Page 11 of Offside

He shifted his weight. His right shoulder stayed lower than the left, but the stick rested safely against his side.

"Then it costs more when they finally notice."

I understood that beyond wrists and shoulders. I thought he did too.

Footsteps sounded at the intersection behind him. Garrett crossed the opening with his own stick bag over one shoulder. He glanced down our corridor, saw us facing each other in the narrow band of light, and kept going toward the players' exit.

Bishop watched him leave. When he looked back, his attention landed on my mouth.

My body felt his gaze. The width of him blocked most of the corridor. A clean-soap smell sat beneath the cold from the rink. His lower lip was split at one corner, a small red line I hadn't noticed in the room that morning.

The training-room doorway remained open behind me. I could have stepped into it.

"The wrap is working." I lifted the empty roll between us.

"I know. I wanted to hear why from you."

"You'd already worked it out," I said.

"Thinking it isn't the same as hearing you say it." His voice was rough.

He moved the stick to his right hand so he could pass on the left. I turned sideways at the same time. There was room if neither of us breathed.

His shoulder touched mine, warm through the fabric of his thin practice shirt, pressed briefly along my upper arm and chest. This wasn't an assessment or positioning for an exercise—neither of us had a reason to touch. He stopped for less than a second, and so did I. I held my breath.

Then he was past me.

"Good night, Pryce."

I found my voice after he turned away. "Drive safe."

His footsteps receded toward the equipment room.

I stood in the corridor holding an empty roll of tape until a door shut behind him. I collected a new case and carried it back to the training room. The corridor was wide enough when I was alone.

5

Bishop

The assessment appeared in my medical portal at 7:08 on Monday morning, October 29. I'd already heard every number in it. Declan had shown me the loss in September and the improvements since. Reyes had gone through the imaging, cleared me to return to contact, and made it clear that clearance meant the shoulder could take the planned load, not that the joint had become new.

The file still looked worse in black and white. It documented chronic right-shoulder impairment and reduced overhead function under fatigue, then recommended load modification and continued reassessment through the season.

There was no accusation in it. Nothing said I couldn't play. The home opener had proved I could play, and the nine games after it had proved the same thing in nine different ways. At 7:19, Park's office sent a one-line notice postponing the extension meeting scheduled for ten. The notice didn't offer a new time or a reason.

The assessment said what the shoulder couldn't do. I read it three times in my truck outside the practice facility, then called Marchetti.

He answered on the second ring. "You've seen it."

"Yeah," I said.

"So has the club."

I watched the staff entrance through the windshield. "Park's office postponed the ten o'clock."

"I saw. They haven't given us another time."

"Eleven minutes after the assessment appeared."