Chapter Twenty-Two
FINN
The Comets invite me to development camp on the same day Mara tells me not to fix anything.
I receive the email during video review.
Jace reads over my shoulder.
He screams.
Coach Mercer stops the video. Theo stands. The room erupts before I finish the first paragraph.
For thirty seconds, happiness is uncomplicated.
Then the Comets’ player-relations director calls.
She congratulates me, explains travel, medical screening, media availability, and representation. At the end, her tone changes.
“We are aware of the current story involving the radio donation.”
I look toward the hallway and close the locker-room door.
“Yes.”
“We are not concerned about charitable giving. We do need clarity regarding the mental-health speculation circulating online.”
Every muscle in my back tightens.
“What speculation?”
“A practice video appears to show you leaving the ice in distress. There are posts connecting it to earlier incidents.”
The reporter’s camera.
“I had a medical symptom and followed the team plan.”
“Would you be comfortable providing records before camp?”
“Medical records?”
“Our physicians will conduct standard screening. Any history relevant to performance should be disclosed.”
Anxiety is relevant. So is privacy. The line between them becomes a blade.
“I will complete required medical screening,” I say. “I will not send counseling records to public relations.”
A pause.
“That is not what I requested.”
“It sounded close.”
“We want to help you manage the narrative.”
The phrase creates instant distrust.
“What narrative?”
“That you are healthy, supported, and focused on hockey.”
All three can be true.
The proposed version means something else: uncomplicated, silent, profitable.
“I am healthy enough to play,” I say. “I am receiving appropriate care. I am focused on hockey.”
“Good. We can prepare a statement.”
“No.”
Another pause.
“No statement?”
“Not now.”
After the call, I sit alone in the equipment room.
A professional camp should feel like the answer to years of work. Instead, every future door seems to require a smaller version of me to walk through it.
I call Owen.
He answers from a hotel lobby.
“Camp?” he says. “Congratulations.”
“How did you know?”
“Coach called.”
“Is everyone in my life a criminal informant?”
“Yes.”
I tell him about player relations.
Owen listens.
“What do I say?” I ask.
“The truth you choose.”
“That is useless.”
“It was Lena’s advice. I also hated it.”
“What if they rescind?”
“They might.”
The honesty hurts.
“Would you have disclosed panic before signing?” I ask.
“No.”
He answers immediately.
“Would you now?”
“Yes.”
“What changed?”
“I learned that a career requiring me to lie about my body would own more than my contract.”
I close my eyes.
Owen continues. “Privacy is yours. Shame is not a medical requirement.”
After the call, I contact a sports attorney recommended by Owen’s agent.
This is where I make the mistake.
Her name is Dana Ruiz. I intend to ask only about medical disclosure and the development camp.
During the consultation, I mention the station donation.
She explains that the university’s administrative leak may have violated the gift agreement and damaged both my privacy and Mara’s professional reputation.
“You may have claims,” she says.
“I do not want to sue the station.”
“Not the station. University administration.”
“What would a letter do?”
“Preserve rights. Demand that they prevent further disclosure. Request an independent administrator for the funds.”
Independent administrator.
Exactly what Mara wants.
“Send a draft to me,” I say.
Dana asks for the gift agreement. I forward it.
I do not tell Mara because it is only a draft.
I tell myself I am gathering information.
At therapy, Dr. Patel asks why I contacted the lawyer.
“To protect privacy.”
“Whose?”
“Mine. Mara’s. The station’s.”
“Did they ask?”
“Mara wants independent administration.”
“Did she ask you to obtain it?”
“No.”
The room becomes irritatingly quiet.
“I am not sending anything without telling her,” I say.
“Then tell her.”
“I will when I understand the options.”
“What are you afraid will happen if she knows now?”
“She will say no before she sees that it could work.”
Dr. Patel’s expression remains neutral.
I hear my own sentence.
Before she can choose.
Control disguised as preparation.
I take out my phone.
Mara is recording until midnight. I do not want to interrupt.
I type:
ME: I consulted an attorney about camp medical privacy and the university leak. She is drafting options. Nothing sent. We need to discuss before any action.
I stare at the message.
Then a new email arrives from Dana.
Per your authorization, attached please find the preservation notice delivered today to Stoneharbor University General Counsel.
My blood goes cold.
I call immediately.
“I said draft.”
“You authorized representation and asked us to preserve rights. The notice is non-substantive.”
“You sent it?”
“Yes. It contains no demand beyond document retention.”
But the university will see attorney. Donor. Legal action.
Mara will see a decision made around her again.
I send the text.
It shows delivered.
Three dots do not appear.