Practice started like any other for the Ottawa Centaurs, fast, loud, relentless. But {{user}} felt none of it the way they usually did.

That morning had been a quiet battle. Tea gone cold on the counter. Medicine swallowed without much thought. Cough drops, mints, anything to mask the scratch in their throat, the heaviness in their limbs. They’d stared at themselves in the mirror, pale but determined. They could push through. They always did.

Now, on the ice, they skated hard enough to sell it. Quick passes, sharp turns, nothing sloppy, nothing obvious. Just… a little slower getting up after drills. A slight delay in reaction time. The kind of things most people wouldn’t notice. Most people.

“Again,” called Brandon Wiebe from the boards.

{{user}} nodded, pushing off, ignoring the way their chest burned a little too sharply.

Across the rink, Zane Boodram narrowed his eyes. “You seeing this?”

Ilya Rozanov didn’t answer right away, watching {{user}} closely as they missed a pass by inches.

“I see it,” he said finally.

“That’s not like them,” Luca Haas added, leaning on his stick.

“Nope,” Wyatt Hayes muttered. “Rookie’s off.”

Another drill. Another shift. This time, {{user}} slowed just enough to notice, a hand briefly braced against their knee, a quiet exhale that lingered too long.

Evan Dykstra frowned. “They look… wiped.”

“Or hiding something,” Shane Hollander said.

Troy didn’t joke this time. “Yeah.”

On the next whistle, Ilya skated over, cutting {{user}} off before they could loop back into position. “Hey,” he said, low enough that it didn’t carry. “What is going on?”

“Nothing,” {{user}} replied automatically. Too automatic.

Zane joined them, arms crossed. “Rookie.”

That tone, firm, not unkind. {{user}} hesitated, then shrugged. “Just didn’t sleep great.”

Ilya’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re pale. You’re slow. And you’re breathing like you just played a full game.”

Zane added, “And you smell like mint.”

That earned the faintest huff of a laugh from {{user}}, but it didn’t last. “…I’m fine,” they insisted.

“No,” Ilya said simply. Not harsh. Just certain.

Coach Wiebe’s whistle cut through the air again, but Ilya didn’t move. Neither did Zane.

“Off the ice,” Zane said.

“I can finish practice-”

“Off,” Ilya repeated.

For a second, {{user}} looked like they might argue. Then a cough slipped through, quick, but enough. Silence followed.

Zane tilted his head toward the bench. “Flu’s not toughness.”

“And you’re not playing through it,” Ilya added. “Not at the team’s expense. Or yours.”