Riley stops just inside and turns. Up close, I can read the battle under her steady: triage, strategy, fury, fear. “I’ll take this,” she says—let me be the one they blame. “You don’t have to?—”
“I do,” I say, too fast. I soften it. “We do it together.”
Her mouth presses flat, the argument arranged on her tongue. Another buzz interrupts, harsh in the hush. She glances down; I catch the preview: a tighter crop of the bench photo, our faces filling the frame, the caption a viper: Code Violation? Sources Say…
Heat spikes up my spine that has nothing to do with fever. “No more together-ish,” I add, lower. “For the cameras, for the owner—fine. But not for this.”
Something in her eases a millimeter. “Don’t be a hero,” she says, because she knows exactly what I’m about to offer up.
“Not a hero,” I promise. “Just done letting other people write our story.” The words hang there, a vow I can’t walk back.
The guard clears his throat. “They’re waiting.” He means the owner is timing you. He means there’s a narrative ready and a slot where your names go.
We step into the carpeted corridor. Framed action shots line the walls—trophies frozen mid-lift, blood turned to art by good lenses. My reflection in the glass looks like a man I used to be and a man I’d like to be, layered wrong. Riley’s reflection stands beside mine, solid, unflinching.
Outside the office door, we stop. The handle gleams like a dare. I reach for it, then for her hand. I don’t take it. I let the almost be enough. “Ready?”
“No,” she says. “But go.”
I push the door. It swings open on the owner’s cool smile and a muted TV looping our bench photo like breaking news. The door clicks shut behind us, and the world narrows to negotiations with a price tag we can’t read yet.
Chapter 9
Optics
Riley
The owner’soffice is a terrarium for rich predators—three glass walls, skyline teeth bared, a desk so clean my fingerprints feel like graffiti. The blinds are half-open, letting noon glare slice across the table and into my eyes. Nolan Blackwood sits behind the desk like he commissioned the horizon. His cuff links catch the light; his smile does not.
“Ms. Lane,” he says, steepling his fingers. “Explain why my franchise player and my head trainer are trending for looking… familiar.”
My spine stacks itself. Hands flat on the glass, voice level. “A teammate posted a story that showed our floor number. The outage left one suite. I took the bedroom; he took the couch. He spiked a fever. I treated it and managed his rehab this morning. That’s the extent of the familiarity.”
One brow lifts a millimeter. “Fever,” he repeats. “No ER?”
“Vitals stable. Antipyretic, active cooling, fluids. I consulted Dr. Adams and monitored. His temperature trended down within thirty minutes.”
He taps his tablet. The photo blooms larger: Jason on the bench, my face tipped toward his, his hand lifted near my cheek. Cropped cruel, context erased. “And this? Is this in the treatment manual?”
Heat crawls my neck; I keep my tone cool. “Angle. I was adjusting tape and checking cap refill. The image is misleading.”
“Everything online is misleading—until it tanks a sponsorship.” He leans back, regard sharpening. “Forced proximity, one suite, an intimate-adjacent image—yet you maintain there is nothing… extracurricular?”
I hold his gaze. “There is not. I am acting within policy and within my responsibility to protect roster health and performance.”
The city hums through glass. He studies me like a man pricing a painting he might sell or burn.
“This organization competes for optics as well as wins,” he says at last. “Sponsors have sensibilities. The league has rules. I require staff who understand discretion.”
“I understand discretion,” I answer. “What I need is support to do my job without interference from rumor. If gossip dictates medical decisions, we’ll lose more than optics.”
His mouth tips—amused or annoyed. “You’re certain of your judgment.”
“I’m certain of my training. And of my patient’s needs.” The word slips out before I can switch it to player. Small. True. Dangerous.
He tests the word, soft: “Patient.” The tablet clicks dark.
“For your sake,” he says, “I hope your patients understand the cost of their care.”
