Page 46 of Huge Pucking Play

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 stackedwith 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.

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