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“Good instincts.”

I bend for the tape and my left fingers start buzzing before I reach the floor. My hand hangs beside my knee while I open it and close it, and the ring finger drags a fraction behind the others. I do it again and it’s better. Then I pick up the tape with my right hand, and the shoulder pulls when I straighten.

One body. Two opinions.

I take my bag. My left hand closes around the strap and the fingers buzz again, so I switch it to my right before I reach the door, and the shoulder pulls under the weight the whole way.

Pick one.

Turner catches me at the door.

“You icing?”

“No.”

His eyes go to the bag, then back to me. “You sure?”

“Dangerous question.”

“Usually is with you.”

I smile, and he keeps walking.

Good.

My phone goes off while I’m standing beside the G-Wagon.

Astrid.

Thai tonight. Seven.

Six eleven.

Another message comes in.

And do not eat whatever is still in that locker room.

I type:

You can’t tell a professional athlete not to fuel.

Three dots appear.

I can tell my husband not to eat garbage before dinner.

I read it once, and then again, and there are at least six things I could say back to it.

I settle on:

Control issues.

Her answer comes before I put the phone away.

Yes.

I laugh and look toward the side doors.

Mack should be down by now.