BEHIND ENEMY LINES

Jace's POV “Put the syringe down, Doctor Pratt,” Mason Reid said. I lay on the cold vinyl examination table with my jersey pulled up and my shorts pulled down on the right side, looking over my shoulder at the two of them. My hip had been burning like a house fire for three straight months, but this was my first time seeing the new physical therapist. He stood in the corner of the medical room with his arms crossed, completely unbothered by the fact that he was arguing with the chief medical officer of the Pittsburgh Foundry an hour before tip-off against Cleveland. Dr. Edwin Pratt held the needle up to the fluorescent light and tapped its side. “Mason, with all due respect, you started your shift four hours ago. Jace has had this exact injection a hundred times. It is a routine anti-inflammatory protocol to keep our top scorer on the floor.” “What is the compound name?” Mason asked. “It is a specialized corticosteroid blend,” Pratt replied smoothly. “Formulated specifically for high-impact joint strain.” Mason took two steps closer and looked directly at me. His gray-green eyes were sharp, lacking the nervous politeness most new staff members showed around me. “Do you know what is in that syringe, Jace?” I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I looked from Mason to Pratt, who held the needle with a reassuring smile. In six seasons with the team, after hundreds of games and dozens of treatments to get me through forty minutes on injured joints, I had never asked what was in the fluid. “It works,” I said. “It makes the pain go away in ten minutes.” “That is not what I asked you,” Mason said. “I asked if you know what you are putting into your body.” I sat up slowly, the sharp ache in my hip radiating down to my knee. Pratt moved forward with the needle, but I held up my hand and swung my legs off the table. Pride told me I was annoyed by the delay. Deep down, a cold knot of fear was tightening. “We are done here for tonight,” I said, pulling my jersey down. “I am going to warm up.” Pratt sighed and lowered the syringe. “You are going to feel every single step out there tonight, Jace.” “Then I will feel it.” By the fourth quarter, my right leg felt like it belonged to someone else. Every time I planted my foot for a jump shot, a blinding flash of pain shot through my lower back. I missed four consecutive shots in the final three minutes and Cleveland walked off our court with a nine-point victory. At the final buzzer, I glanced toward the owner's box. Raymond Pruett stood behind the glass in his custom dark suit. He was not clapping or talking to anyone. His eyes were locked on me with a blank expression that made my skin cold. In the locker room, the air was sour with defeat. I sat on the wooden bench with my head in my hands, listening to the ice melting in the wrap around my hip. “Hey, great game out there, Jace,” rookie guard Callum Ferris called from across the room. “Maybe if the new physical therapist gives you a nice massage next time, we can only lose by five.” I snapped my head up, but captain Dominic Soto stepped between us before I could stand. His dark eyes were serious. “Shut your mouth, Callum,” Dominic said. “You played twelve minutes and had four turnovers. Do not talk about the man who carried this franchise for six years.” Callum looked down at his shoes. Before I could thank Dominic, Coach Frank Delaney walked out of his office and tapped my shoulder. “Carter. My office. Now.” I followed him inside. “Frank, I can play,” I said immediately. “Tonight was just a bad rhythm. I need the injection before the next game.” “Mason came to see me before tip-off,” Frank said, leaning back in his chair. “He showed me your joint scans from last month. He says if we keep numbing that hip instead of fixing the movement, you are going to tear the labrum completely off the bone before the playoffs.” “Pratt says it is fine! Pratt has been here for ten years!” “And Mason is the one with the board certification in sports rehabilitation,” Frank replied. “I am giving the new guy two weeks. You do his physical therapy plan, the pool work and stay away from the needles. If you are still limping in fourteen days, we will talk to Pratt again.” “Frank, this is crazy...” “That is the decision, Jace. Go home and rest.” I left his office with my jaw clenched. Near the security desk, Raymond Pruett was waiting. “Rough night, Jace,” Pruett said, stepping forward with a warm smile that did not reach his eyes. “Don't take it too hard. It is a long season.” “I will be better next game, Mr. Pruett.” “I know you will,” he replied, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “We have a wonderful team here to support you. Let us give the new therapist a chance, alright?” Behind him, Dr. Pratt stood near the medical office doorway, watching us with his hands in his pockets. By eleven o'clock, I was lying on my living room couch in my empty apartment with an ice pack on my hip. My phone rang. Gideon Marsh, my agent. “Tell me you are already iced up,” Gideon said. “Redline called ten minutes after the game. They are not happy about the fourth-quarter collapse, Jace. The new shoe campaign launches in three weeks.” “My hip flared up, Gideon,” I sighed. “It happens.” “Well, make it stop happening. And do not forget your dinner with Sloane tomorrow night at the Bistro. The paparazzi already have the reservation details. Wear something nice and smile for the cameras when you walk her to the car.” “Yeah, I know the routine. Sloane and I will play the happy couple.” “Good. Get some sleep.” Two minutes later, the phone rang again. My father. “Why wasn't Pratt allowed to do his job tonight?” Walter Carter asked. “I talked to someone in the front office. They said you turned down the treatment.” “It was just one game, Dad. The new guy wanted to try a different approach.” “You don't experiment with your body in the middle of a season!” Walter barked. “You take the shot, get on the court and score twenty-five points. That is what you are paid to do. If you start missing games, everything we built goes down the drain.” “I am not missing games,” I said quietly. “I'll handle it.” “You better.” I tossed the phone onto the cushion. A few minutes later, the front door opened. My younger sister Tessa walked in with groceries and her college backpack. One look at me on the couch was enough. “You look like you got run over by a truck,” she said, sitting on the coffee table. “Thanks, Tess. Always great for the confidence.” She ignored the joke, pushing the ice pack back into place over my hip. “Is it really bad this time, Jace?” she asked quietly. I looked at my little sister, the only person in the city who did not care how many points I scored. For a moment, I wanted to tell her everything... the pain, the fear of falling apart, the exhaustion of pretending with Sloane. “It is just a strain,” I lied. “I'll be fine.” She clearly did not believe me, but she did not push. I couldn't sleep. Every time I rolled over, pain woke me. By two in the morning, I gave up, pulled on a dark hoodie and sweatpants, then drove back to the Foundry's practice facility. The building was silent. I swiped my keycard at the side entrance and walked toward the medical wing. I needed to see my records. I wanted to know what Pratt had been writing in my file for six years and what chemical had been keeping me on the court. When I turned toward the archives, a streak of yellow light spilled across the polished floor. The door to Dr. Pratt's private file room was wide open. I slowed, keeping my sneakers quiet, then peeked around the doorframe. Mason Reid stood inside. The filing cabinet was open and he held two thick beige folders under the overhead light. In his right hand was my medical chart. In his left was a different file. I shifted to see the tab. Printed in thick black ink were the words: E. REID ... CLOSED. Before I could process it, Mason turned and caught my reflection in the glass window behind him. His body went still. His calm expression cracked with genuine shock. “Jace?” he asked, his voice low. “What are you doing in here at two in the morning?” I asked, stepping fully into the doorway. “And why do you have my file?” Before Mason could answer, a bright flashlight beam swept down the hallway behind me, cutting through the darkness and catching both of us in its glare. “Neither of you is supposed to be in this room,” a heavy, rough voice echoed from the hall…