His Jacket

"Don't," you say.

Jace raises his eyebrows at the ceiling. "I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was about to say good morning like a normal patient." He turns his head on the pillow. The grin is gone; what's left is softer, almost wary. "I didn't know until Friday night, for what it's worth. Nils sent the drivers your name and a photo. I nearly drove into a ditch."

"You said see you Monday."

"I panicked and went for charming."

"It wasn't charming."

"It was a little charming."

You set your bag down on the counter with more force than it needs. Your hands, you notice, are not entirely steady, so you give them a job. Gloves. Clipboard. The assessment form. Professional, professional, professional.

"Sit up," you say. "Arms at your sides."

"Yes, Dr. Penderley." He says it like he's trying the words on. "Ava. Doc. Whatever you want."

He sits up. The treatment paper crackles. You stand in front of him and look at him the way you'd look at any athlete: posture, symmetry, the way the shoulders sit. It helps, for about four seconds. Then you notice the line of muscle along his ribs and remember the last time you saw it, at three in the morning in Vegas, and the four seconds are over.

"Raise your right arm. Now your left."

The left goes up smooth until about a hundred and forty degrees, then hitches, a tiny catch, and his jaw tightens.

You put your fingers on the joint. His skin is warm. You feel him go still under your hands.

"How long has it been doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Jace."

He looks at the door. Then at you. "Since a testing crash in January. It pops sometimes. Goes right back. It's fine."

"It is not fine. That's instability. Possibly a labral tear." You press, gently, and he hisses. "Does Dr. Hallgren know?"

"Nobody knows." His voice drops. "I'm in a contract year, Doc. Dagny's got a nineteen-year-old in the junior series who'd sell his grandmother for my seat. If this goes in a file, it goes to her. Please."

You take your hands off him. The room feels colder.

"I'm not leaving it out," you say. "I'm not going to lie in a medical record for you. But I'll write what I see: instability, monitor and treat. Not bench him. And you're doing my exercises every single day, and if it gets worse, we tell Hallgren together. That's the deal."

He studies you for a long moment. Then he nods once. "Deal."

The door opens. Hallgren comes back in, pocketing his phone, and you step away from the table so fast you nearly trip over the stool.

"Good, you've met," he says. "Before you go any further, Dr. Penderley, a word about our staff code. Clause seven." He says it like scripture. "No romantic or sexual relationships between team staff and drivers. None. It's grounds for immediate termination, and I enforce it. I've seen what happens when a medical professional stops being objective about an athlete. Someone gets hurt."

"Of course," you say.

Behind Hallgren's shoulder, Jace looks at the ceiling again, very innocently.

"Excellent." Hallgren smiles for the first time. "Welcome to the team."

You spend the day learning names. Iggy Lemaire, Jace's race engineer, bald and wiry with a Montreal accent and a headset around his neck even in the cafeteria, who shakes your hand and says, "So you're the one who's going to keep the kid in one piece. Good luck." Sorin Vandewalle, the driver of the 12, Belgian and golden and ridiculously handsome, who kisses you on both cheeks and says your accent is charming. You don't have an accent.

By six it's pouring. You're in the parking lot with your keys out when Iggy jogs over with a folder over his head.

"You live in Fountain Square? Kid's truck is at his dad's garage getting new brakes. Speedway's on your way. Do me a favor?"

There's no way to say no that doesn't sound strange. So Jace Maddox folds himself into the passenger seat of your eight-year-old hatchback, shakes rain out of his curls, and throws his team jacket into the back seat.

For ten minutes neither of you says anything. The wipers thump. The radio murmurs.

"You can ask," he says finally.

"Ask what?"

"Whatever you've been chewing on since Saturday."

You grip the wheel. "Why did you leave? In Vegas. You could have woken me up."

He's quiet so long you think he won't answer. Then: "Because if I'd woken you up, you would've given me the speech. Nice night, great guy, no numbers, have a good life. And I didn't want to hear it."

"So you wrote rematch."

"So I wrote rematch." He looks out at the rain. "It was a better ending."

You pull up outside a cinder-block garage with a hand-painted sign: MADDOX AUTO. The lights are on inside. Through the window you can see Fenton under the hood of a truck.

Jace doesn't get out right away. He looks at you across the dim car, and the dashboard light catches his eyes, and for one second it's three in the morning in Vegas again and you can hear your own heartbeat.

"For the record, Ava," he says, "I'm going to keep your rules. Even the ones I hate."

Then he's gone, running through the rain, and you sit there with your hands shaking on the wheel for a full minute before you can drive.

You don't notice the jacket until the next evening, and by then it's too late.

Maren comes over at seven with a bottle of rosé and her binder, because the bridesmaid dress fittings need to be scheduled around four different work calendars and she doesn't trust a group chat to do it. Bex is at the shop. Your apartment smells like the garlic bread you burned.

"Oh, I left the swatches in your car," Maren says. "Yesterday, when you drove me to the florist. Can I borrow your keys?"

"Sure," you say, without thinking, and toss them to her, and go back to stirring the pasta.

You're draining it when you hear the front door. You turn around with the colander in your hands.

Maren is standing in your kitchen in her camel coat, swatch book under one arm. In the other hand, held up by the collar like evidence, is a black team jacket. Blue and silver piping. A sponsor patch on the sleeve. And stitched in white across the back, impossible to miss:

MADDOX 44.

"Ava," your sister says slowly. "Why is Jace's jacket in your car?"

Steam rises off the pasta. Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

On the counter between you, your phone lights up and buzzes, screen up.

You grab it before she can look. Your heart is going so hard you can feel it in your teeth.

J: pretty sure i left my jacket in your car