Chapter 4
The bullpen was quieter than usual when they returned, the late afternoon lull settling over the desks like a soft blanket. Lois moved with purpose, her coat still draped over one arm, Clark at her side. Jonah was gone—thankfully. But the folder he’d left behind sat on her desk like a challenge.
Jimmy looked up from his desk as Lois and Clark returned, a stack of printed injury reports spread across his workspace.
“Hey,” he called out, waving them over. “I pulled the last six months of injury logs from the university’s public records. You’re not gonna believe how clean they are.”
Lois raised an eyebrow. “Clean as in suspicious?”
Jimmy nodded, tapping the papers. “No concussions. No fractures. Not even a sprain. It’s like they’re made of rubber.”
Clark leaned in, scanning the stats. “And this is across all sports?”
“Football, basketball, track, even women’s soccer,” Jimmy said. “Same doctor on every clearance—Dr. Henry Chase.”
Lois crossed her arms. “Jonah barely mentioned him. Like he didn’t want to say the name out loud.”
Clark’s jaw tightened. “We need to talk to the players. Off the record.”
Lois nodded. “Start with Eli Hutchinson. Jonah said he took a hit that should’ve knocked him out cold.”
Jimmy grabbed a notepad. “I’ll check the student directory. Maybe see if Eli is listed in the campus phone book. If not, I’ve got a friend in admissions who owes me a favor.”
Lois turned to Clark, her voice low. “If this doctor’s experimenting, we need proof. Not just patterns—something concrete.”
Clark met her eyes. “We’ll get it.”
She held his gaze a beat longer, then turned back to the folder. The investigation was just beginning, and this time, she wasn’t chasing the story alone.
A couple of hours later, Lois was still at her desk, surrounded by game stats, injury logs, and a half-empty cup of cold coffee. Her eyes burned from reading, but the numbers didn’t lie—or rather, they lied too well.
“Jimmy,” she called, not looking up. “Walk me through this again.”
Jimmy stepped over, flipping open the folder he’d just printed. “These are the official injury reports from Metropolis University. Last six months. Football, basketball, track, even women’s soccer.”
Lois scanned the columns. “No concussions. No fractures. Not even a sprained ankle?”
“Nothing,” Jimmy said. “It’s like no one’s gotten hurt all season.”
Lois frowned. “That’s impossible. Tyrell had seventeen tackles in one game. That’s not just aggressive—it’s punishing.”
Jimmy nodded. “And number 42 took a helmet-to-helmet hit in the third quarter last week. He was slow to get up. I checked the game footage. He should’ve been pulled.”
Lois flipped back to the injury log. “No mention. No trainer’s note. No medical timeout.”
Jimmy hesitated, then pulled a small bottle from his bag and set it on her desk. “Enrique said this showed up mid-season. Players call it ‘the green juice.’ No label. No supplier. Just shows up in the locker room fridge.”
Lois held it to the light. Pale green. Slight shimmer. “It’s masking pain.”
“Or worse,” Jimmy said. “Enrique thinks it’s changing them. Making them feel invincible.”
Lois’s stomach turned. “They’re being dosed. With something that hides damage. Maybe even suppresses it.”
Jimmy leaned in. “What if it’s not just pain they’re ignoring? What if it’s injury itself?”
Lois stared at the bottle. “They’re not just playing through pain. They’re being made indestructible.”
She reached for her notepad, her voice low. “We need to find out what’s in this drink. And who’s behind it.”
Because if someone had figured out how to make athletes unbreakable—at the cost of their bodies, their memories, maybe even their lives—then this wasn’t just a scandal.
***
Lois stepped into the hallway outside the locker room, the air thick with the scent of sweat and disinfectant. The walls were lined with faded championship photos and motivational slogans that hadn’t changed since she was a student here.
She spotted him near the water fountain—tall, broad-shouldered, still in his practice gear. Eli Hutchinson. Linebacker. Junior. One of the university’s rising stars.
“Eli?” she called, flashing her press badge.
He turned, cautious but polite. “Yeah?”
“I’m Lois Lane, Daily Planet. I’m looking into the university’s injury records. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Eli hesitated. “We’re not supposed to talk to press. Dr. Chase said it’s a distraction.”
Lois softened her tone. “I’m not here to stir trouble. I just want to understand what’s happening. You’ve taken some serious hits this season. But there’s no record of any injuries. Not even a bruise.”
Eli looked away, jaw tight. “I’m fine.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Lois said gently. “Seventeen tackles in one game. A helmet-to-helmet hit last week. You got up like nothing happened.”
He didn’t respond.
Lois reached into her bag and pulled out the bottle Jimmy had recovered. “You drink this?”
Eli’s eyes flicked to the bottle. “Everyone does. It’s in the locker room fridge. Dr. Chase says it’s part of our recovery protocol.”
“No label. No supplier. Just shows up?”
He nodded. “We’re told it’s university-approved. The head of the department signed off on it.”
Lois stepped closer. “Do you feel different when you drink it? Stronger? Numb?”
Eli’s silence stretched. Then, quietly: “I don’t feel anything. Not during the game. Not after.”
Lois’s breath caught. “And when you don’t drink it?”
“I feel everything,” he said. “Pain. Fatigue. Headaches. But if I skip it, I don’t get cleared to play.”
Lois nodded slowly. “Do you trust Dr. Chase?”
Eli’s eyes darkened. “I trust my body. And it’s telling me something’s wrong.”
She scribbled a note, then looked up. “Thank you, Eli. If you remember anything—anything at all—call me.”
He nodded, already turning away. But the fear in his posture lingered.
Lois stepped back into the hallway, her pulse racing. The players weren’t just being pushed—they were being altered. And Eli Hutchinson had just confirmed it.
Lois stepped back into the bullpen, her coat damp from the walk and her thoughts still tangled in Eli Hutchinson’s quiet confession. She dropped her bag beside her desk and started sorting through her notes, but Clark was already standing.
“You went to the university?” he asked, voice low but tight.
Lois looked up, surprised by the edge in his tone. “I had to. Hutchinson was there. He talked.”
Clark crossed his arms. “Alone?”
“I’m not fragile, Clark.”
“That’s not the point,” he said. “You don’t know what’s going on over there. And now Jimmy tells me there’s a drink—some kind of green recovery mix that’s making players numb to pain?”
Jimmy stepped in, holding his notepad. “It’s showing up in the locker room fridge. No label. No supplier. Enrique said it started mid-season. Players call it ‘the green juice.’”
Clark’s jaw tightened. “And you went in there without backup?”
Lois stood, her voice steady. “I’m a reporter. I don’t wait for backup when the story’s moving.”
Clark didn’t respond right away. He just looked at her—really looked—like he was trying to decide whether to argue or let it go.
Jimmy cleared his throat. “Everett Moore might be the key. Tight end. Missed Saturday’s game. Official story was a family emergency, but he hasn’t been back to campus since Thursday. Word is, he’s missing.”
Lois turned to Clark. “If Moore’s off the grid, he might be the only one who hasn’t been dosed. We need to find him.”
Clark nodded slowly, but his voice was still tight. “Next time, we go together.”
Lois met his gaze. “Deal.”
The tension didn’t vanish, but something steadied between them—shared purpose, and the quiet understanding that whatever this was, they were in it together.
Lois dropped her coat over the back of her chair, the damp sleeves trailing like punctuation. Clark was already at his desk, flipping through game stats like nothing had happened.
She didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, watching him.
“You left,” she said finally.
Clark looked up, startled. “You were on a call.”
“So were you,” she replied, voice calm but clipped. “But I came back.”
Clark hesitated. “I got pulled into something. I should’ve said something.”
Lois folded her arms. “Jimmy had to fill me in—about the drink, about Everett Moore, about everything.”
“I didn’t mean to leave you hanging,” Clark said quietly.
Lois nodded, then glanced at the clock. “Are we still having dinner tonight? Or are we chasing Everett Moore until midnight?”
Clark leaned back, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Dinner,” he said. “We need it. Maybe at your place?”
Lois blinked, surprised. “You sure?”
He gave a small smile. “I’m sure. We’ve been digging hard, but we’re not chasing this nonstop. We just need to learn to prioritize.”
Lois softened. “I’ve got pasta. And half a bottle of red.”
Clark stood, gathering the papers into a neat stack. “Perfect. We’ll pick this up tomorrow. Moore’s not going anywhere tonight.”
Lois nodded, her voice quiet. “Neither are we.”
Outside, the city kept moving. But inside, they chose to pause—just long enough to remember what mattered.
