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Her eyes flick to the clock at the corner of her screen.

“Is he still here?” I ask.

“He has a call in about ten minutes.”

“Perfect.”

I stop at her desk.

Silas’s door is open. He’s standing beside the window with his phone in one hand and a folder in the other. He sees me through the glass, says something into the phone, and hangs up.

His shoulders shift before he puts the phone on his desk.

“Riley.”

“Got a minute?”

Silas looks toward Denise, then back at me. “Come in.”

His office smells like coffee that has been sitting too long. The framed jerseys are where they have always been, along with the team photograph from two seasons ago. I’m in the front row holding one side of the conference trophy. Mack is three people over.

Silas sets the folder on his desk but doesn’t offer me a chair.

I stay standing.

“You said March.”

“I did.”

“It’s March.”

“I’m aware of the calendar, Colt. I also have eleven contracts either expiring or requiring decisions before camp, medical reports I don’t have yet, and a cap number that changes every time somebody’s agent calls me.”

Better.

“Am I in your plans next year?”

He rests both hands on the edge of his desk.

“We’re still working through the roster.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Silas slides the folder farther onto the desk. “You want me to tell you there’s a contract waiting. I can’t do that.”

“I didn’t ask whether there was a contract waiting.”

“You asked whether you’re in the plan. Right now the plan depends on information I don’t have.”

“What information?”

“Whether your shoulder gets through April without losing anything else. What medical thinks about another season. And whether you’d even take the role we’ve got. Money comes after all of that.”

“I’ve played. I’m producing. My minutes are down.”

“They are, and you know why.”