Page 30 of Offside

He looked up at me. We were close enough that I could see the ring around his irises.

Reyes came into the room with Vicki.

I moved back before she reached the station. She repeated the strength checks, compared both arms, then had me work through a controlled low-load movement while she watched where the compensation began. The shoulder tired earlier than it had in September.

"No contact at morning skate," she said. "Tomorrow's game is conditional. If strength returns to the level you had before last night and it stays there through warmup, you can dress on reduced minutes. Same use limits, and tighter reporting. Zoe checks you after."

"And if strength doesn't come back?"

"Then you don't play," Reyes said.

"Do we image it?"

"If the loss persists or the next load produces another decline, yes. Today we revise the plan and watch the response."

Declan entered Reyes's decision into the record. The clearance belonged to her. The numbers indicated what my arm was capable of.

When I left the room, a television above the equipment counter was replaying the previous night's game. The red light had caught twelve seconds of me sitting still. Anybody could see it now.

12

Declan

Bishop played Thursday on reduced minutes. He came through the game without another strength failure, but the right arm stayed close to his body when he left the ice. By the time he reached the training room, his undershirt was soaked through and stuck to his back.

Zoe completed the postgame check. She measured active movement, tested the response at low load, and gave him the written plan for the night. Vicki needed her for two other players before the building cleared. I'd finished with Eriksson and was putting my tablet away when Bishop stopped beside me.

"I need a ride," he said. "Garrett has my truck at the facility."

He didn't ask me to look at the shoulder or to interpret Zoe's findings.

"Garrett drove us over," he explained.

The game arena and practice facility were separate buildings. His keys were in the stall. His right arm was too limited to drive safely across the city even if the truck had been here.

Zoe looked up from the next table. "A ride is a good idea. Tonight's plan is in his portal and on paper. If the weakness changes, he calls Reyes."

"I'll take him," I said. "My car's in the garage."

In the car, we talked about the traffic on Lake Shore Drive. Bishop held his right hand low on his thigh. I kept both of mine on the wheel.

His apartment was quiet, and larger than I expected. The furniture fit his massive body. The kitchen counters were clear except for a roll of paper towels, a bowl with two apples in it, and the sheet Zoe had given him. He put his keys beside the paper.

"You can go," he said. "I have Zoe's instructions."

"I know." I stayed where I was.

He looked at me once, then reached for the hem of his undershirt with his left hand. The damp fabric peeled up his left side and stopped across his ribs. He tried to pull it higher without lifting the right arm, but the neckline caught under his chin. When he shifted his weight to free it, the right shoulder tightened and his breath cut off. He lowered the shirt again.

"I can do it. Give me another minute."

He tried a second time. The left side came free, but the wet shirt twisted across his back and pulled the right sleeve upward. His jaw set. I waited where I was. He let the fabric fall.

"Help me get it off," he said, frustrated. "I can't free the right sleeve."

"Keep the right arm down." I stepped in front of him.

I took the hem on his left side and drew it upward, keeping the right side loose. He bent his head, and I eased the neckline over the back of his skull and freed his face first. He pulled his left arm out on his own. The shirt remained bunched around the right upper arm.