The treatment room light is warm and amber, and Mia pushes the door open with the private hope that the room will be empty.
It isn't.
Elias is already there, face-down on the table, forearms crossed under his head.
His right shoulder sits visibly higher than the left—swollen, faintly red in the lamplight, undoing a week of careful progress in what she estimates was approximately two days of reckless training.
"You overdid it," she says, setting her kit down. The metal instruments make a clean sound in the quiet room.
He lifts his head. There are shadows under his eyes. "Post-season starts next week."
"Which is exactly why you should have listened to me." She pulls on gloves and presses two fingers to the swollen area—the heat coming off it is immediate, almost aggressive. He makes a
