Melting ice

Blue line limit

*Rasmus*

The Pelicans practice rink smells like cold metal, wet rubber, and the coffee Connor insists is drinkable.

I am on the stationary bike in the training room, watching the team warm up through the glass.

Connor skates backward at center ice, barking at Brady for taking a slap shot before the goalie is ready. Brady laughs and does it again. Leon leans over the boards, looking as if he has been personally disappointed by every person in the building. The usual noise carries through the glass, sticks clicking, skates carving, somebody yelling for tape.

My phone is propped against the bike console.

The roster page refreshes every few minutes.

Defensemen. Seven names. Mine is listed as injured reserve.

I refresh it again anyway.

"You know that will not make it change faster."

Ava stands in the doorway with a tablet tucked against her chest. Navy scrubs. Gold hoops. Her hair is braided back, precise as the rest of her. She has the look she gets when she is trying to make concern sound administrative.

"I am gathering information," I say.

"You are staring at a screen."

"Very advanced information gathering."

Her mouth almost moves. Almost.

She steps closer and checks the bike display. "Resistance is too high."

"It is fine."

Her eyes lift to mine.

I should have said anything else.

Ava reaches over my shoulder and lowers the resistance by two levels. Her arm brushes mine. It is nothing. Barely a touch.

My whole body notices.

"You are not building a case against my rehab plan," she says. "You are recovering from a back injury."

I sigh, "I know."

"Do you?"

The question lands more sharply than it should. I look through the glass again. Quinn takes a clean pass from Miro and sends it around the boards. They are fast. Comfortable. They do not need to think about whether their bodies will cooperate when they turn too hard.

I hate them a little for it.

Ava follows my gaze. "You are scheduled for controlled skating after practice. No contact. No transitions at full speed. No shooting."

"I can shoot."

She gives me a stern look, "I did not say you cannot. I said you are not."

"That seems rude."

"It is medical."

"Same thing, sometimes."

She folds her arms. "Rasmus."

I stop pedaling. The sudden quiet of the bike makes the rink sounds louder.

"I want the drills," I say. "I can feel the difference every day. If I keep sitting here while everyone else plays, they will find somebody who does not need a special program."

Her face changes, just a little. The doctor expression stays in place, but something softer moves underneath it.

"The team did not replace you," she says.

"Not yet."

She touches my arm lightly, "They have to dress a roster."

"Yes."

"And you have to have a spine that works."

I look away.

At fifteen, I played a tournament in Trollhättan with a fever because my father was supposed to come after an emergency call at work. My mother kept checking her phone in the stands. My sister Elin waved a cardboard sign with my number painted crooked across it.

He missed the game.

I scored once. We lost by two. I told everyone it was fine.

Afterward, I kept the unused ticket under my mattress for months.

Ava touches the side of the bike console. "Pain level."

"Three."

"That was too fast."

I sigh, "Four."

She waits.

"Five, after sleeping," I say.

Her jaw tightens. "Why did you tell me three?"

"I did not want you to cancel today."

"I was already going to reduce today."

"Exactly."

The training-room door swings open before she can answer. Connor steps inside, helmet under one arm, sweat darkening the collar of his practice shirt.

"Coach says our Swedish prince is sulking at the bike again," he tells Ava.

"I am directly in front of you," I say.

Connor looks at me. "Then hear it directly. You do not get points for making her chase you around with an ice pack."

Ava picks up her tablet. "Thank you, Connor."

"I have been waiting years for medical approval to say that."

"You do not have medical approval."

"Still said it."

He sits on the bench across from me and unlatches his helmet. "You watched videos last night?"

"Yes." He nods.

"You sent me twelve clips at one in the morning."

He grins, "Eleven."

"One was a photo of a whiteboard with arrows on it. That counts as twelve."

"It was important."

Connor rubs a hand over his face, then looks at me properly. The joking leaves him.

"We have three games in five nights next week. Caleb is already playing too many minutes. Quinn has a bruised shoulder. Coach wants you back yesterday." He pauses. "I want you back when you can take a hit without turning into a cautionary tale."

My throat gets tight. I hate that he can say it like that. Like it is simple.

"What if I am not ready when you need me?" I ask.

Connor glances toward the ice. "Then we will need somebody else for a while. That is how it works."

There it is.

A clean answer. No promise that they will wait. No lie about how easy it will be.

He leans forward, forearms on his knees. "But you hiding pain and coming back bad? That gets you hurt again. Then we lose you longer. I am not doing that to you, man."

I nod once.

Connor stands. "Good. Reduced drills. Do what Doc says for once."

"I do what she says all the time."

Ava gives me a look.

Connor grins. "That is not what your chart says."

He leaves before I can answer. On the ice, Brady immediately crashes into the boards near the bench and throws both hands up as if physics has betrayed him.

Ava opens the file on her tablet.

"Ten minutes on the ice," she says. "Forward and backward skating. Controlled edges. No shooting. You stop if the pain increases, if you feel weakness, numbness, or any hesitation on rotation."

"I understand."

"Say it back."

I do. Every part.

She nods, but she does not move away.

"You do not have to make yourself useful every second," she says quietly.

I stare at her.

Her gaze drops to my hands. I have gripped the bike handles hard enough that my knuckles are pale.

"I am not saying you are useless," she adds. "I am saying your value to this team does not disappear because you need time."

The words settle somewhere sore.

I want to ask whether she means it about hockey, or whether she means something else too. The answer could make the room impossible.

Instead, I stand carefully from the bike.

Ava's hand comes out toward my elbow. She stops before she touches me.

I pretend I do not see it.

On the ice, I am slower than I remember.

Not weak. Not exactly. My legs know what to do. The first glide feels good enough to make me reckless, cold air cutting into my lungs, blade edges biting cleanly. I push harder on the second lap.

My back catches on the turn.

A hot line of pain shoots across my lower spine. My right leg goes briefly strange, half a second of delayed response.

I straighten before anyone can notice.

Ava notices, it is her job to notice.

She blows the whistle once from the bench.

I skate toward her, angry before I reach the boards.

"I am fine."

"No, you are not."

I can’t help but sigh, "It was one turn."

"And it changed your gait."

"It did not."

Her expression goes flat. "Do not insult me."

The assistant trainer looks away quickly. Connor, standing near the bench with his stick across his thighs, says nothing.

That is worse.

Ava comes through the open gate onto the ice, careful in sneakers. She stops close enough that I can see the tiny crease between her brows.

"Tell me what happened."

I want to tell her nothing. I want her to look at the ice instead of me.

"Rotation hurt," I say. "Right side felt slow for a second."

"How slow?"

I decide to be honest, "Half a second."

"Any numbness now?"

"No."

"Pain level?"

"Six."

Her eyes close briefly. Not frustration. Fear.

It hits me harder than the pain.

Ava points toward the bench. "You are done for today."

I wait for the anger to rise. It does. Beneath it, something else moves, quieter and harder to fight.

Relief.

"Okay," I say.

She looks at me sharply, as if she expected an argument.

"I am done," I repeat.

Connor gives one firm nod from the boards.

Ava's shoulders lower by a fraction. "Thank you."

I sit while she checks strength, sensation, reflexes. Her fingers are cool at my ankle, steady against my knee. People move around us, practice continuing at the far end. For a few minutes, I am only a body she is protecting.

I should hate that.

I do not.

Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her scrub pants.

She ignores it once. Then again.

The third time, she pulls it out.

I watch her read the screen.

All the color leaves her face.

"What?" I ask.

Ava looks toward the far end of the rink, where the service corridor opens beside the equipment tunnel.

Her voice is controlled when she says, "Morales just forwarded a message from Ethan."

My stomach drops.

"What did he say?"

She turns the phone so I can read it.

‘You said rink. I can see the back entrance from the marina lot. Come alone.’