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Thanks I don’t.

“I’m a pro athlete. I lift. I train. I eat.”

“You exist. Congrats.”

I lean in slightly, tone sharp enough to file nails with. “But I’m not here to applaud your metabolism. I’m here to make sure you don’t collapse on the ice because you think protein bars are a food group.”

He smirks, slow and self-satisfied. “So...you do think I’m strong.”

Oh for the love of—

“Strength means nothing if your blood sugar tanks mid-shift. You wanna be impressive? Try consistency.”

He leans back like this is entertaining. It’s not. For me.

“Consistency’s boring.”

“So is being benched for a cramp because you ‘forgot’ to eat lunch.”

He laughs, and it’s a whole thing. Rich, deep, easy. And suddenly my chest’s doing this fluttery thing I didn’t approve. I cross my arms tighter.

“Didn’t expect you to bite back.”

“I don’t bite. I correct.”

“Sure.” He cocks his head. “You’re feisty for someone who drives a Civic.”

“And you’re arrogant for someone who can’t remember to hydrate.” I snap.

He raises both hands. “Alright. I get it. You don’t do bullshit.”

“Glad that’s registering.”

A pause stretches, but he doesn’t fill it with more ego. Just watches me, more curious than cocky now. I don’t like it. It feels…personal.

“Okay,” he says, finally. “I’ll play along. What’s the plan?”

“You eat, like a real person. Not just shakes and shitakes. Track your meals honestly for seven days. Then we meet again.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you can explain to Coach why your performance nosedived after your diet became a science experiment.”

“You’d rat me out?”

“I’d report facts. Not my fault if the truth is inconvenient.”

He laughs again.

“You really don’t care if people like you, tank my entire career, huh?”

“Not part of the job description.”

“And what is part of the job?”

“Keeping you upright. Conscious. Ideally less of a jerk, but I’ll take what I can get.”

He stands, and somehow the room shrinks again, like he brought the tension with him and now it’s taking up all the oxygen.