He came and sat on the edge of the bed next to me.
We sat there for a moment. The window was still open. The warm night was starting.
"They've concluded," he said.
"And?"
"Reinstatement is possible." He said each word carefully. "With conditions."
"What conditions?"
He told me.
The conditions were what they were, standard conflict of interest protocol, the kind of language that covered situations like this, that had never been relevant before because Nathan Cross had never had a situation like this. He couldn't hold the team physician role while in a personal relationship with a player under his direct medical care.
He said it clinically. Precisely. No editorializing.
I listened.
When he finished, I said, "So."
"Yes," he said. "So."
We sat there.
"I could request a trade," I said. "Vancouver has been—"
"No," Nathan said.
"Nathan—"
"You're not going to Vancouver." Flat. Certain. The voice that meant the decision had been made and this part of the conversation was over. "That's not a solution. That's a different problem."
"Then what—"
"I've been looking into other positions," he said.
I stared at him.
Then I got up off the bed.
The towel I'd been wearing since the shower made a decision about whether it was coming with me and the decision was no, and I didn't have time for that, I was already moving.
"Wesley—"
"Where's your phone?"
"What?"
"Your phone, Nathan. Where is it?"
"Why do you need my—"
"I'm going to delete your browser history," I said, locating his phone on the nightstand and picking it up. It was locked. Of course it was locked. "What's your passcode?”
A pause.
"1203," Nathan said.
