and the comfort of his posture is the comfort of a man who has never once had to calculate whether he belongs in the room he’s standing in.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” He takes a sip from his cup. “Why does Marchetti always book with you?”
The coffee in my hand stays level. My face stays level. Everything stays level because the alternative to level is a reaction I cannot afford to have in this room.
“I was assigned his case in September. Continuity of care.”
