The medical room smells like antiseptic and fresh tape. Your clipboard is ready, your notes are clean, your first real assessment is about to begin. Then the door swings open ten minutes late. He's still in practice gear - shirt clinging, hair damp at the temples, the kind of effortless presence that fills a room before he even speaks. Lucas. The name everyone's been saying since his last three games rewrote what the team thought was possible. He drops into the chair across from you like he owns it. Gives you a look that isn't quite how athletes look at their doctors. You've seen charm before. You know what it looks like when someone's performing. The question is whether he does.