I smiled wryly. "Especially when it hurts."
"Especially then." She smiled, finally. "So when someone like Taranis Rees stands in a parking lot to protect you from pain he didn't cause, maybe consider that he's not looking for something to exploit. Maybe he just sees something worth protecting."
I thought about the way Taranis had looked at me—steady, certain, like I was worth the effort of understanding. The way his hands had been so careful when he caught me. The way his voice had gone soft when he saidsomeone sees you.
"He runs cold," I said quietly. "When he's stressed. His temperature drops to levels that should be impossible. I tried to tell the coach, the doctor, anyone who would listen. They dismissed me like I was overreacting."
Nancy's expression shifted—not surprise, exactly, but something more careful. More considered. "And you're sure about what you saw?"
"Eighty-nine degrees, Nancy. I checked three times with three different devices. His pulse was bradycardic, his skin was waxy, and he was standing there talking to me like nothing was wrong." I shook my head, the frustration building again. "That's not normal. That's not possible. And when I tried to pull him from the game, they looked at me like I was the one with the problem."
"The team doctor didn't back you up?"
"Dr. Reeves said it was an adrenaline crash. Told me goalies run cold after high-stress games." I laughed bitterly. "Like I don't know the difference between post-exertion cooling and whatever the hell is happening to Taranis."
Nancy was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tapping absently against her desk. I recognized that look—the one she got when she was processing something she wasn't sure she should share.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing." She shook her head slightly. "Just... this team has some unusual players. I've learned not to question everything I see. Everything I hear."
"That's not an answer."
"No," she agreed. "It's not." She studied me with those sharp eyes that had always seen too much. "But Cinder, if Taranis says he's fine—if he's been managing this for years—maybe trust that he knows his own body."
"That's not how medicine works."
"Maybe not. But it might be how this job works." She let that sit between us for a moment before changing the subject with characteristic directness. "Have your parents reached out?"
The question hit me like a sucker punch. I stiffened, my hands tightening around the now-cold mug. "Why would they?"
"Because you're all over the news. Because their son just saved someone's life on camera." Her voice gentled. "Because it's been fifteen years, and sometimes people change."
"They haven't changed." The words came out harder than I intended. "And even if they had, I wouldn't know. I haven't heard from them since they threw me out."
Nancy didn't flinch at the bitterness in my voice. She'd heard this story before—pieces of it, anyway. Enough to know why I'd arrived at nursing school with nothing but a duffel bag from foster care and a chip on my shoulder the size of Colorado.
"I was seventeen," I said, the old wound aching the way it always did when I poked at it. "They caught me kissing the neighbor's son. Tyler Morrison. We were in the backyard, and my dad—" I swallowed hard. "He didn't even yell. Just looked at me like I was something dirty. Something he couldn't believe had come from him. Said I was going to hell."
"Cinder—"
"My mom packed my bag while he stood there watching. She was crying, but she still folded everything neatly. Put in my toothbrush. My favorite hoodie." I hadn't understood. "Like she wanted to make sure I'd be comfortable while she kicked me out of my own home."
Nancy reached for my hand again, but I pulled back. I couldn't handle comfort right now. Comfort would break me.
"I have a brother," I continued, the words tumbling out now that I'd started. "Danny. He was eight when they made me leave. I used to read to him every night. Taught him how to ride a bike. He cried when I said goodbye, and I told him—" My throat closed up. "I told him I'd come back for him. That I'd figure something out."
"And?"
"And nothing." I laughed, the sound ugly and wet. "They moved and I have no idea where to. Changed their number.Made it very clear that I didn't exist anymore." I finally met Nancy's eyes. "Danny would be twenty-three now. I don't even know what he looks like. Whether he went to college. Whether he remembers me at all."
"He remembers," Nancy said quietly. "Brothers don't forget."
"You don't know that."
"No," she admitted. "But I know you. And if you loved him half as much as I think you did, he felt it. He still feels it."
I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe that somewhere out there, Danny thought about me. Wondered where I was. Maybe even looked for me the way I'd looked for him in those first desperate years before I'd finally accepted that some doors stayed closed no matter how hard you knocked.