Powerplay , Romance With My Proplayer

CHAPTER 3

“Let me explain.”

“Go ahead.”

Maya grips the wheel, ten and two, parked. The wipers drag once, a nervous twitch—she never meant to turn them on. A truck rumbles over the bridge and the Volvo shivers.

“Hale hired me to keep tabs on your health,” she says. “Quietly" He wanted to figure out if you’re damaged goods before signing your extension. That’s what he wanted me to do.”

“And you agreed?”

“I agreed to a salary and a lab I hadn’t stepped into for two years.” Her voice catches—she hates how it sounds, I know it. “I sent him three updates. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Weight, range of motion, nothing that actually meant anything. Then I got the envelope, read your file, and I haven’t sent him a single thing since.”

“That’s not what the screen shows.”

“The screen shows whatever he wants. Look at the dates, Cole. Just check the last one.”

I don’t check. She sees that, and the pause between us feels heavy.

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m still here. I could’ve just driven off and let those guys treat you like a punching bag.”

Honestly, walking away would be smarter. But I end up staring at her mouth instead, which is definitely not the smart move.

“Take me somewhere I can actually think,” I say.

· · ·

At two in the morning, the Ironclads’ training center is dark and humming. The HVAC knocks behind the walls. The rink glows faint blue, like a pool after hours. We cut through rehab—past the cold plunge, treadmills, a whiteboard spattered with our names. Her office waits at the far end, glass-walled, a stethoscope draped over a chair.

She flicks on the light. I lean on the doorframe. Sitting isn’t happening.

“Can I ask you something?” she says. “Tell me to go to hell if you want.”

“Go for it.”

“Why’d you play through three concussions?”

The real answer sits somewhere deep inside. I’ve never said it out loud. “Every kid in Dearborn with a stick dreams about what I’ve got. You don’t give it back just because your head hurts.” I trace the door frame. “My mom scrubs offices on Schaefer Road, and Eddie hasn’t held a job longer than a season. If I quit, we all lose.”

She walks up, closer than a doctor ever needs to. Her palm lands flat on my chest—like checking a dog’s breathing, gentle. “You’re not damaged goods,” she tells me. “You’re just a guy who’s been carrying everyone way too long.”

I kiss her. Or she kisses me. We won’t agree about it later. Her hand slides into my hair, my good hand grabs her waist, and it’s nothing like a hit—nothing like any of the day’s mess. It starts slow and doesn’t stay that way. She backs into the desk, papers tumble, and she laughs into my mouth—one surprised, happy burst—and I decide I want to hear her laugh like that as often as possible.

“This is a terrible idea,” she whispers.

“Worst one I’ve had all year.”

“I’m your doctor.”

“You’re fired.”

She laughs, again. Then the alarm goes.

· · ·

Red light pulses through the glass. We pull apart. A recorded voice announces, “Perimeter breach, east entrance,” sounding bored, almost like an airport. Down the hall, a door slams.

“Stay behind me,” I say.

“Your collarbone is busted.”

“Doesn’t matter. Stay behind me.”

The east door hangs open, rain blowing sideways across the tiles. Nobody’s there—just a puddle, a trail of wet boot prints headed straight to her office.

We run. The door I’d closed myself ten minutes earlier is wide open now.

Someone tore through everything. Dumped the drawers, broke into the filing cabinet, swiped her laptop. Every file with my name—gone.

“They took my notes.” Maya’s voice is dead flat. “All of it. Chicago. Your—”

“What happened in Chicago?”

She doesn’t answer. Something buzzes under the desk, thin and jittery.

I drop to one knee. My shoulder curses me for it. Taped underneath is a cheap black flip phone, screen glowing—Incoming call. Unknown.

“Don’t,” Maya says.

I answer, silent.

“Hello, Cole.”

The voice is tired, low—familiar in a way that stings. Locker room familiar. Beer-after-game familiar.

Danny Rourke.

“Danny? Where are you?”

“Someplace you can’t reach.” He’s breathing hard, like he’s been running. “Listen. I don’t have long. Ask the doctor who mailed her that file.”

Cold prickles in my gut. “What?”

“Ask her whose idea it was.” He pauses. There’s noise behind him: a train, truck, or just nothing at all. “Ask her what she really did in Chicago. And who has already paid her?”

He hangs up.

I look up.

Maya stands in the mess of her office, one hand pressed over her mouth, eyes shining.

She doesn’t say it isn’t true.

Out in the parking lot, through the glass, headlights flash on. Black SUV. A man in a camel coat leans on the hood. When he notices me watching, he lifts his hand and waves.