The Player I’m Not Allowed to Save

CHAPTER 3: THE CREDENTIAL TRAP

The vibration of the phone in Luana’s pocket felt like a localized earthquake. She didn't pull it out. She didn't have to. The words from the screen were already burned into her retinas: He knows you were in São Paulo. Don’t go to the office alone.

The shadow at the end of the hall had vanished, swallowed by the geometry of the concrete pillars. Luana forced her breathing to stay low and even. She counted to three, adjusted the lapels of her blazer, and turned to face the noise of approaching footsteps.

Maíra Saldanha was walking fast, the heels of her designer pumps snapping against the floor like rapid gunfire. Behind her, two security guards followed at a respectful but wary distance. Maíra’s face was flushed, her dark eyes darting between Luana and the empty space where Téo had just been standing.

"Did he hit anything?" Maíra panted, stopping so close Luana could smell her expensive, citrus-heavy perfume. "Did he break a wall? Tell me he didn't break a hand. I can’t spin a broken hand."

"He didn't hit anything, Maíra," Luana said, her voice dropping into a professional register that felt like a shield. "He had a vasovagal response to the high-stress environment of the press room. I’ve stabilized his heart rate and cleared the acute symptoms of his panic."

Maíra let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. She leaned against the concrete wall, oblivious to the dust. "Thank God for small mercies. Ercílio is already fielding calls from the national board. They want to know why our star forward is acting like a caged animal."

Téo appeared from the shadows of the locker room entrance twenty feet away. He hadn't left yet. He was leaning against a stack of equipment trunks, his arms crossed, his hazel eyes narrowed with a calculated, biting malice.

"Maybe the animal is just tired of the cage, Maíra," Téo called out. His voice was loud, echoing with a hollow, arrogant ring that made the security guards stiffen. He looked at Luana, and for a second, the heat of the hallway returned. "And tired of the zookeeper, too."

Maíra turned, her expression shifting from relief to exasperation. "Téo, for the love of everything, go to the locker room. The coach is waiting."

"I'll go when I'm finished with the Doutora," Téo said, pushing off the trunks. He walked toward them with a predatory slow-step, his height looming over the three women. He stopped directly in front of Luana, ignoring Maíra entirely.

"Tell me, Keller," he said, using her surname like a slur. "Does the team pay you by the hour, or by the trauma? Because if it’s the latter, you’re going to be a very rich woman by the end of the season."

Luana didn't flinch, though the proximity made her skin hum. She noticed the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes that the press cameras had missed. He was thinner than he had been in Florianópolis. His collarbones were sharper beneath the team jacket, and the skin over his knuckles looked raw.

"I get paid to keep you on the ice, Mr. Brandão," Luana replied, her tone ice-cold. "Whether you find my presence irritating is irrelevant to the clinical outcome."

Téo let out a short, mocking laugh. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, performing for the invisible eyes of the cameras and the very visible eyes of the PR Director. "Clinical outcome. You talk like you’re fixing a broken radiator, not a person. You think those degrees on your wall mean you know what’s happening in my head?"

"I think they mean I’m the only person in this building you can’t manipulate," she countered.

Téo’s jaw tightened. He reached out, his hand lingering near her arm before he gripped the lanyard of her ID badge again. This time, he didn't just look at it. He flicked it with his finger, a gesture of pure, condescending dismissal.

"You're a credential in a suit, Luana," he whispered, low enough that only she could hear the underlying desperation. "Don't forget which one of us is the asset and which one is the overhead."

He pulled back, giving Maíra a sharp, dismissive nod. "I’m going to practice. Tell Nereu to keep the rookies away from me if he wants them to stay in one piece."

He turned and strode away, his boots heavy on the concrete. Luana watched his back, her heart aching with the weight of the charade. They were playing their roles perfectly—the arrogant, broken star and the cold, unyielding doctor—but the cost was starting to show in the set of Téo’s shoulders.

"See?" Maíra whispered, rubbing her forehead. "That. That is what I have to sell to the fans. 'Aggressive focus.' I have to frame his sociopathy as 'competitive drive.' It’s exhausting."

"It’s a defense mechanism, Maíra," Luana said, though she felt the guilt of the lie in her throat. "He’s creating distance to avoid further psychological triggers. Let him play the villain if it keeps him functional."

"He’s playing it too well," Maíra muttered. She straightened her blazer and looked at Luana with a sudden, sharp intensity. "Anyway, I didn't just come back here to play babysitter. Ercílio is in his office. He’s been watching the feed from the hallway cameras."

Luana felt a cold drop of sweat slide down her spine. "The cameras?"

"He saw you 'stabilizing' him," Maíra said, her voice dropping. "He wasn't impressed by the bedside manner. He thinks you're being too soft. He reminded me that your contract in São Paulo ended because you got 'too close' to the players' personal issues."

Luana’s hands balled into fists inside her pockets. The "He knows" from the text message echoed in her mind. Was Ercílio the one who sent it, or was he just the one looking for an excuse to pull the trigger?

"My professional ethics are not in question, Maíra," Luana said firmly.

"Maybe not to you," Maíra replied. "But Ercílio is a man who likes results he can measure in currency. He told me to tell you that he’s moving the timeline. He doesn't want to wait for the end of the week for your report."

Luana stilled. "Meaning?"

"He wants Téo’s first full clinical evaluation on his desk by tomorrow morning at eight," Maíra said. "He wants to know if he should dress Téo for the opener or if he should start the paperwork for the insurance claim. He called you his 'Insurance Policy,' Luana. Don't forget what happens to policies when they fail to pay out."

The "executioner" role wasn't just a metaphor anymore. It was a deadline. Luana had less than twenty-four hours to decide whether to save Téo’s career or fulfill the team’s secret, profitable wish to see him destroyed.

"I understand," Luana said, her voice sounding far away to her own ears.

"Good," Maíra said, gesturing for the security guards to follow her. "Because if Téo crashes and burns, and you haven't documented the warning signs, Ercílio isn't just going to fire you. He’s going to make sure that 'São Paulo' follows you to every job interview for the rest of your life."

Maíra turned and walked away, her heels clicking a rhythmic, final beat. Luana stood in the middle of the service corridor, the air feeling thinner by the second. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, her thumb hovering over the message thread.

She looked at the text again. He knows you were in São Paulo.

Was it a warning from a friend, or a threat from an enemy? And who was "He"?

She looked down the hall toward the locker room. She needed to see Téo, to tell him that the timeline had shifted, but she knew the cameras were tracking her every move. She was trapped in the very credentials she used to protect him.

She walked toward the elevators, her reflection in the polished metal doors looking pale and haunted. She pressed the button for the top floor. As the doors slid open, she saw a piece of paper lying on the floor of the elevator car.

It was a small, hand-drawn map of the arena. One room was circled in red ink: The Equipment Storage Vault. Underneath the circle, a single word was written in a cramped, familiar hand:

Midnight.

Luana stepped into the elevator and picked up the paper, her fingers trembling. The vault was one of the few places in the arena with no cameras—a blind spot used for high-value inventory.

Téo was asking for a meeting. But in a building owned by men who wanted him to fail, a midnight meeting wasn't just a risk.

It was a death sentence for both their careers if they were caught.

The elevator began to rise, the floor indicator blinking steadily. Luana crumpled the map in her fist, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had to choose between the evaluation Ercílio demanded and the man she had promised to protect.

As the doors opened onto the executive floor, she saw Ercílio Mazzarolo standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the city of Curitiba. He didn't turn around, but his voice was loud and clear in the silent lobby.

"You're late, Luana," he said. "We have a lot to discuss regarding our 'asset's' lack of stability."

Luana stepped out, the crumpled map burning in her hand. The game was no longer about hockey. It was about survival, and the first move was already being made.