"Well, some things don't change." She looks up at me with an expression somewhere between exasperated and unsurprised. Then she slams down the screen of her laptop and I know I'm in trouble. "You're late, Colt."
"And good morning to you too." I take another bite of Zoey's delicious muffin, speaking around it. "I'm exactly on time. Your clock is wrong."
From the corner of the room, Nico Ashford's deep voice scares the living daylights out of me.
"The clock is fine, dipshit."
I spin around, hand pressed to my chest.
Coach Ashford emerges from the shadows of the cryo chamber area like some kind of grumpy hockey Batman. His arms are crossed over his chest, his jaw is set in that permanently disappointed expression he's perfected over years of coaching.
"JesusChrist, Coach." I exhale sharply, trying to slow my heart rate. "A man your size can't just lurk in dark corners like that. Some of us have recently sustained head trauma, you know."
"You're late," he continues, completely unmoved by my near-death experience. "So anyone with common decency would apologize."
I flash him my most charming grin. "Coach… The clock is clearly—"
"The clock," Nico cuts me off, his tone flatter than week-old soda, "is accurate. Do you need to be reminded of the standards I expect around here?"
Well, shit. Welcome back, Colt. We really missed you around here.
"No, Sir," I mutter, knowing full well I'm already losing this battle.
I drop into the exam chair with a dramatic sigh, letting my body sink into the leather.
"Well, here I am. Punctual in spirit if not in time." I gesture broadly at Willa. "So Doc, what are we doing? Tell me I can skate. Tell me you've decided three weeks is excessive and we can ease me back in tomorrow."
"Let's take this one step at a time." Willa's expression doesn't change as she pulls on some gloves. "Shirt off, Lane."
I grin and fake a blush. "Oh my. Willa, if you wanted me naked, all you had to do was ask."
Nico growls from behind me. "You want another concussion, son?"
I hold up both hands, peeling off my shirt. "Alright, alright. No need for threats. I'm not gonna touch your girlfriend."
Willa steps closer, her clinical gaze sweeping over me while Nico watches from the doorway, arms still crossed.
"How's the head?" she asks, shining a penlight into my eyes.
"Still attached. Mostly functional."
"Mmhmm." She doesn't smile. "Follow my finger."
I track her movement obediently as she slowly assess my entire body. The bruise across my ribs is still there. It's at leastfaded from angry purple to a sickly yellow-green that makes me look like I lost a fight with an aggressive banana.
My jaw's better, at least.
The swelling went down after the first week, and the cut above my temple has healed into a thin pink line that'll probably impress Morgan when she sees the scar.
So much for my pretty-boy image.
The media's going to have a field day.
Willa steps closer, her fingers cool on my skin as she presses along my ribcage. "Any pain here?"
"Nothing I can't handle."
"That's not what I asked."
