I lift a brow. “I don’t need anything.” The words come out sharp and defensive. Need turns you into a beggar—taking what you’re handed instead of choosing. I have what I need. Want is different. Mine is specific, on my terms—things I’ve only let myself imagine. “And don’t bring in tequila,” I add, easing the edge.
“I wasn’t going to,” she says, mock-offended. “I was going to suggest…a professional.”
I blink. “A what?”
“Someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone you can trust, no strings attached. An escort.”
I nearly choke on my spoon. “A prostitute?”
Liz shrugs. “Why not? You don’t need a man to make you whole. But if you want to know what great sex feels like, an escort makes sense. Clear terms. No pressure.”
I stare. “Do you…actually know one?”
She grins. “Not in my contacts. But the internet does. I could vet someone with five stars before the credits roll.”
“Liz—”
“Just think about it.” She lifts a hand. “Worst case, he’s a dud and you’re out a grand. Best case…” She wiggles her brows. “You finally get the thing you’ve been wondering about.”
The number hits my throat. I swallow and say nothing. On screen, the two leads collide in a steamy kiss. Liz squeals and claps. I try to watch the movie. My brain won’t quit.
The idea is insane. Reckless. Not me. And yet my pulse won’t settle.
10
LINE CHANGE (NATE)
The city hums outside my window while I’m sprawled on my couch with an ice pack wedged into my hip and ESPN on mute, replaying the same sixty minutes in my head. Not last night’s game, but an hour inside a room with a woman who used to be my entire summer.
Grown-up Eden is a menace.
Clinical voice. Cool hands. Eyes that say “I’ve got you”and “don’t try me”in the same breath.
If she were a bad PT, this would be easy. I’d be annoyed, I’d ask Coach for someone else, and I’d go back to ignoring the ache in my groin and the bigger one in my chest. But she’s best-in-the-city, with a plan that promises to keep me on the ice through playoffs. And worse—the part I can’t stop thinking about—is how she slipped in something different, not the usual PT routine. Light pressure at my neck, barely-there touch that left me walking out clearer, lighter, like she’d flipped some hidden switch.
And the way she tried not to feel me while she did it. Aflicker when I joked. The smallest pause when my breath hit her wrist. That quick swallow when she pressed me deeper into the stretch and realized where my head had gone.
The ice shifts against my skin as I reach for my phone. No texts from anyone I want to reply to. The guys sent a parade of memes after practice. The PR team sent a reminder about a charity skate with a hospital unit. I should answer them. Instead, I open a browser and type her name.
Eden Carver, DPT.
There she is on the clinic site—hair pulled back, smile polite but guarded, credentials stacked. A list of specialties catches my eye—sports rehab, dance rehab, craniosacral therapy. I don’t even know what the hell that last one means, only that whatever she did, it left me walking on air for a day. An article about adductor strains with her name at the top. I scan it. Clean, precise, no fluff. Exactly the way she touched me, no wasted movement, no lingering…unless she forgot.
Tenderness scrapes along my ribs. Ten years, and I still don’t know why she didn’t reply to my messages. Never picked up her phone. One day, she was sunburned nose and green grapes and braided bracelets, and the next she was a ghost. No explanation. Not even a lousysorry, buddy, I’m busy.
I toss the phone down and stare at the ceiling.
What did I miss, Trouble? What part of the trick did I screw up?
I push off the couch and limp to the kitchen, more irritated at the limp than the pain. The freezer coughs up another ice pack, and I slap it on while the kettle hisses. Tea, because my body is a temple and all that crap.
Steam curls. I lean on the counter and try on a few lies.I’m not wound up. I’m not thinking about how she said she likes confidence. I’m not replaying the way her eyes slid to my mouth when I asked about her date.
Lies don’t fit.
Here’s the truth: I’ve spent most of my adult life asking without asking. A lean-in, a look, a choice to stay. It’s easy when the answer is always yes. It’s different when the only person I want to say yes is the one person I could never shake off—no matter how many miles, games, or other faces I tried to bury her under.
And here’s the next truth: she isn’t sixteen. I’m not eighteen. This isn’t a boardwalk and a wish on a fish anymore. She’s a woman. I want her eyes on me. Her mouth. Her hands.
