I pull out my iPad, grateful for the anchor in my hands. I give her a quick rundown.
“And his ice time?”
“He can still play,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “But he’ll have to scale back intensity—limit explosive pushes, avoid overextending. As long as he follows the plan, he’ll stay in games and keep healing.”
Melissa nods, clearly pleased. “Perfect. He’s a high-profile client, Eden. If you get him back to full speed, word will travel. This could make your career.”
I hesitate, throat tight. I know how stupid it is, that any sane therapist would be jumping at the chance. Still, the words slip out. “What about Alex? He’s great with adductor rehab. Maybe he could?—”
“No.” Melissa cuts me off with a sharp look. “The Defenders asked for the best, and that’s you. Besides…” Her expression softens. “The money from this contract alone could cover the first few months’ lease on that space you’ve been eyeing on York Avenue.”
My heart stutters. The space I’ve been picturing everytime I walk past that For Rent sign. It wouldn’t be a run of the mill practice.The Carver Method.A clinic built around my own approach: elite-level rehab rooted in sports medicine and dance science, blended with craniosacral therapy to reset the nervous system and accelerate recovery. A place where athletes and dancers come back stronger, and where Upper East Side moms and weekend warriors line up for the same treatment the pros get. The business plan is there, the concept fully mapped out.
And yet here I am, still under Melissa’s roof. Safe, steady, but working for someone else. All that’s left is the final hurdle: signing the lease and making it real.
“This is only a couple of months, Eden. You can handle the commute. And frankly?” Melissa studies me, a note of concern in her voice. “You need this for a solid start on your place. Not just the money—the reputation. Rehabbing this guy will make you big.”
I force a smile that feels tight. “Yeah. You’re right.”
She pats my arm and heads toward her next appointment, leaving me standing there with my iPad and the storm brewing in my chest.
For the next two months, I’ll have to touch him without letting him see how much I still want him, how deeply he’s under my skin, how impossible he is to shake, no matter how long it’s been or how hard I’ve tried to forget my teenage crush. Two months of repairing his body while mine comes dangerously close to unraveling.
I spent years convincing myself I was damaged. That the numbness was permanent, that I’d never experience what other women did. But one hour with Nate, and my body is screaming that maybe I was only waiting for the right man to walk back into my life.
8
MAGIC MAN (NATE, AGE 13)
Saturday night at the ferry dock. Salt in the air, the horn barks, and I work the crowd. My hand-painted sign does its job: FREE MAGIC TRICKS. The coffee can is already heavy. Every dollar goes to the August goalie camp—the deal with my parents is I cover the deposit. When a parent stops with a kid, I flash the deck or palm a coin and make it disappear. Adults laugh and tip. Kids go wide-eyed and forget to blink.
Eden’s been making her bracelets all week, “building up inventory,” as she put it. Tonight her cardboard display is lined with artfully strung beads and shells. She sits cross-legged on her towel, back straight, centering herself for battle, fingers flying over the thread. When parents stop to browse, she flashes a shy smile, made even more striking by her new braces gleaming in the sunset.
She’s been talking nonstop about the Brazilian Jiu Jitsu class she started in the city. On the sand, she’ll show me and Leo how to frame, shrimp, twist out of a hold, then she demonstrates it, putting me on my back before I can blink. Leo’s into it too; he’s been cross-training with her betweenhis boxing and wrestling sessions. Watching her move—calm, precise, relentless—pulls tight under my ribs in a way I can’t name.
Leo hung around at first, making comments about how my “tricks aren’t that tricky.” But then his buddy Max rolled up, and Leo was gone, pedaling off with a promise to his mom that he’d be back before sundown.
Ryan’s here too, working his summer job at the dockside restaurant. I catch glimpses of him clearing plates, the glow of sunset bouncing off the glasses on his tray. He barely seems to notice us, but I know he’s there, watching in his own way.
As the sun slides lower, more people gather, waiting for the main event. Sunset at the dock is when the whole island holds its breath.
And right in the middle of it, Eden runs out of bracelets.
She’s been selling out fast all summer. I watch her hand over the last one to a dad with a young girl who twirls it around her wrist, delighted with the colorful trinket. Eden beams with pride, holds up her empty box, and waves toward Leo across the crowd. She’s glowing in the soft orange wash of sunset, braces gleaming, hair catching the light.
She folds up her blanket and starts to drift toward the edge of the crowd, radiating satisfaction. Before she can get far, I wave her over.
“Hey, Trouble!” I call, using the nickname that’s been hers since forever.
She stops, her face brightening, and walks toward me.
“You sold out already?” I ask, nodding at the empty box.
“Yeah.” She shrugs, but her grin is unstoppable. “Gotta make more for next week.”
“Good problem to have.” I flash her a smile. “Want to help me out here? I’ve got a crowd coming.”
Her eyes widen. “I don’t know how to do it.”
