“Yes.”
“She told me the truth.”
“Some truth.”
“She promised.”
“I know.”
“I asked directly.”
“I know.”
The repetition helped. No advice. No reframing. Just someone staying. The locker-room door opened. Rose entered. Her face was pale with anger.
“Did you know?” I asked.
“No.”
Rose answered immediately.
“She registered Sunday night?”
“That’s what she said.”
Rose sat across from us.
“She logged recovery Tuesday and did not disclose it.”
“Is she physically ready?”
“No.”
The no was sharp.
“Could she become ready?”
“Maybe. That is not the point.”
“I know.”
Rose rubbed both hands over her face.
“I told her no race decision until the next reassessment.”
“She decided.”
“She hid it.”
The confirmation deepened the injury. Not only from me. From everyone whose trust might interfere with the outcome she wanted. The door opened again. Dani stood there. Rose turned.
“Leave.”
“I need to talk to Amy.”
“No.”
Dani stood wrecked—eyes bright, shoulders tight, hands open at her sides. Every instinct in me wanted to move toward her. That was the problem. Love made compassion immediate. Trust required something else.
