That meant I had approximately forty-five minutes to become a functioning human being, which I spent mostly lying on my bathroom floor letting the tile do its cold therapeutic thing while I stared at the ceiling and made peace with my decisions. My head was doing a low-grade throbbing thing.
I was fine. We had already established this.
I checked my phone.
Three different people had sent me the same clip.
It was already at over a hundred thousand views. The thumbnail was me, on the table, arms out, grinning like I'd invented fun.
The caption said:WARDENS’ LITTLE LION PARTIES HARD AFTER TAKING BRUTAL HEAD HIT — is management paying attention?
I watched it twice.
I looked incredible, honestly.
That was the thing nobody was going to acknowledge in any of the concerned coverage. I looked like someone who washaving the time of his life, not like someone who was struggling, and if there was something hollow behind it then that was my business and nobody else's.
I set my phone face-down on the bathroom tile, got up, and got ready, because the alternative was lying there until the tile absorbed me, and I had things to do.
The reporters were waitingoutside the rink.
Not the friendly kind, not the beat writers who covered games and knew the players and had at least a basic understanding of what they were looking at.
These were the other kind, the ones who showed up when there was a story that smelled like liability. Their cameras were up before I'd even gotten out of my car.
I put my game face on.
It wasn't that different from my regular face. Just a little more teeth, a little more ease in the shoulders.
"Morrison, were you medically cleared to play in your last game?"
"I was." Keep moving, keep smiling. "Dr. Cross cleared me himself, actually, so if you have questions about medical protocol, he's the one with the credentials."
"Are you taking concussion protocol seriously given your history?"
I stopped for a second, half turning, because stopping looked more confident than walking away, and confidence was the only currency that mattered out here. "I have a great medical team. I'm in good hands."
"Does Dr. Cross overstep with you? After you were benched last season—"
I smiled wider. "Doc loves bossing me around. We have a great dynamic. But he always does what’s best for the team."
Somebody laughed. A few cameras clicked. I kept walking.
I'd said it so well I almost believed it.
The door to the rink facility was twenty feet away, then fifteen, then I was through it, and the cold outside turned into the different cold of the corridor, the smell of ice and rubber matting that I'd been breathing my whole life and that still, every single time, did something to the knot in my chest.
Cross walked past me in the hall.
He had his tablet and the focused look of someone moving between places with purpose. He didn't slow down. He gave me exactly the same attention he'd have given the wall if the wall had been in his way, a slight adjustment of trajectory, nothing more, and kept going.
No acknowledgement of the reporters outside.
No acknowledgement of me.
Obviously.
There were a couple of reporters inside the rink for practice, standing at the boards with credentials and notepads, which Coach allowed occasionally for access pieces and which I generally considered a mild nuisance.
