Riley
Optics
The owner’s office is a terrarium for rich predators—three glass walls, skyline teeth bared, a desk so clean my fingerprints feel like graffiti.
The blinds are half-open, letting noon glare slice across the table and into my eyes.
Nolan Blackwood sits behind the desk like he commissioned the horizon.
His cuff links catch the light; his smile does not.
“Ms. Lane,” he says, steepling his fingers. “Explain why my franchise player and my head trainer are trending for looking… familiar.”
My spine stacks itself. Hands flat on the glass, voice level. “A teammate posted a story that showed our floor number. The outage left one suite. I took the bedroom; he took the couch. He spiked a fever. I treated it and managed his rehab this morning. That’s the extent of the familiarity.”
One brow lifts a millimeter. “Fever,” he repeats. “No ER?”
“Vitals stable. Antipyretic, active cooling, fluids. I consulted Dr. Adams and monitored. His temperature trended down within thirty minutes.”
He taps his tablet. The photo blooms larger: Jason on the bench, my face tipped toward his, his hand lifted near my cheek. Cropped cruel, context erased. “And this? Is this in the treatment manual?”
Heat crawls my neck; I keep my tone cool. “Angle. I was adjusting tape and checking cap refill. The image is misleading.”
“Everything online is misleading—until it tanks a sponsorship.” He leans back, regard sharpening. “Forced proximity, one suite, an intimate-adjacent image—yet you maintain there is nothing… extracurricular?”
I hold his gaze. “There is not. I am acting within policy and within my responsibility to protect roster health and performance.”
The city hums through glass. He studies me like a man pricing a painting he might sell or burn.
“This organization competes for optics as well as wins,” he says at last. “Sponsors have sensibilities. The league has rules. I require staff who understand discretion.”
“I understand discretion,” I answer. “What I need is support to do my job without interference from rumor. If gossip dictates medical decisions, we’ll lose more than optics.”
His mouth tips—amused or annoyed. “You’re certain of your judgment.”
“I’m certain of my training. And of my patient’s needs.” The word slips out before I can switch it to player. Small. True. Dangerous.
He tests the word, soft: “Patient.” The tablet clicks dark.
“For your sake,” he says, “I hope your patients understand the cost of their care.”
The door hisses. Julia’s heels cross the marble like punctuation. She breezes in with a folder and a phone glowing red with notifications, expression calibrated for a fire.
“Quick hits,” she says, sliding the folder across the glass.
Tabs in sponsor colors peep like flags. “One: NorthEdge skates is spooked; they want assurance language by end of day or they ‘reassess’ Q1. Two: Compliance flagged the bench photo and the Crown-level post—possible appearance-of-impropriety review. Three: Media plan.” A printed grid, neat boxes. “Distance. Effective immediately.”
“Define distance,” I say, already knowing.
“Separate entrances and exits. No co-located travel photos. No tunnel conversations. No bench adjacency unless mandated by active play. No after-hours overlap beyond documented medical necessity.” Flip of a page.
“Talking points if cornered: ‘We take player health seriously. We respect league policy. We do not comment on personal rumors.’”
Nolan gestures, pleased to let Julia do the cutting. “There is discretion.”
Julia’s eyes find mine, sharp and not unkind. “Riley, it isn’t fair. It keeps you—and us—out of the meat grinder. This is triage.”
“Triage prioritizes the most critical need,” I say. Calm voice; unruly pulse. “Jason’s wrist and systemic stress response are my patients today. Optics can wait.”
“Optics don’t wait,” Nolan says, amused. “They metastasize. I keep the lights on; you keep players on the ice. Everyone stays in their lane.”
Julia cuts in fast. “PR routes all trainer inquiries to me. No comment from you on anything beyond the prepared line. If anyone sticks a mic in your face, call me and keep walking.”
I think of last night, a cool cloth on too-hot skin, a hand closing over my wrist with mercy. “And his rehab?” I ask. “The plan changes only if the medical picture changes—not for a headline.”
“Of course,” Julia says, too quick. “But we stagger presence. You brief the assistant in the morning and stay off the bench at games until this cools.”
The room tilts. Not fainting—fury. “You’re asking me to abandon my patient mid-cycle.”
“Temporarily,” she says. “Strategically.” Softer: “Protectively.”
Nolan folds the folder shut. “We are eliminating variables.”
“I’m not a variable,” I say, even and cold. “I am a constant. My presence is stabilizing. Pull me and re-injury risk climbs.”
Julia exhales like walking into a headwind. “Give me seventy-two hours. Let me lid this while you run point from the room. You know he’ll push today to prove a point. If you’re not on the bench, he’s less likely to show off.”
She’s not wrong. He’s also less likely to listen to anyone not named me when the pain bites. I taste the compromise.
“Seventy-two,” I repeat. “No game bench. Yes to locker room and training suite. I’m in the tunnel for acute care. Non-negotiable.”
Nolan considers a smile. “A compromise.”
Julia nods, relieved and already typing. “I’ll message PR and compliance.”
Nolan flips the folder back, casual. “Another option: temporary reassignment off the roster. Administrative leave. Optics cool, clean and quick.”
Administrative leave reads as guilt no matter the spin. I see Jason’s wrist in someone else’s hands; I see him pushing past pain because the one person he listens to is gone.
“With respect,” I say, dosing each word, “pulling me now interrupts a tendon-loading phase. Consistency is the point. Change the cue-giver and re-injury risk jumps twenty to thirty percent.”
“Miles Carter is capable,” he says, pleasant as a trap.
“Miles is good,” I agree. “But Jason’s compliance drops when hands change. You hired me because I get buy-in from difficult athletes. Pull me, and you trade three days of calmer headlines for three weeks lost on ice time if he backslides.”
Julia angles toward Nolan. “Reassignment looks punitive. It feeds the rumor. Quiet rotation with Riley directing from the room gets the optics without blowback.”
Nolan drums two fingers on glass. The skyline stripes his cuff. “My concern is precedent. Staff and players do not mix. The appearance that they have, at any time, undermines authority.”
“Then model authority that prioritizes performance and policy,” I say.
“Make it clear the organization trusts its medical team to follow procedure. I will follow procedure to the letter.” I meet his eyes.
“Give me seventy-two to move the numbers the right way. If compliance flags again or his metrics slip, I’ll step aside on record. ”
It tastes like glass. I swallow it.
A beat. Then he inclines his head a fraction. “Seventy-two. Julia will coordinate language. PR routes inquiries. You will be discreet.”
“Understood,” I say. My knuckles ache where I’m not clenching.
“You may go.”
Julia’s look says: knife’s edge—thanks for not bleeding on the carpet. I nod once and leave before the room hears me breathe.
The corridor outside is cooler. Carpet hush. Compressor thrum. A ghost of skates biting ice from the bowl. Plan first; feel later.
Notes app open as I walk: Maddox—Day 12 post-strain | 72-hr optics protocol.
— AM: shorten on-ice volume 15%, keep intensity, clean mechanics—no compensation
— Midday: manual + contrast, add gentle nerve glides
— PM: proprioception ladder
— Checks: pain scale pre/post every block
— No hero reps
Trophy photos line the wall—frozen joy, blood turned archival by lenses. Jason appears in frame after frame, different years, same jaw. I redirect that thought into anatomy: masseter tension, TMJ load—stress tells whether you like it or not.
Stairs. Two at a time. Nolan’s voice tries to follow: discretion, precedent. Julia’s: triage, seventy-two. Mine answers: patient, protocol, outcomes. Steady.
Training-suite smell hits before the door—sanitizer, wintergreen, laundry.
Home. I slide in, erase yesterday’s board with ruthless strokes like sanding rumor off surface.
Fresh headers: Mobility | Load | Recovery.
Where instinct to push whispers in Jason’s voice, I pencil hold.
Where caution overcorrects, I write trust mechanics.
I add: COACH NOTE: No late-practice sprints, badge it on with a magnet.
Cryo cart restocked. Drawers lined: tape, scissors, kinesio strips, sleeves.
Ritual calms the part of me that hates what “distance” looks like.
I add a final line at the bottom, small but clear: If pain > 3/10, STOP. Text me. Unprofessional to put that where anyone can see. It might keep him honest when pride wants to lie.
Footsteps scuff. The handle turns.
Sophie slips in sideways like the hallway grows ears. Curls wrangled into a lopsided bun, pen skewered through it like a warning. She clocks the wiped board, the restocked cart, the Text me line and whistles low.
“This is a cliff, Ry. Please tell me you brought a parachute and not a YouTube video on growing wings mid-fall.”
“I brought a plan.” I point at the board because pointing at my chest gives too much away. “Fifteen percent volume cut. Mechanics clean. No hero reps. Tunnel access for acute.”
She prowls closer, reading. “And an engraved invitation for him to text you.” Brow up. “Subtle.”
“It’s called compliance support,” I say. “Temporary.”
“Temporary like that plant you kept alive three years out of guilt?” She softens. “Okay. Guardrails. Every choice passes the headline test: ‘Trainer defies optics protocol’—bad. ‘Trainer abandons rehab mid-cycle’—worse. ‘Trainer maintains outcomes while telling gossip to get bent’—best. Aim there.”
“Already aiming.” It tastes like steel. “I won’t leave him unsupported and call it medicine.”
“Didn’t ask you to.” She bumps her forehead to mine. “I’m asking you not to stop being smart because he makes you feel… things that rhyme with ‘insane.’” A beat. “If this goes nuclear, I’m your first call. Counsel, PR triage, burner phone. I’ll torch the internet and salt the earth.”
“Tempting,” I admit. “But let’s keep the Wi-Fi.” I squeeze her. “Thank you.”
“Marching orders?”
“Find me the assistant and Adams in ten—everyone reading the same sheet. And if you see Jason—” her brows vault, “—remind him texting me is for pain above a three. Not loopholes.”
“On it.” She’s halfway to the door when heavier footsteps hit the hall. A familiar shadow slices across the frosted glass, phone held like a weapon.
Miles fills the frame, tall, tired, vibrating with an anger that wears worry.
No hello. He thrusts his phone—screen blazing—until the blown-up image hits like a flare.
The bench shot. Tighter crop. Uglier caption.
My face tipped toward Jason’s. His hand near my cheek.
No tape, no temp, no context. Just implication in HD.
“You can’t save him,” Miles says, voice too calm. “And you’re about to cost us both our jobs.”
“Subtle,” Sophie murmurs.
“Good morning to you too,” I say, tone sterilized. “Put the phone down.”
He doesn’t. He kicks the door gently shut. “PR’s on fire. Compliance pinged me for logs. Owner wants a statement he thinks I wrote.” His jaw flexes. “I didn’t.”
“I’m not asking you to.” The urge to punt his phone into the cryo cart hums; I keep my hands on the table. “Remember what protocol looks like outside a crop.”
He drags a hand through his hair and finally lowers the phone—only to swipe to another angle. “Protocol looks like this? The league won’t care how you tell it.”
“Protocol looks like a fever brought down, a wrist stabilized, and a player who didn’t re-injure on my watch,” I say, each clause a rung. “Also looks like me off the bench for optics while still running his rehab because outcomes matter.”
Miles stares at the board. No hero reps. His eyes catch the small line: If pain > 3/10, STOP. Text me. Something sharp crosses his face. Not jealousy. Older, harder.
“Text you?” he echoes, bite blatant.
“Patient compliance,” I say evenly. “He listens.”
“That’s the problem,” he snaps, too fast—then softer, rubbed raw: “That’s the problem.”
Sophie brightens to hide the blade. “Miles, darling, if you came to help, help. If you came to lecture, I only schedule those Tuesdays after carbs.”
He looks at her, then me. Some heat drains. “Owner wants you back after skate,” he says. “He’ll push for a statement. He’ll push reassignment if Julia’s plan doesn’t take.” His phone buzzes again. “This is trending in sponsor channels. They aren’t patient.”
“I am,” I say. “And I’m the one with the patient.” I point at the board. “Briefing in three. You, me, assistant, Adams. Then I’m out of camera lanes.” I hold his eyes. “Help me keep him on the ice instead of in an MRI.”
A long second inventories a thousand taped ankles and late nights. He nods once. “Three minutes.”
He opens the door—and freezes. In the rectangle of hallway, a reporter I don’t recognize pretends to scroll, phone angled just wrong. Her gaze bounces from his badge to the whiteboard behind me, hungry.
Sophie steps forward like a bouncer in ballet flats. “Nope.”
The reporter’s thumb rises, subtle as a snake. The lens lifts a breath.
The floor tilts. The distance I negotiated, the seventy-two-hour thread I’m balancing on—everything tightens to a single, awful choice: shut the door and look guilty, or leave it open and get eaten alive.
Miles hovers in the doorway, caught between blocking and retreat.
“Riley,” he says, without looking back. “Call it.”
I plant my feet, feel my pulse knock once against my ribs, and decide which thing I’m willing to pay for.
“Leave it open,” I say, calm enough to sign. “We have nothing to hide.”
Sophie’s chin lifts. Miles squares his shoulders, halfway shield, halfway usher. I step into the reporter’s frame on purpose, clipboard high, whiteboard at my back, the plan visible in black marker, my face set to professional boredom.
“Training update in three minutes,” I tell her, even and unhurried. “Until then, no photos in the medical suite.”
She blinks, recalibrates to the rules of this particular game. “Is it true you—”
“We don’t comment on personal rumors,” I say, already turning toward the table, already writing the next protocol in my head. “We take player health seriously. Please step back.”
For once, the corridor does what I ask. The phone lowers. The lens blinks. The door stays open. And I go back to work.