“Thanks for the candy,” she says softly.
I shrug, pretending it’s nothing. “Anytime.”
But inside, I know I mean it. I watch her tear at the gummy worms, hear her laugh at something stupid I said, and think this might be the best day I’ve ever had. I want every summer to be exactly like this.
6
THE GIRL WHO WASN’T THERE (NATE)
My hip’s been complaining this morning, aching with every movement, a reminder of how close I am to pushing it too far. I ice it, stretch it, tell myself it’s fine, but I know the truth. If this doesn’t get better, my season’s screwed.
Mercer claps me on the back, jolting me out of my head. “Your new PT’s waiting. Heard she’s the best. She’ll get that hip right.”
Good. I need someone who knows what they’re doing. The smell of antiseptic and clean mats hits me as I push open the door to the PT room. I’m halfway through a mental checklist—groin stretch, mobility work, maybe ice—when I spot her.
The sight of her knocks me flat. Her blonde hair is sleeker now, pulled back to bare the sharp line of her jaw. Those blue eyes that used to light up when she saw me are now cool and steady, controlled, and edged with warning. Dark-blue scrubs shouldn’t be a turn-on; on her they are, skimming her curves and tightening my throat. She holds herselfwith quiet power: shoulders back, chin lifted, owning the space without trying.
“Nate.” She says my name evenly. She must have been expecting me because there’s not even a flicker of surprise.
“Eden.” Her name is a pained rasp. For just a second, recognition of what we used to be to each other flickers in her gaze before the professional mask slides back into place.
She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t even blink. No hello, no small talk, just straight to business. “Your groin’s been giving you trouble?”
I arch a brow, trying for levity. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
The corner of her mouth twitches as if holding back a smile. Then it’s gone. Message received.
“Why don’t you hop up on the table?” she says briskly, jotting something down. “We’ll start with an assessment. Where exactly does it hurt?”
“Starting off hot, I see.” Playful charm used to work with her. Now all I get in return is a raised eyebrow.
So no reminiscing, then. Fine. “Hip flexor, maybe the adductor.” I settle onto the table. “Tight when I push off. Splits are…not fun right now.”
“Got it.” Her tone is clipped. She makes another note on her iPad without looking at me. “Lie back.”
I stretch out on the table, the vinyl cool under my shoulders, and she steps closer, testing the range of my leg. Her hands are clinical, but they’re still the same hands that used to trust me to keep her safe in the dark. Now she’s the one in control, and I don’t know how to feel about that.
“I saw you at the game last week.” I keep my tone casual.
She pauses mid-movement—a flicker—before she recovers. “Yes.”
“Those were good seats.” I glance at her, trying to catchher stare, but she stays focused on the angle of my hip. “And the guy? Your boyfriend?”
There’s the slightest hitch in her breath, no more than a beat. “Maybe,” she says finally, words flat. “We’ll see.”
The response hits in two places at once. Warm because it’s not a yes, cold because it’s not a no either. Not her boyfriend. Yet. My mind flashes back to the front row, to her laughing at something he said, to his hand on her thigh. Guy’s got money to throw around. Box seats, perfect view, perfect girl. The thought is petty, sharp, and so uncalled for I almost wince. Still, the comment slips out. “Looked like he was marking territory.”
She shifts her weight, still not meeting my eyes. “It was a lovely first date.” Her tone goes husky; heat floods me, coiling low and dangerous. The edge in her words cuts clean. Before I can answer, she presses my leg deeper into the stretch. Her gaze locks on mine, defiant. “He saw an opportunity. He took it.” A pause. “I liked it.”
The way she says it—steady, almost detached—lands hard. Every brush of her fingers sends a slow surge up my spine, and it’s not from the stretch.
“You enjoy guys who don’t ask for permission?” It’s more of a snarl than a question.
Her lips curve, the faintest dare. “I like confidence.” Then, after a brief silence that lands low in my groin, “Dominance. When it’s done right.”
The air between us snaps tight. The room closes in, too compressed for a space that smells of antiseptic and clean mats. I drag my gaze to the ceiling, anywhere but her.
Jesus, Russo. Pull it the fuck together.
