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His expression does not change, but the room does.

“Show it to me first.”

“No.”

He exhales through his nose. “That was efficient.”

“You asked a direct question.”

“I’m not asking to change it.”

“I know.”

That catches him.

He studies my face. “I want to know what’s coming before the front office does. That’s all.”

A white suspension form crosses my mind, one sentence long, recording what my daughter did and nothing that came before it.

I dislike the comparison immediately.

I dislike more that it remains.

“I will not show you the report.”

His jaw shifts once.

“But I can tell you what I am going to write before I write it.”

He looks at me.

“Functional limitation above shoulder height. Compensation through the trunk. Reduced external rotation. You can tell me when it changes before it hurts, so I will write down the change. I will not wait for the pain.”

“That’s more than I had.”

I turn back to the monitor.

“There is one thing I may change.”

“Good change?”

“I do not know yet.”

I bring up the clip from this morning.

“You avoid contact here.” I point to the moment before he takes the puck. “I thought the shoulder had changed the play.”

“It didn’t.”

I look at him.

“Watch my skates.”

I replay it.

He comes to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him along my arm with no point of contact anywhere, which is its own category of touching and we both know it.

“Left one,” he says. “Right before he commits.”