The Player I’m Not Allowed to Save

The air in Media Room B was thick with the scent of wet winter coats and the electric hum of twenty professional cameras. Téo Brandão sat on the dais, the SC Avalanche logo glowing like a target behind his head. He looked exactly like the man the newspapers described: a king in exile, dressed in a team jacket that didn't quite hide the tension in his shoulders. Luana Keller stood by the heavy oak doors at the back, her arms crossed over her chest. She kept her breathing shallow. She was the only person in the room who knew that the way Téo was gripping his water bottle—knuckles white, thumb twitching—wasn't just nerves. It was a countdown. "Téo, over here. Ricardo Salles, Gazeta do Sul," a man in the front row barked. "Two years ago, you left the league after a locker room incident that many called a total psychological collapse. What makes you think you’re fit to lead a locker room now?" Téo didn't look at the reporter. He stared at a spot on the back wall, about three inches above Luana’s head. "I’m here to play hockey, Ricardo. The locker room is for the team, not for the press." "But the fans are worried," another voice chimed in, this one sharper, younger. "The video of you in São Paulo—the screaming, the way you had to be restrained—it's still the most-watched sports clip in Brazil. Are you on medication? Are you seeing a specialist?" Luana felt a cold prickle at the base of her neck. She saw the muscle in Téo’s jaw jump. He had a scar there, a tiny white line from a high-stick when he was nineteen. She was the one who had cleaned it in a hotel bathroom in Porto Alegre. "My medical history is private," Téo said, his voice dropping an octave. It was the warning tone. The one that meant the ice was thinning. "The team says you’ve signed a 'compliance clause,'" the first reporter pushed, leaning forward like a wolf sensing a wound. "Does that mean you're on a short leash? Are you one bad game away from another breakdown?" Téo’s thumb finally crushed the plastic bottle. The sound of it—a sharp, sudden crackle—echoed through the silent room. Every camera lens zoomed in simultaneously. It was the "click" they had all been waiting for. Téo stood up. He didn't push the chair back; he let it fall. The heavy metal frame hit the floor with a hollow bang that made the front-row reporters flinch. "We're done here," Téo said. He didn't wait for the PR manager to intervene. He didn't look at the flashing lights. He stepped off the dais and walked straight toward the back exit, his stride long and predatory. Luana didn't move until he was ten feet away. She stepped back, pulling the heavy door open just enough for him to slip through. As the door began to swing shut, she caught a glimpse of the chaos left behind—reporters shouting, Maíra frantically grabbing the microphone, and the blinding white light of a dozen flashes. Then the door clicked shut, and the silence of the back hallway swallowed them whole. Téo was already twenty feet down the corridor, his hands braced against the cold concrete wall. He was doubled over, his head hanging between his shoulders. The sound of his breathing was ragged, echoing off the narrow walls. Luana stayed where she was. She didn't run to him. She didn't call his name. She was the Lead Sports Psychologist now. Every movement had to be calculated. Every second had to look like a professional intervention. She walked toward him, her heels clicking rhythmically on the floor. It was a steady sound. A grounding sound. "Mr. Brandão," she said, her voice clear and devoid of the heat currently blooming in her chest. "I need you to look at me." Téo didn't move. A low, guttural sound came from his throat—half-growl, half-sob. "Not now, Luana. Not here." "Téo. Look at me." He turned his head slightly, his hazel eyes bloodshot and wild. The arrogant mask from the press conference was gone, replaced by a raw, naked terror. "I can't... I can't breathe. The air in there... it was gone." Luana stepped into his personal space, close enough to smell the peppermint he used to mask his anxiety and the cold scent of the rink that seemed to live in his skin. She didn't touch him. Instead, she raised her hand, palm out, a few inches from his chest. "Focus on my hand," she commanded. "Name five things you can see." Téo blinked, his chest heaving. "You," he rasped. "The... the fire extinguisher. The light." "That’s three. Give me two more." "The c***k in the floor," he said, his voice steadier. "The shadow of your badge." "Good. Four things you can feel." Téo took a shuddering breath. He reached out, his fingers grazing the sleeve of her blazer. The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt of electricity through her that nearly broke her composure. "The wall. My jacket. The... the cold." He paused, his eyes locking onto hers. "Your heartbeat. I can hear it." Luana’s breath hitched. She shouldn't have been this close. She shouldn't have let him see the way her pulse was jumping at the base of her throat. "That’s a physical impossibility, Téo," she whispered, the "Mr. Brandão" slipping for a fraction of a second. "Is it?" He straightened up, his height suddenly overwhelming in the cramped hallway. He was six-foot-two of lean, dangerous muscle, and even in the middle of a panic attack, he moved with a grace that made her lungs feel tight. "Because it's the only thing in this building that sounds real." He reached out again, this time his fingers hooking into the lanyard around her neck. He pulled her ID badge up, squinting at the black text in the dim light. Luana Keller. Lead Sports Psychologist. Téo let out a short, jagged laugh. He dropped the badge, and it hit her chest with a dull thud. "So that’s the play. You’re the one they sent to put the collar on me." "I’m the one who ensures you’re fit to play," she corrected, her professional mask sliding back into place as she heard the distant sound of the media room doors opening. "Same thing," Téo spat. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by the defensive armor he had worn like a shroud for two years. "Tell me, Doutora. Do you get a bonus if you find out I’m crazy, or do you have to wait until I actually break?" Luana didn't flinch. She had anticipated the anger. She had helped him rehearse it. But hearing it directed at her in this hallway, with the threat of discovery hanging over them, felt like a blade to the ribs. "I get paid to do my job, Téo. And right now, my job is to get you to the locker room before Maíra brings the cameras back here." The heavy doors at the end of the hall creaked. Voices spilled into the corridor—Maíra’s sharp, frantic tone and the heavy footsteps of the team’s security detail. Téo stepped back, his expression turning to stone. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and smoothed his team jacket. In a heartbeat, the man who had been gasping for air was gone. The "Liability" was back. "Don't worry, Doutora," he said, loud enough for the approaching group to hear. "I'll be at the session tomorrow. I wouldn't want to disappoint my biggest fan." He turned and walked away just as Maíra rounded the corner, her face a mask of panic. "Luana! Thank God," Maíra panted, her eyes darting between Luana and Téo’s retreating back. "Did he... did he do anything? Did he say anything?" Luana adjusted her blazer, her fingers trembling slightly where she hid them behind her back. "He’s fine, Maíra. Just a standard post-stress reaction. I’ve managed it." Maíra leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The GM is livid. He’s in his office right now. He wants to know if Téo is going to be a problem." Luana looked down the long, empty hallway where Téo had disappeared. She thought about the wedding ring hidden on the chain around her neck. She thought about the insurance policy sitting on Ercílio’s desk. "He's already a problem," Luana said, her voice cold and perfect. "The question is how long it takes for him to become a catastrophe."