BEHIND ENEMY LINES

CHAPTER 2: Questions Nobody Answers

Jace's POV

“Neither of you is supposed to be in this room,” a rough voice echoed down the hall.

I turned, shielding my eyes from the flashlight beam. Lyle Garrity stood in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the corridor. He was the head of club security, a man I had passed in the hallways for six seasons without ever hearing him say more than two words at a time.

He lowered the light slightly, his cold gray eyes flicking from me to Mason.

“Go home, Jace.”

“I was just looking for the therapist,” I said, trying to sound like a man who hadn't been sneaking around in the middle of the night.

“Mr. Pruett would like a word with the therapist,” Garrity said flatly. “Go home.”

Mason didn't panic. He calmly slid the beige folder back into the cabinet, locked the drawer, then stepped into the hallway. He didn't look at me as he followed Garrity toward the executive offices.

I didn't go home. I walked to the parking lot, climbed into my truck and sat in the dark for forty minutes with the engine off. My hip throbbed with my pulse, but my mind stayed fixed on the black letters printed on that folder tab.

E. REID ... CLOSED.

When the glass doors finally opened, Mason walked into the cool night air. He looked pale, his mouth set in a tight line. I hit the high beams, making him wince, then popped the passenger door open.

“Get in,” I called.

Mason hesitated before climbing into the leather seat. He shut the door and released a long breath.

“What did Pruett want?” I asked.

“He wanted to welcome me to the team,” Mason said quietly, staring through the windshield. “He offered me a raise if I keep our discussions about your treatment inside the facility.”

“And what was that folder?” I pressed. “The one with your last name on it?”

Mason turned toward me, his gray-green eyes unreadable.

“It was nothing, Jace. Just an old file from a former player.”

“You're a terrible liar, Mason,” I scoffed. “You almost jumped out of your skin when I walked in. Who is E. Reid?”

“I will explain when I can,” Mason said, his voice dropping. “Right now, you need to go home, ice your leg and get some sleep.”

“Don't tell me what to do,” I snapped.

He was already opening the door.

The next morning, I skipped my eight-o'clock rehab session with Mason. I drove straight to a downtown studio for a scheduled Redline photo shoot, telling myself I was proving a point. I didn't need a babysitter or a physical therapist who kept secrets.

The studio was bright and loud, filled with flashing lights and pop music. Gideon stood near the catering table, watching the camera monitor with a giant smile.

“Fantastic, Jace! Give me that game-face intensity!” the photographer yelled.

I stood on the fake wooden court in my game jersey, holding a basketball under my arm. Every time the flash went off, I smiled. When the camera stopped, I shifted my weight off my right side. The pain felt like a hot knife twisting in my joint.

Sloane Whitaker walked onto the set wearing a fitted blazer and designer jeans, looking like she had stepped off a runway. She was supposed to be my girlfriend for the media, but right now, she was the only person paying actual attention.

During a lighting break, she walked over and slipped her hand through my arm, resting her head against my shoulder for the photographers.

“You look terrible,” she muttered beneath her brilliant smile.

“Thanks, Sloane,” I mumbled through gritted teeth. “Appreciate the support.”

“I'm serious, Jace,” she said, subtly putting her weight against my side to steady me. “You are leaning so hard on me that my left shoe is sinking into the floor. Whoever you are angry at, your hip isn't the one to punish.”

I looked down at her, but had no reply. She was right and we both knew it.

My petty rebellion backfired. When I arrived at the arena that evening for our game against Detroit, Coach Frank Delaney met me at my locker.

“You're benched for missing your rehab session.”

I had to sit on the sideline in an expensive suit, watching us lose by twelve points while the crowd groaned.

By nine o'clock, the arena was empty. I limped into the practice gym, looking for Mason and a fight. He was the only one there, standing near the bench with medical papers in his hands.

“Are you happy now?” I shouted, my voice echoing off the high ceiling. “I just sat out a division game because you complained to Frank!”

Mason didn't flinch. He walked to the bench, picked up a clear plastic sleeve and held it out.

“Look at this,” Mason said calmly.

“I don't want to look at your stupid charts,” I snapped.

“Look at the pictures, Jace.”

I grabbed the sleeve, intending to throw it at him, but the bright white images caught my eye. They were X-rays and MRI scans of a hip joint, dated two years ago.

“This is your right hip from your fourth season,” Mason said, pointing to a dark, ragged gap near the socket. “You had a severe tear in the cartilage. It should have been surgically repaired immediately.”

I stared at the black-and-white image, my blood turning cold.

“What are you talking about? Pratt told me it was just a severe deep-tissue bruise.”

“Pratt gave you an injection to mask the nerve pain so you could finish the playoffs,” Mason said softly. “You have been playing on a degraded joint for twenty-four months. The medicine didn't heal you, Jace. It just stopped your brain from feeling the damage.”

I gripped the plastic sleeve until the paper inside bent. Rage washed over me... furious at Pratt for hiding it, at myself for being so naive, at Mason for tearing my whole world apart.

“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“Because I am not asking you to trust me,” Mason said, looking straight into my eyes. “I am just asking you to look at the truth.”

I sat in my truck in the dark parking lot for twenty minutes, staring at the steering wheel while my hands trembled. I pulled out my phone and called Dr. Pratt's direct number, ready to demand an explanation, but it went straight to voicemail.

I slammed the phone onto the passenger seat with a curse.

A second later, the phone buzzed with an incoming text. I snatched it up, hoping it was Pratt calling back, but my father's name appeared on the screen.

I opened the message.

I just spoke with Dr. Pratt, the text read. He told me everything. This new therapist is completely unqualified and he is going to ruin your career. I am driving down to Pittsburgh tomorrow morning to meet with Pruett and get him fired…