Terms

You don't go back to bed.

You put your hand flat on his door before he can close it. Not hard. Just there.

"Let me in," you say, "or I knock on every door on this floor and tell them the captain of the Ironclads is crying into a bag of ice."

"I'm not crying."

"They won't know that."

He looks at your hand. He looks at you. Then he steps back and lets the door swing open, which is somehow more surprising than if he'd slammed it.

His apartment is the mirror of yours, flipped. Same narrow galley kitchen, same tall windows over Ferris Street, same radiator that clanks like a ghost with a grudge. But where yours is boxes, his is bare. A couch. A TV. A framed jersey on the wall, old-fashioned, the Ironclads anvil faded on the chest, number 4. Nothing else. No photos. No plants. It looks like a place someone sleeps, not a place someone lives.

On the kitchen floor, an orange pill bottle lies on its side, empty. That was the sound you heard.

"Sit," you say.

"It's my apartment."

"Then you know where the chairs are."

He sits on a kitchen stool. You turn on the light over the stove, the only one that isn't harsh, and step in close.

It's a strange thing, being this near him at three in the morning. In the training room he was a problem with a jersey number. Here, in the yellow stove light, he's just a man with his hair falling in his eyes and goosebumps on his arms, and you're annoyed at how beautiful he is even like this. Especially like this. Pale and tired and furious about it, like a statue someone left out in the rain.

"Ice off," you say.

He hesitates. Then he lowers the bag.

The left shoulder is swollen across the front. Not dramatically. Enough. You put two fingers on the joint line and he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

"Lift your arm. Slowly. Out to the side."

He gets to about sixty degrees before his whole body locks.

"Okay. Stop." You move behind him. "Can you put your hand on your stomach and push against me?"

He can, barely. When you resist, the arm gives way like a hinge with no screw.

You step back.

"Bursitis," you say flatly.

"That's what the scan said."

"Then the scan needs glasses."

Rhys laughs. It sounds like it hurts. He puts the ice back on and closes his eyes.

"How long?" you ask.

"How long what?"

"How long has it been like this?"

He doesn't answer. The radiator clanks. Somewhere down on Ferris Street a garbage truck groans through its route.

"Opener's Friday," he finally says. "Against the Comets. Sold out. Bettina's got the owner coming. My contract's up in June, and every team in this league is going to be watching to see if I've still got it." He opens his eyes. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to forget tonight."

"No."

"I'll pay for it."

You stare at him. "Excuse me?"

"The truck. The rental. Whatever you want." His voice is quiet and very calm, the way people talk when they've rehearsed. "New tires for your car. A year of rent. I don't care. Name it."

You feel your face go hot. Not embarrassed. Angry.

"You think I can be bought," you say.

"I think everybody's got a number."

"Then you've been hanging around the wrong people." You pick up the empty pill bottle from the floor and set it on the counter in front of him, label up. It's not a name you recognize as a doctor. Strong stuff. "I'm not taking your money, Rhys. I'm Ava, not a vending machine. And I'm not going to lie on a medical report for you. If I see you can't protect yourself out there, I'm going to say so."

His jaw works. "That's my career."

"It's your arm. You only get two."

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You can hear his breathing. Rough, still, around the edges.

"Give me the opener, Ava," he says.

"What?"

"One game. Watch me play. If you still think I can't do it after Friday, you do what you have to do." He looks up, and for one second there's no captain in his face at all. Just someone asking. "Please."

You don't know why that word does it. Maybe because you suspect he hasn't said it to anyone in years.

"One game," you say. "And you ice properly. Twenty minutes on, forty off. Not this all-night nonsense. And no more of these." You tap the bottle.

He almost smiles. "Yes, Doc."

"I hate that."

"I know," he says. "That's why I do it."

On Friday morning, Strick clears him.

You watch it happen. Rhys on the table, Strick lifting the arm to ninety degrees and no farther, pressing nowhere it matters, chatting about golf the whole time. Four minutes. A signature on a tablet.

"Fit as a fiddle," Strick says.

"Can I see the August scan?" you ask.

Strick's smile stays on. His eyes go cool. "It's in the system. Read access is for medical staff."

"I am medical staff."

"Physio staff, Ava," he corrects pleasantly, and walks out.

Rhys doesn't look at you. He just pulls on his shirt, right arm first.

The Foundry Center on opening night is a different animal.

Eighteen thousand people, a sea of navy and orange, a light show that makes the ice look like it's on fire. When the announcer roars your captain, number forty-four, RHYS CALLOWAY, the noise hits you in the chest like a wave. Women in the front rows are holding signs. One says MARRY ME 44. One says BODY CHECK ME PLEASE. A girl behind the bench actually screams when he skates past and taps the glass with his stick.

You stand behind the bench with your kit and your heart in your throat.

He plays like he's angry at the ice.

First period, he's everywhere. Breaking up rushes. Clearing the crease. Bash makes eighteen saves and yells encouragement in French at everyone and no one. Second period, Rhys rips a slap shot from the point that goes in off the post and the building nearly comes down.

Third period, a Comets forward catches him along the boards.

You see it before it lands. The angle. The left side. The Comet drives his shoulder straight through Rhys's and pins him against the glass, and Rhys goes down on one knee, then onto his side, and stays there.

The building goes quiet.

You're already moving toward the bench door when he gets up. Slowly. Right hand on the boards. He skates to the bench, sits, stares straight ahead. He doesn't look at you once.

"Cal," Bash yells from the crease. "You good?"

Rhys raises his stick. He's good.

He goes back out the next shift.

The Ironclads win 3-2. The crowd chants his name. In the hallway afterward, reporters are three deep, and you see him smiling at them, the bright fake smile, his left arm tucked tight against his ribs.

He doesn't come to the training room. He doesn't come to you.

You get home at midnight. His truck is already in the lot, dent and all. His light is on.

You lie in bed with your laptop open to a blank injury report, cursor blinking. You type his name. You delete it. You type it again.

Through the wall, the freezer opens and closes. Then silence.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. A number you don't know.

it's 4b. don't knock. just answer.