“Morning, Eden,” chirps Monica at the desk. She eyes my gym bag. “Let me guess, you tapped three guys before breakfast?”
“Only one,” I say, smiling as I scan my schedule. Full day. Two athletes, three execs, one hypermobile dancer running on egg whites, black coffee, and sheer will.
My first is already waiting, scrolling his phone. NBA shooting guard—long limbs, bigger ego. Six weeks post-ankle sprain, still walking like he’s on stilts.
“Carter,” I call, tossing a band. “You warm?”
He lifts a brow. “Don’t need to. I’m good.”
“Great,” I say sweetly. “Then I’ll supervise.”
Forty minutes later, he’s sweating through balance drills while I nudge his foot with mine. “You baby that ankle, it’ll never get back to game speed,” I tell him. “You want to play, you push.”
By the end, the attitude cracks just enough for a muttered, “Thanks, Doc.”
“Not a doctor,” I remind him, handing over his plan.
Next up: a fifty-something hedge-fund guy convinced his stiff shoulder is the end of days. He talks more than he listens until I guide his scapula and say, “Relax.”
He complains, “That hurts.”
I shoot back, “Good.”
Finally, he shuts up. His range of motion improves, his ego deflates. It’s a win-win.
I’m sanitizing the table when Melissa, my boss, leans in with a look I know. “Nice work on Carter,” she says. “You’ve got a gift.”
“What’s up?”
“New case. High-profile. One of the New York Defenders.”
My brows lift. That narrows it down to a few dozen faces splashed across billboards. “A player?”
“Yep. We’ll get the name after we sign the NDAs. They asked for you. You’re the best fit.”
My mouth smiles on autopilot. “When?”
“I left your NDA with Monica. My attorney reviewed it—standard. Sign today, you head up to Tarrytown first thing Monday morning.”
Tarrytown. My stomach tightens. I’ve never set foot in their facility. I know who plays there. I have zero interest in an accidental reunion.
Last night was already too close. Six rows up, Kiss-Cam glare; his mask tilted and went still. I could swear he saw me. Either way, I’m not unearthing what I buried. He’s gotten the memo. Fifty unanswered texts and calls should cover it.
“Got it,” I say lightly, snapping the sanitizer lid.
“We’ll reschedule your Monday morning clients. And Eden?” She tips her head toward room three. “Your dancer’s in. Try not to kill her.”
“No promises.” I grin, pretending my insides aren’t twisting and grab a fresh pair of gloves.
As I walk, a vanished notification tickles the back of my brain. It was a blink in the dark, gone before I could see it.
I tell myself it was nothing.
My pulse hums anyway.
4
HEAT WITHOUT FIRE (NATE)
