Ethan stood with his assistant, James Pearce, his own heart a heavy stone in his chest.
"What's the verdict, James?" he asked, his voice a low, worried whisper.
James tapped his tablet, his AI-generated face a perfect, unreadable mask. "The initial diagnosis is a dislocated shoulder, gaffer," he reported, his voice a calm, clinical monotone. "A result of the impact from the heroic, last-ditch block. Estimated recovery time: two to three months."
Two to three months. The words hit Ethan like a physical blow.
His S-Rank defensive prodigy, the rock he was building his new Championship defense around, was gone.
He would miss the start of the new season.
But more importantly, he would miss the final.
"We're in the final, lads," Ethan announced to the quiet room, his voice ringing with a forced, determined strength.
