Page 9

The jersey gets halfway over my head before my shoulder quits. I lower it, wait, and try again. RILEY and 27 hang in front of my face while I breathe into my own equipment.

Professional athlete. Defeated by laundry.

I hear somebody coming and get it down before Maren, who oversees my rehab, reaches the doorway.

“My office when you’re dressed.”

“You always this romantic?”

“Only with difficult men.”

“Finally, some honesty.”

She keeps walking.

I wait until the room clears, tuck my right elbow close, and work the shirt off.

Maren’s office sits behind a real door, which is probably why bad news lives there.

There’s a referral beside her keyboard.

I point at it before I sit. “Nothing good starts with paperwork.”

“This is chronic, Colt.”

That gets me into the chair. Another clinic’s name is printed across the top.

“It was better this week.”

“It was better for three days.”

“I’d call that progress.”

“I’d call it three days. I’m moving part of your rehab outside the annex.”

“We have rehab here.”

“We have rehab here between practice, travel, and games. I want somebody whose whole job is your shoulder.”

“Bring them here. I’ll pay them.”

“This is not about money.”

There it is.

The one answer I have no use for.

My contract ends after this season. I’ve been waiting for a clean stretch before I talk to Silas about the next one. Something I can point at without sounding like a man selling a used fucking car.

I rub my thumb along the edge of the referral. “I’m not ready to be good about this.”

“I know.”

“Are you telling me I’m done?”

“No.”

I nod once. “Fine. Get it.”