Page 18

Chapter 18

Cyn

I guide Sorenson's arm through another careful rotation, watching his face for signs of pain. My fingers press into the groove of his shoulder, feeling the muscle respond—still too tight, but better than last week. This is the part of my job I love, the tangible progress under my hands, even if the Blades' defenseman curses under his breath every time we reach the sticking point.

"Easy," I tell him, adjusting my grip. "You're not going to impress anyone by pushing too hard and tearing it again."

"I just want to get back in the game ASAP," Sorenson winces as we hit the troublesome angle.

The training room hums with the familiar sounds of recovery—the whir of equipment, distant voices from the hallway, the occasional clank of weights. I still get a thrill every morning when I walk in here.

"Two more sets," I say, positioning his arm again. "Then we'll do the resistance band work."

The door bangs open. I don't need to turn around to know who it is. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

"Ms. Lockhart." Marjorie's voice could freeze boiling water.

I keep my hands steady on Sorenson's shoulder, not breaking the movement. "Almost finished here, Marjorie."

She steps into my peripheral vision. Her gray bob is immaculate as always, not a hair out of place.

"I need to see you in my office when you're done." Her voice is clipped and something in her tone makes my stomach tighten.

I nod, still focused on Sorenson. "Should be about thirty minutes."

"Don't keep me waiting." She turns sharply and walks out, the door closing with a finality that echoes in my chest.

Sorenson raises his eyebrows. "What's up with the ice queen?"

"No idea." I try to keep my voice light, but my mind is already racing. Did I miss a meeting? File the wrong paperwork? "Let's focus on your shoulder."

"She always looks at you like you just shot her dog."

I force a weak smile. "She’s certainly not the warmest of people."

We continue the exercises, but my body is on autopilot now. My hands guide Sorenson through the motions while my brain spins through possibilities. Last week, Marjorie criticized the treatment plan I'd developed for one of the rookies, but I'd justified my approach with research. The day before, she'd walked past as I was laughing with Garrett about something entirely innocent. The memory of her narrowed eyes sends a chill down my spine.

"You okay, Cyn?" Sorenson interrupts my thoughts.

"I'm fine." My fingers are moving, testing the resistance in his muscle, but they feel disconnected from me. "How's the pain level now?"

"Four, maybe? Better than Monday."

I nod, making notes in my head to update his chart. The next twenty minutes stretch like taffy, slow and sticky. I demonstrate the new exercises, correct his form, remind him about ice therapy. All while the clock on the wall ticks toward whatever awaits in Marjorie's office.

"Same time Thursday," I tell him as he puts his sweatshirt back on. "Ice it tonight if you feel any inflammation."

"Will do." He pauses at the door. "Good luck with the dragon lady."

I smile tightly. "Thanks."

As soon as he's gone, I sink onto the treatment table for just a moment. My hands, steady through the entire session, now tremble slightly. I straighten my ponytail, smooth my polo, and take a deep breath. Whatever Marjorie wants, I'll handle it professionally. This job means everything to me.

I walk quickly to Marjorie’s office and knock on her closed door.

I hear her yell out something and assume she wants me to enter.

She doesn't invite me to sit, but I do anyway, folding myself into the uncomfortable chair across from her. The clock on the wall ticks loudly.

"You wanted to see me?" I keep my voice professional, neutral.

She shuffles papers, taking her time before looking up. Her glasses hang from a chain around her neck, and she deliberately places them on her nose, peering at me over the rims.

"How are you finding your position with the Blades, Ms. Lockhart?" The question sounds like a trap.

"It's going well. The players are responding to the treatment protocols, and?—"

She cuts me off, folding her hands on the desk. "Tell me about your understanding of professional boundaries."

My stomach drops. I keep my face carefully blank. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I think you do." She leans forward. Her red lips twist into something between a smile and a grimace. "Your relationship with Coach Hughes is inappropriate and unacceptable."

The accusation lands like a slap. I feel heat rush to my face but force myself to hold her gaze.

"Coach Hughes and I maintain a professional relationship." The words sound hollow even to me.

"Please." She practically spits the word. "I know what I'm seeing."

My heart hammers against my ribs. How much does she know? Garrett and I have been so careful. We are always professional at work.

"I've noticed the looks. The 'coincidental' meetings in the break room." She ticks off points on her fingers. "The way you light up when he enters a room. The private conversations that stop when someone approaches." She pauses, eyes narrowing. "And I’ve been informed by a player that something happened on the away trip to Denver."

I swallow hard. Stupid, stupid, stupid. That was careless.

"Workplace relationships happen," I say, hating how defensive I sound.

"Not in my department." She removes her glasses, letting them dangle. "Do you have any idea of the ethical violations here? He's part of the coaching staff. You're the treating therapist for his players. The conflict of interest alone is grounds for dismissal."

My hands clench in my lap. She's right, and I know it.

"I assure you my treatment decisions are based solely on medical considerations," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady.

"That's not the point." She slaps her palm on the desk. "Perception matters in professional sports. What happens when a player believes his treatment is influenced by his coach's...pillow talk?" She makes the phrase sound filthy. "Or when another staff member feels passed over because you have special access?"

Each word burrows under my skin. These are the exact fears that keep me awake at night, even as I fall deeper for Garrett.

"I've haven’t spoken with HR about the situation yet." She straightens papers that don't need straightening. "As of now, this is still between us. I'm giving you one chance."

I wait for it, the guillotine blade hanging over me.

"End it with Coach Hughes immediately, or you're fired." Her voice is ice. "No severance. No references."

The room seems to tilt slightly. My career, everything I've worked for, balanced against—what? A relationship that's only months old?

"I shouldn't have to remind you of the investment the organization has made in you," she continues. "Or how difficult it would be to find another position in professional sports with a termination for ethical violations on your record."

I open my mouth, but no words come out. What can I possibly say?

"I'll need your decision by the end of the week." She puts her glasses back on and returns to the papers on her desk. "That's all, Ms. Lockhart."

I rise on unsteady legs and somehow make it to the door.

"And Ms. Lockhart?" Her voice stops me with my hand on the doorknob. "I'd advise you to make the right choice. Men like Coach Hughes move on. Careers, once damaged, rarely recover."

I step out without responding, the door clicking shut behind me.

I make it halfway down the hallway before my legs start to shake. I need somewhere quiet, somewhere private. I slip inside the supply closet, flick on the light, and lean against shelves stacked with therapy bands and foam rollers. My breath comes in shallow gasps. I couldn't defend myself because, deep down, I knew every word Marjorie said was true.

Every. Damn. Word.

My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably Garrett, checking in like he does most days around this time. I can't look at it. Can't think straight.

End it or lose everything I've worked for.

My career. My independence. The validation that I made it here on merit, not connections or luck. Years of student debt for a degree I might never use again if word gets out I was fired for ethical violations.

But also: Garrett. The baby. A future I never planned but suddenly can't imagine giving up.

My fingers press firmly against my abdomen. As if I could somehow protect this tiny secret from the impossible choice ahead. Is Marjorie right? Would Garrett eventually move on while my career lies in tatters? Or would giving him up—giving us up—leave a wound that never heals?

I need to talk to Sophie. She navigated the complicated terrain of dating someone who’s part of the team. She married Evan despite the challenges of his hockey schedule and her journalism career.

I pull out my phone, ignoring the message from Garrett for now.

Me: Lunch today? Need to talk. It's important.

Sophie's reply comes seconds later.

Sophie: Antonelli's at 12:30? Everything ok?

Me: Not really. Will explain in person.

I push the door open. I have two more sessions before lunch. Somehow, I need to keep it together. Pretend everything is normal. Act like my entire life isn't balanced on the edge of a cliff.

The hallway light is too bright. Everything seems slightly off-kilter, like I'm moving through a world that has subtly shifted while I wasn't looking.

One foot in front of the other. That's all I can manage right now.

Antonelli's is packed with the lunch crowd, but somehow Sophie snagged us a corner booth. I spot her the moment I walk in—she's practically glowing, her honeymoon tan setting off the white cardigan she's wearing. She waves with that infectious enthusiasm that's pure Sophie, and for a second, I consider turning around and walking out. How can I dump my mess on her when she's so happy? But she's already seen me, and honestly, I might shatter if I don't tell someone everything.

"Cyn!" She jumps up to hug me, her arms wrapping tight around my shoulders. "God, I've missed you!"

I hug her back, holding on a beat too long. When we separate, her smile falters.

"You look terrible," she says, dropping back into the booth. "And I mean that with love."

"Thanks. It’s been a rough week." I slide in across from her, grabbing a menu. "How was Antigua?"

"Magical." Her eyes light up. "Blue water, white sand, swim-up bar with these rum punches that knocked Evan on his ass by two every afternoon." She laughs, then reaches across the table to take my hand. "But clearly something's wrong, and I'm guessing it's not my vacation stories you need right now."

The waitress appears, and I order an iced tea. Sophie asks for a sparkling water. When we're alone again, she leans forward.

"Spill it."

I take a deep breath. "I'm pregnant."

Her eyes widen, mouth forming a perfect O. "Oh my God," she whispers. "Garrett's?"

I nod, feeling the first tears prick at the corners of my eyes. "Found out last week. Told him last week."

"And? How did he take it?"

I twist my napkin between my fingers. "He was shocked at first, but then...supportive. Very supportive."

"That's wonderful!" Her face softens. "Isn't it?"

The tears spill over now. "Marjorie knows about us."

Sophie's expression darkens. "Oh, shit. How?"

"Apparently, one of the players said something to her." I swipe at my cheeks. "She called me into her office today. Said I had to end things with Garrett or she'd fire me."

"She can't do that!" Sophie's voice rises, drawing glances from nearby tables.

"She can. And she will." I stare down at the table. "Conflict of interest. Ethics violation."

Our drinks arrive. Sophie waits for the waitress to leave before continuing. "Have you told Garrett about this yet?"

"No." I take a long sip of tea. "It just happened this morning."

"Okay." She reaches for my hand again. "Let's think this through. You're pregnant. You love your job. Marjorie is threatening to destroy your career unless you dump the father of your baby, who happens to be a coach you work with professionally."

Put that way, it sounds like a bad soap opera. I nod miserably.

"And you want to be with Garrett, right?"

The question catches me off guard. But the answer comes without hesitation: "Yes."

Sophie squeezes my hand. "Then don't you dare let Marjorie take this from you."

"But my job?—"

"Is a job." She cuts me off. "An important one, yes. But there are other jobs, Cyn. There's only one Garrett, and only one baby—your baby."

I shake my head. "It's not that simple. If she fires me with cause, finding another position in sports medicine would be nearly impossible. All that education, all that debt..." My voice catches. "What kind of mother would I be if I can't even support myself?"

"The kind who chose love over fear." Sophie sits back, studying me. “There are solutions if you're looking for them instead of problems."

"Like what?" I ask, desperate for any path forward.

"Talk to Garrett first. He's on the leadership team—maybe he can talk to management about some options.”

The waitress returns for our order. Sophie gets a salad. I manage to request soup despite the knot in my stomach.

"What if there are no options?" I ask when we're alone again.

"Then you face that together too." Sophie's voice is softens now. "But Cyn, life's too short to let bitter women like Marjorie dictate your happiness. Trust me on this."

She winks, and I find myself smiling.

"Tell Garrett everything," she continues. "Don't make decisions out of fear. Make them from love. For yourself, for him, for the baby."

Our food arrives, and Sophie dives into her salad while I stir my soup aimlessly.

"How is it," I ask after a moment, "that you always make the most complicated situations sound so simple?"

"Because they are." She points her fork at me. "Love is simple. Everything else is just logistics."

I don't entirely believe that, but something in her certainty steadies me. The panic that's been clawing at my chest since Marjorie's office eases slightly.

"I'll talk to Garrett tonight," I decide. "Lay it all out."

"Good." Sophie nods approvingly. "And remember, whatever happens with the Blades, you're not alone in this. You've got me, Evan, and most importantly, you've got Garrett."

Sitting across from Sophie's unwavering belief in love, the future doesn't seem quite as terrifying.

We finish lunch talking about lighter things—Sophie's honeymoon adventures, the ridiculous hat Evan bought that she's forbidden him from wearing in public and the feature she’s currently working on. By the time we hug goodbye on the sidewalk outside, my steps feel steadier.

I pull out my phone and text Garrett:

Me: Need to see you tonight, please.

His reply comes instantly.

Garrett: My place at 7?

Me: Perfect.

Whatever happens next, at least I won't face it alone.