Page 130 of Offside

“That doesn’t make it easier.”

“No.” I exhaled. “It really doesn’t.”

Paige held it for a moment, and the pause meant she was deciding whether to say what she was thinking. “Do you trust him?”

I sat with the question for a moment, then answered confidently. “Yes.”

“Then let him do whatever he needs to. And I know that’s not the satisfying answer.”

“It’s not.”

“I know. But you’ve been careful with yourself for a long time, Maren. If he’s worth trusting, let him earn it.” Another pause. “And if he doesn’t come through⁠—”

“I know.”

“You know what I’m going to say.”

“You’re going to say you’ll help me move his stuff to the curb.”

“I was going to say I’ll bring wine,” Paige said. “But yes. Also that.”

I laughed despite myself. It helped, the way Paige always helped. Not by fixing anything, just by making it lighter.

“Call me when it’s resolved,” Paige said. “Or if you need to talk. Either way.”

“I will.”

“And Maren.” A beat. “He’s going to come through.”

On Monday he canceled the dinner we’d planned. Rain check, he’d said. Long day. I sent back a thumbs-up and sat with my phone for a while afterward, not quite putting it down.

By Tuesday I had stopped telling myself anything comforting and started paying attention to what was in front of me.

Griffin came in for his follow-up treatment at eight on Wednesday morning.

I heard him before I saw him. The familiar rhythm of his walk, slightly uneven still, the knee pulling at him without him fully acknowledging it. I was setting up the treatment table when he came through the door. He saw me and his expression did the thing I recognized from childhood. That quick recalibration, the half-second of adjusting to a situation being exactly what he’d hoped it wouldn’t be.

He set his bag down and took a seat without meeting my eyes.

I ran through the assessment efficiently, checking the joint, testing the range of motion, making notes. The swelling had come down. The compensating stride was better. He’d done the protocol I’d told him to do. He had listened to me for once, and I was choosing not to say anything about it.

“Good news,” I said. “You can play Thursday.”

He exhaled. “Thank god.”

“With conditions.” I held up a hand. “You come in before the morning skate for twenty minutes of prep work. You ice after every practice and every game. And if it flares during warm-ups, you tell me immediately and we reassess.”

“Okay.”

“Griffin.”

“Okay, Maren. I got it.”

I nodded and moved into treatment, and the silence settled between us. Pressurized, loaded, the silence of two people with a great deal to say who had agreed, without discussing it, not to say any of it here. I could feel him composing something, discarding it, thinking about it again. I waited. I was good at waiting.

“Are you… Uh… How is he?” Griffin asked finally, staring at the ceiling.

My hands stilled for half a second. “I’m not having that conversation while you’re my patient.”