Chapter 68: The Health Confession

CASSIAN’S POV

He was in a lot of pain, but here he was, trying to brush it off.

It was small.

Just a fraction slower than usual when he turned at the blue line, just enough to catch my eye and refuse to leave it alone. Torin had been careful all morning, he had smiled when he needed to, kept skating when the drills got rough, and waved off every glance I gave him like I was being ridiculous.

I was not being ridiculous.

I knew his body by now, I knew the way he stood when he was fine, the way he moved when he was tired, the way his jaw tightened when he was trying not to show pain.

He had told me he was okay the night before.

He had said it with his forehead against mine, voice low, hand at my waist like he could quiet me down by touch alone.

I had believed him because I wanted to.

By the time practice ended, I was already halfway to the training area in my head.

Torin had gone off with the others, still acting normal.

I didn’t follow after them, I went to the trainer instead

.

The room was quieter than the locker room, all ice bags and tape and the low hum of a machine in the corner. One of the assistants was sorting wraps near the counter. The main trainer looked up when I stepped in.

He knew immediately that I was not there to joke around.

“Cassian,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

I shut the door behind me and kept my voice low. “How bad is it?”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Torin’s knee.”

The trainer’s expression changed at once, and that was enough to make my stomach drop before he even said anything.

He leaned back against the counter, then folded his arms. “I can’t discuss another player’s medical information.”

I took a step forward. “Please.”

That got his attention.

I did not like asking like that. I especially did not like it here, in a room full of tape and silence and the smell of ice treatment and old sweat, with the answer sitting somewhere on the other side of a policy. But I needed answers, and Torin wasn’t forthcoming with them.

The trainer looked at me for a second, and I knew he saw something in my face I had not tried very hard to hide. Fear.

Not the kind that came from a bad hit, the kind that came from loving somebody enough to be terrified of what they were carrying alone.

He exhaled once, then glanced towards the closed door as if making one final decision he already knew he should not have to make.

“I am not naming specifics,” he said at last. “But it is not good.”

My heart lurched once.

I kept my face steady by force. “How not good?”

He hesitated again, which made everything worse.

“Cassian.”

“Just tell me.”

His mouth flattened. “He has been playing through pain for months.”

The trainer kept going because he had already crossed the line and probably knew there was no point stopping now. “He has kept it quiet, which is why nobody else knows how much he has been managing.”

I stared at him. “Months?”

“Yes.”

My throat had gone tight without warning. I tried to swallow it down and failed.

I looked toward the door, then back at him. “Why did nobody say anything?”

The trainer gave me a look that was half sympathy and half frustration. “Because he did not want it discussed, he kept insisting he was fine, and because he could still skate.”

The trainer watched my face change. “Cassian.”

I did not answer.

He lowered his voice. “If he keeps going the way he has been going, he is risking more than a bad week.”

I looked up sharply.

The trainer did not look away. “He could make it a lot worse.”

That was not enough. It was too vague, too careful, too much like a warning and not enough like the truth.

“Say it,” I said, and even I heard the edge in my voice.

He paused.

Then, quietly, “He could end his career.”

The room went still.

I felt it like a drop straight through my chest. Not because I had not guessed. Because hearing it out loud made it real.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out at first.

The trainer looked at me closely now, and I knew he was weighing whether this was too much, whether he had crossed some line he should have kept to. I did not care, I needed more than guesswork now.

“How sure are you?” I asked.

He answered honestly. “Sure enough to be worried.”

I nodded once because that was all I could do with the way my pulse had started hammering.

The trainer pushed off the counter and lowered his voice even more. “He needs to get it looked at properly, but it is not as simple as that. You know how he is.”

I laughed once, but it came out wrong.

“Yeah, I know how he is.”

The trainer gave me a look that said he knew exactly what I meant. Torin did not stop, not until somebody forced him to. Not until the game had already bled through every warning sign.

I asked, “Does he know how serious it is?”

The trainer was quiet for a beat. “I think he knows enough, but doesn’t want to say it out loud.”

That made sense in the worst possible way.

I looked down at my own hands and found they had curled into fists without my permission. I relaxed them slowly, then looked back up.

The trainer said quietly, “He is still Torin. If he thinks you know too much, he will shut down faster.”

“I know.”

“That means if you talk to him, you do it carefully.”

I gave a slow nod. “I know that too.”

The trainer watched me for a second longer, then said, “He trusts you, that is obvious.”

That nearly got me.

I looked away first, which was probably answer enough.

My boyfriend needed urgent medical attention, but he didn’t seem to think it was necessary.

I sighed, thanked the trainer and left.

‘What do I do now?’ I thought to myself as I dragged myself down the hallway.