I wince as she hits a tender spot. "Okay,somepain. Minor. Barely worth mentioning."
She makes a note on her laptop, then moves to check my range of motion… arms up, arms out, twist left, twist right. I comply like a good little patient, even though every second I spend in this chair is another second I'm not on the ice.
"Concussion symptoms?"
"Gone."
"Headaches?"
"Occasionally. Usually when someone's being annoying."
"So, considering you live in your own company, constantly, then."
"Willa, that's hurtful."
Her lips work a tiny smile and she makes another note. Then the door swings open behind me and the energy in the room shifts immediately.
"Well, well." Samuel Voss steps into the medical wing, fresh from the ice in a Snow Leopards hoodie. He takes one look at me, shirtless and sprawled in the exam chair, and lets out a low whistle. "If it isn't the most pathetic little body I've ever seen on a professional athlete."
"Looking good, Cap," I fire back, flexing one arm from the chair. "Jealous?"
Samuel doesn't even dignify that with a response. He just leans against the doorframe, those dark blue eyes sweeping over the bruising on my ribs with an expression that's harder to read than Coach's playbook.
"How's he looking?" Samuel asks Willa, not me. Like I'm a used car he's considering returning.
Willa pulls up something on her laptop, angling the screen away from me. "Reflexes are good. Cognitive responses are within range. But..."
Thatbutstings like a bad penalty call.
"But?" I sit up straighter. "Butwhat? I feel great. Seriously. Better than great. I feel like I could—"
"Your post-concussion markers are still elevated." Willa closes the laptop with a quiet click that somehow sounds like a death sentence. "Colt, I can't clear you."
"What do you mean youcan't clear me?" I laugh, looking around the room. "Willa, come on. I've been resting for three weeks.Three weeks.I've done everything you asked. I ate the smoothies. I did the eye exercises. I slept nine hours a night like some kind of geriatric labrador—"
"I understand, Colt. But two more weeks won't hurt." Her voice is absolute. "We're doing the full protocol. Head injuries, especially one like this… it's serious. We need to be careful."
I look to Samuel. He's got his arms crossed, and those captain's eyes are locked on mine with something worse than disappointment.
Agreement.
"She's right," Samuel says quietly. "We're not rushing this. We're back to playing well, and the team is settled. You should take your time, man."
I turn to Nico, my last lifeline. He pushes off the wall, and for one stupid second I think he's going to override them.
"Please,Coach—"
"You heard her. Two more weeks, Lane. Non-negotiable." He claps me on the back. "Don't worry. We'll find something for you to do around here. Keep you involved. Part of the team."
Part of the team.
Notonthe team. Not where I belong. Not where I've literally spent every damn second of my life, since I was four fucking years old and my parents wouldn't look at me unless I was hitting a puck better than anyone they'd ever seen.
I pull my shirt back on with a huff, and nobody says a word as I storm out.
The corridor stretches ahead of me as my sneakers squeak against the floor, and the sound is solonelyit makes my teeth ache.
I pass the community events board near the players' exit without slowing down. Some girl from admin is pinning a poster with purple and gold trim that catches the edge of my vision:
