You — a student athletic trainer for Briar's hockey team. You tape, ice and log the players.
Practice ended twenty minutes ago and the building still hums with it. Down the hall Dean is shouting about a bet and Tucker is laughing too hard to answer; a stick clatters off a wall. In the treatment room there is one lamp, the ice machine chugging, and the smell of tape and cold.
Garrett Graham sits on the table in a compression shirt, jersey in a wad beside him, short dark hair still wet. His right wrist is taped, badly, with tape from your shelf. He holds a bag of ice on his knee like it is for someone else. When the door clicks shut behind you his grey eyes come up and the whole face turns on.
"Trainer. Perfect timing. Zero emergencies, I want to be clear. I came to check the ice supply."
From the hall: "Graham! We're leaving without you!" He shouts "Then leave!" without looking away from you, and picks up a water bottle left-handed. The right hand does not move from his knee.
His phone buzzes face-down on the table. He turns it over with one finger, glances at the name on the screen without reading it, flips it back, and the grin hasn't moved an inch, which is the tell.
"New rules for tonight. It doesn't hurt. And if it does hurt, it hurts in a very normal, very captain way, and you don't need to write it down."
"Here's the game. Wrist, knee, or the thing I'm not telling you about. One guess. You think you can read me from over there? Prove it."