“You will,” she says, her tone perfectly neutral. “Our office will sort out the schedule with your coaches. They’ll let you know.”
I step out of the PT room, hip still throbbing but the rest of me humming. Clearer. Lighter. She flipped a switch I didn’t know was there.
Hoodie on. Phone buzzes—Mom. I almost let it go to voicemail. I don’t. “Hey, Ma.”
“Hey, baby. That hip behaving?” Dishes clink; she’s packing a lunch like always.
“Better. Sore, but…good.” I take a breath. “You’ll appreciate this—my new PT is Eden Carver.”
A soft pause. “Mm-hmm. Isn’t that somethin’.”
“Yeah. Small world.”
“Haven’t laid eyes on that child much these last few years, have you?”
“Not really. Couple times. She’s…different. Focused. Good at what she does.”
Another hum. Then she pivots. “Listen, I been thinkin’ on Christmas. What if we do Fire Island this year? Quiet. Just us, if your schedule lets you.”
“I’ll come. We don’t play over Christmas.”
“Alright then.” I can hear her smile. Casual as weather, “I might ring Gina, see if the Carvers are around. Be nice to have all you kids under one roof a minute, like old times.”
“Ma…”
“Hush, I saidmight.They are family. Only if it suits folks.”
I blow out a breath. “Ok.”
“Perfect.” Paper rustles, there’s a list starting. “And if it turns into more than a few heads, check if Dmitri’s place is winterized. Ask him nice. If not, we’ll make do.”
“Ma, it’s starting to sound like a big thing.”
“Ain’t nobody throwin’ a parade,” she says, all honey and steel. “Low-key. Now text me later. No pressure.”
We talk about nothing another minute, then hang up, but her voice lingers. My mother knows how I feel about Eden. She’s always known.
And now that she’s back in my life, and I know what she looks for in a man—bro code be damned—I’m going to be the one to give her what she needs.
7
TOUCH ME AND I’LL BREAK (EDEN)
Imake it three steps outside the training facility before I have to stop and breathe. My fingers are shaking, my pulse is racing, and I can still feel Nate’s skin under my palms. My brain is so melted I can barely think past making it to the train station.
Players in Defenders gear drift past me through the parking lot. A few give me curious glances, respectful but assessing. I barely register them. All I can think about is Nate, the way his muscles rippled under my palms, the way my fingers itched and burned as I probed his body. I wrap my bag strap tighter around my grip. Holding onto it grounds me and keeps me from unraveling.
Sixty minutes. That’s all it took for Nate Russo to blow apart ten years of distance.
I work with elite athletes who’d rather break themselves than admit weakness. They flirt, they push, they test—anything to dodge the real work. I don’t lose my composure.
One session with him, and the seams are showing.
My body doesn’t care about my rules. It recognizes a match and flips every switch to on. It’s not uncomfortable.It’s new. Disconcerting. I’ve never been this keyed up around a man, this charged; every nerve awake at once.
I’ve spent years going through the motions, feeling nothing, no matter how careful or attentive my partner was, no matter how badly I wanted to disappear into the distraction.
With Nate, I lit up. Craving threaded with fear. Sweet and terrifying in the same breath. The memory of touching him minutes ago sweeps through me, and my toes curl.
