Page 14

Chapter 14

Cyn

I pour the last drops of the break room coffee into my mug. Adam sits perched on the counter, his legs swinging like an excited child's, a smile stretching across his face that suggests he's about to burst if he doesn't share whatever gossip is bubbling inside him. His chinos and polo are immaculate as always, the creases so sharp they could probably cut through the stale break room donuts no one ever eats.

"You're practically vibrating," I observe, stirring a packet of sugar into my coffee. "Either you've already had four espressos from the cafeteria, or you're dying to tell me something."

Adam clutches his chest dramatically. "Cynthia Lockhart, how dare you suggest I'd drink that swill from the cafeteria?" He holds up his pristine thermos. "This is single-origin Ethiopian, thank you very much."

"Of course it is." I roll my eyes but can't suppress my smile. "So what's got you buzzing, then?"

"New. York. City." Adam punctuates each word by slapping the countertop. "My friends and I did a weekend trip, and oh my God, you would not believe what happened."

I settle into the worn couch against the wall, crossing my legs. The break room smells of burnt coffee and the vague antiseptic scent that permeates the entire training facility. Outside, I can hear the distant sounds of skates scraping ice, the occasional shout from a coach.

"I'm all ears," I say, grateful for the distraction. My thoughts have been circling around Garrett Hughes since I left his place yesterday morning.

Adam hops off the counter with the grace of a gymnast and plops down beside me. "So, there's four of us, right? Me, Trevor, Kyle, and Marcus. We get this amazing Airbnb in Chelsea – two bedrooms, but whatever, we're not picky."

"Trevor's the accountant?" I ask, trying to keep his friend group straight.

"No, that's Kyle. Trevor's the one who designs those ridiculous chunky sneakers all the teenagers are obsessed with."

"Got it."

"Anyway." Adam takes a sip from his thermos. "We decide to go to this club in Hell's Kitchen that Trevor swears is 'the place to be' right now. It's one of those spots where you need to know somebody who knows somebody just to get past the velvet rope."

I raise an eyebrow. "And one of you knows somebody?"

"Trevor does," Adam says with a smirk. "Or at least, that's what he claimed. We get there, and there's this line wrapping around the block, but Trevor marches up to the bouncer like he owns the place."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes," Adam's eyes shine with delight. "Picture this – Trevor wearing a jacket that looks like it was made from my grandmother's couch, Kyle in his rainbow silk shirt, Marcus in his vintage leather jacket, and me trying to look like I belong."

I laugh, visualizing the group. "And did Trevor's connection come through?"

"Shockingly, yes! The bouncer actually checked his list, found Trevor's name, and let us in. We're all standing there with our jaws on the floor."

"No way."

"Way. Turns out one of Trevor's celebrity clients got us on the list." Adam leans in conspiratorially. "But that's not even the good part."

I take a sip of my coffee, settling in. "I'm listening."

"So we're inside this club, music thumping, lights flashing, beautiful people everywhere. Kyle immediately heads to the bar because, well, he's Kyle and needs liquid courage to function in social settings." Adam pantomimes throwing back shots. "The rest of us find a spot near the dance floor, and Trevor starts pointing out minor celebrities."

"Like who?"

"That guy from that Netflix show about the haunted lighthouse, a couple of models I've seen in cologne ads, oh, and this chef who was on the last season of Top Chef."

"Impressive," I nod, genuinely entertained by Adam's animated storytelling.

"But then—" Adam pauses dramatically, "—Marcus spots him."

"Him who?"

"Patrick. Fucking. Jackson." Adam enunciates each syllable with reverence.

I nearly choke on my coffee. "The Patrick Jackson? Like, three-time Oscar nominee, jawline-that-could-cut-glass Patrick Jackson?"

"The very same," Adam confirms with a vigorous nod. "So we're all trying to play it cool, stealing glances, when Kyle returns from the bar."

"Uh oh."

"Four tequila shots in and the man is transformed. Gone is boring accountant Kyle. In his place stands confidence personified." Adam stands up to demonstrate, squaring his shoulders for his best power stance. "He takes one look at Patrick Jackson and declares – loudly, mind you – 'I'm gonna go talk to him.'"

I cover my mouth. "No."

"Yes!" Adam sits back down, barely containing his glee. "Trevor and I try to stop him, but Marcus – traitor that he is – encourages Kyle. Says he'll never have this chance again."

"Oh God."

"So Kyle marches over, somehow slips past the VIP security – I think the guard was distracted by some commotion at the door – and walks straight up to Patrick Jackson's table."

I lean forward, completely invested now. "And then what?"

"He introduces himself! And says, 'Hey, I'm Kyle. Your bone structure is mathematically perfect.'" Adam collapses into laughter at the memory. "A pickup line only an accountant could love."

I snort loudly.

"Patrick Jackson looks at him like Kyle's a new species of insect. But here's the kicker – he doesn't immediately call security. He actually responds!"

"No way."

"Then Kyle attempts to sit down next to him. But his drunk ass misses the chair entirely and falls to the floor."

I nearly spill my coffee. "Stop it."

"I wish I could! But it gets worse." Adam wipes away a tear of mirth. "As he's falling, he grabs onto the table for balance, knocks over not one, not two, but three very expensive-looking cocktails. Directly onto Patrick Jackson's white designer shirt."

"Security appeared out of nowhere and escorted us all out. Patrick Jackson was surprisingly cool about it, but his entourage was furious." Adam shakes his head. "Trevor's convinced he'll never be allowed in another New York club as long as he lives."

"That's possibly the best celebrity encounter story I've ever heard," I say, still giggling.

"Enough about my disaster friends. Anything exciting going on with you?"

The question catches me off-guard despite its predictability. I hesitate, running my finger around the rim of my mug. I hadn't planned on telling anyone about my night with Garrett, but I’m about to bust.

"Actually..." I start, lowering my voice despite the empty break room. "I may have had an interesting night last night."

Adam's eyes widen with instant interest. "Yes, girl. Spill."

I feel a flush creeping up my neck. "I went to Garrett’s place last night."

"And?" Adam prompts when I pause.

"It's incredible, Adam. Like something out of a magazine. He has this view of the lake that makes you want to cry, and the whole place is so...adult. No IKEA furniture in sight."

"I'm already jealous," Adam says. "But I sense there's more to this story than real estate porn."

I bite my lip, fighting a smile. "Let's just say we christened his bathtub. It's this massive soaker tub with jets, and he has these bath salts that smell like heaven, and?—"

Before I can finish the sentence, the break room door bangs open with enough force to rattle the sad little ficus plant by the window. Marjorie stands in the doorway, her steel-gray bob with ruler-straight bangs framing a face set in what appears to be a permanent scowl. Her bright red lipstick looks like a fresh wound against her pale skin, and her eyes—sharp as scalpels—lock directly onto me.

My words evaporate mid-sentence.

"Cynthia." Marjorie pronounces my name like it's a diagnosis of some rare disease. "I need to see you in my office immediately."

"Is something wrong?" I ask, setting down my mug with a hand that isn't quite steady.

Marjorie's nostrils flare slightly. "We’ll talk in my office about it. And immediately means as soon as possible, Cynthia. Not after you finish your social hour." Her gaze flicks dismissively to Adam, then back to me.

Without waiting for a response, Marjorie pivots on her heel and strides away. The door swings shut behind her, but her presence lingers like a harsh hospital disinfectant.

"Holy shit," Adam finally whispers, breaking the spell. "What was that about?"

I slump back against the couch, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I have no idea."

"She looked extra murdery today," Adam says, eyeing the door as if Marjorie might burst back through it. "I think her lipstick was a shade redder than usual. Probably from drinking the blood of junior staff members."

I laugh. "Seriously though, I can't think of what I've done wrong."

But even as I say it, a possibility slides into my mind like a cold needle. Garrett. What if someone saw us together? What if word got back to Marjorie?

The thought makes my stomach clench. Dating a coach isn't explicitly forbidden in her contract—I’ve checked, thoroughly—but workplace relationships are complicated enough without adding the power dynamics of the hockey organization into the mix. And Marjorie, with her rigid adherence to what she considers professional boundaries, would definitely disapprove.

I take a deep breath and stand up. My legs feel slightly unsteady, like I’ve just finished a tough workout. "I better go. The last thing I should do is keep her waiting."

Adam stands too, giving my shoulder a squeeze. "Want me to create a distraction? I could pull the fire alarm."

I laugh, shaking my head.

"You got this, girl. Look her in the eye. Stand your ground. Remember you're good at your job. And if all else fails, compliment her lipstick. That shade of 'just devoured a small child' really brings out her eyes."

"You're terrible," I say, but I’m smiling.

"That's why you love me." Adam gives me a little push toward the door. "Go get 'em, tiger. I'll be here waiting with emergency chocolate when you're done."

As I step into the hallway, my mind is racing, cataloging every possible reason Marjorie might want to see me.

Most scenarios lead back to Garrett.

We’ve been careful, or at least I thought we had. No public displays of affection. No obvious signs of familiarity at work. Garrett has maintained his professional distance during team activities, and I have treated him with the same clinical respect I show all coaching staff.

But what if someone saw them outside of work?

As I approach Marjorie's office, my chest tightens. I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to have it all taken away.

I straighten my shoulders, take a deep breath, and knock.

“Enter.”

Marjorie's office has all the warmth of a morgue and twice the discomfort. The walls are a sterile white, adorned only with her framed credentials and a single motivational poster featuring a soaring eagle that somehow manages to look threatening rather than inspiring. Her desk is ruthlessly organized – pens aligned at perfect right angles, papers stacked with military precision, not a paperclip out of place. It's as if the concept of clutter offends her personally.

"Sit," Marjorie commands, not looking up from the file open before her.

I lower myself into the chair opposite the desk,

Silence stretches between us as Marjorie continues to read, occasionally making a note with her red pen. My mind races through worst-case scenarios. Someone saw us at Mack’s last night. Someone heard us in the plane bathroom. Maybe one of the players noticed the way Garrett's gaze lingers on me. Maybe?—

"Do you know why you're here, Cynthia?" Marjorie finally speaks, looking up with narrowed eyes.

My mouth goes dry. "No, I don't."

"Take a guess." Marjorie taps her red pen against the file. Her fingernails are filed into perfect ovals, painted the same crimson as her lipstick.

"I'm not sure," I say carefully. "Has there been a complaint?"

"A complaint?" Marjorie repeats, arching one thin eyebrow. "Should there be?"

"I don't believe so," I say, aiming for confident but landing somewhere near nervous. "I've maintained professional relationships with all players and staff."

Professional relationships. The phrase sits heavy on her tongue, tasting of half-truths and omissions. Garrett's face flashes in her mind – his smile across the pillow, his hands on her skin in the bathtub. Her cheeks warm at the memory.

Marjorie studies her for a long moment, her gaze clinical and cold. Then she flips the file around and slides it across the desk.

"Explain this to me."

Cyn leans forward, confused. The file isn't personnel records or complaint forms. It's a treatment protocol – Evan Daniels' treatment protocol, specifically. Her protocol, with Marjorie's red pen slashing through sections like a surgeon's scalpel.

Relief crashes through her so forcefully that I nearly laugh. This isn't about Garrett at all.

"That's Evan's hip mobility program," I say, my voice steadier now. "I've been implementing these exercises for the past two weeks."

"And what possessed you to use this particular approach?" Marjorie asks, each word precise and cutting.

I blink, caught off guard by the question. "Research shows it's highly effective for his specific condition. I attended Dr. Katsaros's workshop last month on innovative approaches to hip impingement in athletes."

"Dr. Katsaros," Marjorie repeats, somehow making the respected physician's name sound like a questionable source. "And you decided to implement these experimental techniques on one of our most valuable players without consulting me?"

"They're not experimental," I counter, professional pride momentarily overriding my caution. "They're evidence-based approaches with solid clinical trials. And I did document everything in my treatment notes."

"Notes which I only reviewed yesterday," Marjorie says, her voice rising slightly. "After you'd already subjected Daniels to two weeks of this...unorthodox methodology."

My confusion deepens. "Evan's responded very well to the treatment. His range of motion has improved by seventeen percent, and he's reported a significant decrease in pain during lateral movements."

"That's irrelevant," Marjorie snaps.

"How is the player’s improvement irrelevant?" The words escape before I can stop them.

Marjorie's eyes narrow to slits. "Protocol, Cynthia. This organization operates according to established protocols. Protocols that I, as head of physical therapy, establish and oversee." She jabs a finger at the treatment plan. "This is not our standard approach to hip impingement."

"But the standard approach wasn't working for Evan," I explain, trying to keep frustration from my voice. "He plateaued after three weeks. This adapted protocol breaks through that plateau by?—"

"Did Daniels complain about his treatment?" Marjorie interrupts.

"No, not at all. In fact, he's been very positive about his progress."

"Then there was no reason to deviate from our established methods." Marjorie's tone suggests this should be obvious. "You've created unnecessary risk. If Daniels were to experience complications, the organization could be liable."

Heat rises in my chest – not embarrassment now, but indignation. I’m a certified physical therapist with specialized training in sports medicine. My approach to Evan's treatment wasn't a whim; it was a carefully considered professional decision based on current research and Evan's specific needs.

But Marjorie isn't done. "Effective immediately, you will return to our standard protocol for hip impingement. You will explain to Daniels that the previous approach was administered in error."

"Let me be absolutely clear," Marjorie continues, each word precise as a scalpel. "I am responsible for the protocols used in this department. Not you. Not Dr. Katsaros. Not Daniels himself. Me." She closes the file with a sharp snap. "If you cannot adhere to this basic principle, perhaps you're not suited for this position."

I sit frozen, caught between professional integrity and self-preservation. I know my approach is sound. I know Evan is improving. I also know that finding another position with an NHL team would be nearly impossible if I were fired.

"I understand," I finally say, the words bitter on my tongue.

"Good." Marjorie nods curtly. "You'll submit a revised treatment plan for Daniels by the end of the day. One that adheres to our standard protocols."

I rise from the chair, my legs unsteady with suppressed anger.

I walk through the door and close it quietly behind me despite the urge to slam it. In the hallway, I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The relief that this wasn't about Garrett is overshadowed by professional frustration and fear for my job security.

I can’t continue to go through this level of worry.