*Ava*
Administrative leave. The words land in my chest and stay there, heavy and cold and utterly still. I think about the framed degree on my office wall. The eight years of training. The trust I built with every athlete who ever sat on my table and let me press my fingers to the place that hurt.
"How long?" I ask.
"As long as it takes."
Ginnie's jaw tightens. She is the only person in this room who looks unhappy about what she's saying. Tillerson has already moved on. I can see it in the way his attention drifts to his phone, to the next crisis, to the damage control he'll spend the rest of his day managing.
The door opens.
Rasmus fills the frame. He is still in his training gear, a gray Pelicans hoodie pulled over compression shorts, his hair damp at the temples. He's breathing ha
