Melting ice

No shortcuts

*Rasmus*

Coach calls while I am standing barefoot in the kitchen, staring at the tea outside Ava's door.

The mug is still there.

It has gone cold.

"How's the back?" Coach asks without greeting.

"Better."

"Good. We need you on the road trip."

Butterscotch noses the back of my knee, hopeful that the call means I might drop food. I scratch behind his ear and look through the window. The ocean is gray this morning, rough enough that white water breaks farther out.

"I had pain on rotation yesterday," I say.

A pause.

"Doc cleared you for limited work?"

"Limited skating."

"We are not asking you to play thirty minutes. We need depth. Ten, twelve shifts. Get you back in the room."

The words are reasonable. That is what makes them dangerous.

I picture the roster page. Seven defensemen. Caleb's name beside too many minutes. Quinn's shoulder taped under his jersey. My own name sitting on injured reserve until somebody decides it has been there too long.

"I have a reevaluation today," I say.

Coach breathes out through his nose. "Rasmus, we all want the cautious version. But we have Nashville Friday and Tampa Saturday. You know what this stretch is."

I do know.

"Can you push for clearance?"

The kitchen doorway opens.

Ava stands there in navy scrubs, her hair braided tight, expression already closed. She has heard enough. Her eyes go to my phone, then to me.

Something hardens in her face.

"I will follow the medical plan," I say.

Coach is quiet again.

"That is not what I asked."

"No," I say. My throat feels dry. "It is my answer."

When the call ends, the kitchen is so silent I can hear the refrigerator motor.

Ava moves past me to take the cold mug from the floor. She does not look at me.

"Your reevaluation is at ten," she says.

"I know."

"You will need updated imaging before any contact clearance."

"I know."

Her voice stays professional, smooth and distant. It is worse than if she yelled.

Caleb comes in from the porch carrying a bag of ice against one shoulder. He takes in the room, my face, Ava's rigid back.

"Well," he says. "Feels friendly in here."

"Coach wants him on the trip," Ava says.

Caleb sets the ice in the freezer. "Of course he does."

"He is short on defensemen."

"Also of course."

Ava turns to me then. "What is your current pain level?"

"Three."

Her eyes narrow.

I correct myself. "Four."

"With what symptoms?"

"Stiffness."

"That is not an answer."

The anger under her voice surprises me. It makes my chest hurt in a different way.

"Pain on rotation," I say. "Sometimes down my right side."

"Sometimes?"

"Yesterday."

"How many times yesterday?"

I look at the counter.

"Rasmus."

"Three."

Caleb swears softly.

Ava puts both hands on the island. Her knuckles go pale. "You had radiating pain three times after a neurological symptom on the ice, and you told me stiffness?"

"I did not want you to cancel the reevaluation."

"I wanted accurate information."

I sigh, "I know."

"Do you?" She stops, takes one breath, and lowers her voice. "You keep acting as though I am the obstacle between you and your career. I am trying to make sure you have one after this season."

The kiss sits between us, unnamed and hot.

I look at her mouth. She sees it. Her expression shutters again.

Caleb leans against the counter, arms folded. "You want a minute, or am I allowed to say something annoying?"

"Please say something annoying," I tell him.

"Gladly. You think the team needs you so badly they cannot survive a week without you? That is flattering. Also deeply stupid."

I laugh once. There is no humor in it. "You do not understand."

"Try me."

I look through the window again. A man in a yellow raincoat walks a dog along the wet sand. The dog pulls toward the water. The man lets himself be dragged a few steps before hauling it back.

"When I was in the AHL," I say, "I hurt my wrist. Bad enough I could not hold my stick properly. I told the trainer it was sore. Nothing more."

Ava has gone very still.

"We had a road trip. A defenseman got called up. I thought if I told them the truth, they would put me in the press box and forget I was there." My hand closes around the back of a chair. "So I played. I taped it tighter every morning. After six games, Coach saw me drop my glove. He sent me for scans and benched me for almost two months."

Caleb's face loses its edge.

"I remember sitting in the locker room after they told me," I continue. "Everyone was getting dressed for the bus. Nobody was cruel. That would have been easier, maybe. They just moved around me. They had places to be. I felt like a broken chair somebody had left by the door."

Ava looks down at the cold tea in her hands.

"I do not want that again," I say.

Her voice is quieter when she answers. "Then do not create it again."

The bluntness of it makes me look at her.

She lifts her eyes. There is anger there. Fear too, and something I cannot let myself name.

"You do not get to decide what I can medically clear based on whether you feel replaceable," she says. "You do not get to make me discover symptoms after the fact and call it protecting yourself."

"I was not trying to protect myself."

"No. You were trying to outrun the part where you are scared."

The words find their mark.

Caleb pushes away from the counter. "Come on. I am driving you to the rink."

"I can drive."

"You have a pain pattern down one leg and the reflexes of a Labrador around a tennis ball. Get your shoes."

Butterscotch wags furiously at his name.

At the rink, the imaging confirms what Ava suspected. No new structural damage. Inflammation, muscle spasm, and enough irritation around the injured area that contact would be a bad idea.

Ava reviews the scan with the sports medicine specialist, then returns to the exam room with my chart in her hands.

She stands on the other side of the desk.

"Two more weeks before we reassess contact," she says. "You can continue controlled skating if your symptoms remain stable. No road trip. No accelerated return."

The room smells like disinfectant and athletic tape.

"I want the decision in writing," I say.

Her gaze flickers. "You will have it in writing."

"So Coach knows it is medical."

"He knows."

"I want him to know I did not ask you to hold me out."

Ava's mouth tightens. "You did ask me to push for clearance."

"Before I knew the scan."

"You knew enough."

She is right. I nod once.

Caleb sits in the corner chair, unusually quiet. His phone buzzes. He checks it, then looks at me.

"Connor says the boys are asking if you want the video feed for the trip."

I swallow.

"Tell them yes."

Caleb nods and starts typing.

My phone is on the desk between us. Coach's earlier message glows there, unanswered.

‘Need an answer today.’

I pick it up.

Ava watches without speaking.

I type slowly.

‘I am not available for the road trip. I had symptoms during limited skating and will follow the medical plan. I want to return when I can play properly.’

My thumb hovers over send.

There is still time to change it. To say I will travel and see how I feel. To ask for one shift. One period. Anything that proves I have not disappeared.

I send it.

The reply comes less than a minute later.

‘Understood. We will adjust.’

That is all.

I stare at the screen until the letters blur.

Caleb stands and squeezes the back of my neck once, hard enough to be annoying and kind enough that I do not move away.

"Good choice," he says.

"It feels bad."

"Most good choices do, when you're used to making the other kind."

Ava closes my chart.

For one second, I think she might say something personal. Her fingers rest on the folder's edge. Then her phone rings.

She glances at the screen.

All the color drains from her face.

"What?" I ask.

She does not answer immediately. She reads the email once. Then again.

"Someone accessed my restricted player records," she says.

Her eyes lift to mine.

"Rasmus, they opened your injury file."