Melting ice

Restricted file

*Ava*

The leak appears on Winter Hayes's phone before it reaches mine.

She finds me outside the medical offices, still holding Rasmus's chart, while the hallway fills with the after-practice smell of sweat, ice, and damp equipment.

"Dr. Riley," Winter says.

Her voice is too careful.

Winter is usually impossible to miss. Today, her blond ponytail is tucked beneath a Pelicans cap, and she is wearing a team sweatshirt three sizes too large with her cheer bag slung over one shoulder. She holds out her phone without meeting my eyes.

"I thought you should see it before somebody sends it to you."

A hockey gossip account fills the screen.

No player name is printed, but it does not need one.

CHARLESTON D-MAN DEALING WITH RADIATING PAIN, TEAM PRESSURING RETURN BEFORE ROAD TRIP.

Under it is a photograph of Rasmus leaving the rink three days ago, hood up, one crutch visible beneath his arm.

My stomach goes cold.

Winter watches my face. "It is already getting shared in the fan group chats."

"Did anyone send this to you directly?"

"No. I saw it when one of the girls tagged me to ask if Rasmus was okay." Her mouth tightens. "I told them to stop being weird."

"Thank you."

"I did not say anything else." She shifts her weight. "I know you cannot tell me anything. I just... people are being gross about it."

They are. The comments scroll beneath the post, guessing at diagnoses, arguing over whether Rasmus is soft, whether the coaching staff is lying, whether he will be traded if he cannot return.

I hand Winter her phone.

"Do not engage with it," I say. "Screenshot the account name and send it to Ginnie."

"Already did."

Of course she did.

Winter's chin lifts slightly. "She texted back in eight seconds, which was scary."

"That is normal for Ginnie."

"I do not think it is."

Neither do I, but I do not say that.

When Winter leaves, I stand alone in the corridor until my phone rings.

The caller ID reads Pelicans Executive Office.

I answer on the fourth ring.

"Dr. Riley," says Martin Shaw, the team's director of operations. "Can you come upstairs?"

"I am with a patient file."

"Bring it."

The office upstairs is all glass walls and framed jerseys. Beyond the windows, Charleston is washed white by the afternoon sun. The harbor flashes between buildings. It should be beautiful. Instead, I notice the closed blinds, the bottle of water placed carefully beside the conference chair, the fact that Ginnie is already there.

She is wearing a navy suit and no smile.

Martin Shaw sits at the head of the table. Beside him is the Pelicans HR director, a woman named Diane Porter who has never asked me a question that did not arrive with paperwork.

Ginnie does not look at me.

That is when I understand how bad it is.

"Sit, please," Martin says.

I remain standing. "My restricted record was accessed without authorization. The information has been posted publicly."

"Yes," Diane says. "Our IT team is reviewing the access logs."

"Then why am I here?"

Her eyes flick toward my chart.

"Your credentials opened Mr. Dahlin's file at six forty-three this morning."

The room goes still.

I look at Ginnie.

She finally meets my eyes. There is something contained and furious in her expression. She knew.

"I was not at the rink at six forty-three," I say.

"Your badge registered at the staff entrance at six thirty-eight," Martin says.

"I was at the beach house."

"Can anyone verify that?"

Rasmus was asleep in the room across the hall. Caleb had stopped by to leave Butterscotch with us when he left early for practice. Butterscotch ate half a banana peel from the trash at seven fifteen.

None of that is useful.

"I can provide my home camera footage," I say.

Diane folds her hands. "We will need that. We also need to address the appearance of a conflict involving Mr. Dahlin."

My pulse starts to pound.

"Explain."

Martin leans back in his chair. "You have been residing in the same home as a player under your medical care. We understand the circumstances were unusual."

"Unusual circumstances do not erase confidentiality law."

"No," Diane says. "They do create questions about judgment."

The kiss rises in my throat like something poisonous.

Rasmus's mouth against mine. His hands at my waist. My own voice saying mistake because I had no safer word.

I keep my face still.

"Are you alleging I leaked his file?" I ask.

"We are asking whether your personal proximity to this player may have affected your professional decision-making."

"My decision to keep an injured athlete out of contact after he reported neurological symptoms?"

Martin's jaw tightens.

"You were also involved in a highly public criminal matter," Diane says. "We need to consider whether the recent stressors have impaired your ability to maintain appropriate boundaries."

For one second, I am back in Trauma Two, standing beside a monitor while Dr. Bell tells me everyone is doing their best.

I place Rasmus's chart on the table.

"Then consider it formally," I say. "I am filing a breach report with the league, the state medical board, and every internal compliance channel required by policy. I want outside forensic review of the access logs, including badge records, remote logins, and administrative terminals."

Ginnie draws in a slow breath.

Martin stares at me. "Ava, there are procedures."

"I know the procedures. I wrote part of the medical privacy revision last season."

"If this becomes external before we understand the source, it could create serious exposure for the organization."

"It already has."

Diane's expression hardens. "You should speak with counsel before making any reports."

"I am speaking with counsel."

Ginnie closes her eyes briefly.

Then she opens her legal pad and turns it toward me.

"I drafted the report while IT was pulling the preliminary logs," she says. "I was going to tell you after we had more."

"You were going to withhold it?"

"I was going to prevent Martin from ambushing you with it."

"That is not your decision."

"No," she says quietly. "It was not."

The anger drains out of me too fast, leaving exhaustion behind.

Ginnie slides a printed page across the table. "There is one detail you need to see."

At the bottom of the access record is a location code.

MEDIA-02.

The terminal sits in the communications wing, behind the locker room corridor. It is used by public relations staff, social media contractors, and anyone with temporary credentials during games.

My skin prickles.

"Who had access to that terminal?" I ask.

Martin looks at Diane.

Diane does not answer.

Ginnie does.

"Enough people that someone wanted cover."

My phone buzzes against the conference table.

Malik.

I tell them I need to take this and step into the hall before I answer.

"Hey," I say.

"You sound weird," my brother says immediately.

"I am at work."

"Mom said the hockey internet is talking about your player."

I close my eyes.

"Mom told you?"

"Winter told me. She called because she thought I would see it first."

Of course Winter did.

Malik is quiet for a second. "You eat today?"

"That is not relevant."

"It is always relevant. You used to skip lunch for a week so I could go on that school trip."

I lean against the wall beside a framed photograph of Connor lifting a trophy.

"I was twelve."

"You were twelve and insane."

"I had granola bars."

"You ate half of one and told Mom you were full."

The memory presses behind my ribs. Malik in his too-big school polo, trying to look older than he was. Me folding grocery receipts into squares beneath the kitchen table.

"I am fine," I say.

"Yeah. That is what you said then too."

When I return to the conference room, Rasmus is waiting outside the door.

He must have come through the private elevator. His face is pale, his body rigid with contained pain, but he is standing without a crutch.

My eyes go immediately to his posture.

"You should not be walking without support."

"Probably true," Then he changes the subject. “They are questioning you?".

"They are questioning my judgment."

His gaze drops to the report in my hand. "Because of me."

"Because somebody leaked your health information."

"I can talk to them."

I shake my head, "No."

"I am not demanding anything." His voice is low. "I just do not want you standing there alone."

The words almost undo me.

I look away before he can see it.

"I filed the report," I say. "There will be an investigation."

Rasmus nods once. He does not reach for me. He does not ask whether the kiss is part of what they suspect.

Behind us, Ginnie opens the conference-room door.

"IT has identified the terminal session," she says. "The login came through a temporary credential issued for media access during the last home game."

"Who was it issued to?" I ask.

Ginnie's face has gone very still.

"That is the problem," she says. "The credential belongs to someone working inside the Pelicans organization."