So many people. All moving with purpose.
“First big trip?” a voice asked.
I turned to find Mark, one of the equipment managers—the kind of man who looked permanently built out of shoulders and calm. He’d helped me find my locker the first week.
“Is it that obvious?” I asked.
Traveling medic,apparently, was a promotion. I still wasn’t trusted to make a medical call, but I was trusted enough to sit on the bench.
Go me.
He grinned. “You’re standing still. Nobody does that once they know better.”
I laughed, a little embarrassed, and followed as he started walking again. “I didn’t realize how many of you traveled.”
“All of us,” he said easily. “If it touches a player, we’re here. Bodies, skates, tape, cameras, paperwork.” He jerked his chin toward a man struggling with a Pelican case. “That’s Alex. Video. He’s the reason coaches sleep at night.”
As if summoned, Alexlooked up and waved. “Hey, Doc—uh—Medic,” he corrected quickly, then winced. “Sorry. Still learning.”
“It’s fine,” I said, surprised by how much it mattered that he’d tried. “Cinder’s good.”
“Cinder,” he repeated, testing it like he wanted to get it right. “You’re with us now. You’ll get used to the chaos.” I wasn’t sure I would. Alex did share that this was an upgrade. After the recentwins and a few new sponsors moving in, the team now got its own plane.
We climbed the stairs into the plane, and I paused again—unable to help it this time. Rows of wide seats. Team logos stitched into headrests. Players already sprawled out like this was their living room. Staff greeting each other by first name, trading snacks, plugging things in. I felt my shoulders ease slightly. "Thanks."
"Medical usually grabs the back left seats. Quiet. Easy exit to the galley."
I nodded, knowing that was a polite way of telling me only the stars sat up front, and made my way down the aisle, keeping my head down, trying not to look like I was gawking even though I absolutely was.
Players called out greetings as I passed. Max waved enthusiastically from his seat. Cole nodded.
And then—
"Cinder."
I looked up before I could stop myself.
Taranis sat three rows back, already settled in with a book open on his lap. He looked up at me with those steady eyes, expression carefully neutral, and I felt something twist uncomfortably in my chest. But then I’d been carefully neutral with him all week.
"Taranis," I said, matching his tone. Professional. Friendly. The way I'd greeted everyone else.
His mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, just a fraction, but I caught it. Hurt flickered across his face before he smoothed it away, dropping his gaze back to his book.
I kept walking. It was the right thing to do. The professional thing. The safe thing. So why did it feel like I'd just kicked a puppy?
I found the seat Mark had mentioned—back left, window, blessedly empty beside me—and pushed my bag into the overhead compartment with more force than necessary. My hands were shaking slightly as I buckled in.
This was fine. I was fine.
I'd done what I needed to do. Set a boundary. Kept things professional. Exactly what I'd promised myself when I took this job. The fact that Taranis looked like I'd physically hurt him was not my problem.
Except it felt like my problem.
I pulled out my phone and stared at it without seeing anything, trying very hard not to replay the way his expression had shuttered when I'd walked past. Trying not to think about the fact that he'd crossed an entire club just to thank me. That he'd given me his jacket without hesitation. That when he'd asked if he could buy me a drink, his voice had been so careful, so hopeful, like he was bracing for rejection but asking anyway.
And I'd given him exactly what he'd been bracing for.
My phone buzzed. Amy.How's the fancy plane?