“Padding,” I say, reaching for the foam. “You’re not taking a shot without this.”
“Bossy,” he murmurs, and that almost-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—the one that used to mean I’d end up laughing against a door I should never have closed behind me.
Before I can answer, a helmeted head bends over our narrow bubble of space. Collins again, sweat dripping, grin obscene. “Careful with that hand, Maddox,” he stage-whispers. “Wouldn’t want you to… strain it later.”
Laughter pops like bubble wrap down the bench. My cheeks flash hot. I don’t look up, don’t give him the satisfaction. “Hydrate or cramp, Collins,” I say, voice flat. “Your choice.”
He snorts and shoves off, but not before tipping his chin at Jason with a performative wink. The message lands anyway: people are watching. People are always watching.
I angle my body to block the view as much as I can, shoulder to his chest, my back to the aisle. I tell myself it’s about sterility and line of sight. It’s about survival.
“Ignore them,” Jason says, low. His breath ghosts my hairline. “They’ve got the maturity of freshmen.”
“I work with athletes,” I say. “I’m fluent in freshmen.” I tape the padding snug, clean, my hands moving in the ritual that saves me from thinking too hard. The foam sits neat over the sutures, a little white flag declaring ceasefire.
“Riley.” My name in his mouth does something reckless to my balance. I don’t look up. If I look up, I’ll remember too much and forget the rules that keep my paycheck intact.
“Flex,” I say instead.
He does, obedient for once, tendons shifting under my fingertips. The skin holds. My breath does not. I feel the steadiness that has always been my superpower wobble a degree. That’s all it takes—one degree—to send a train off its track.
“Hey, Trainer Lane!” another voice cuts in from behind us, louder, the kind of volume designed to be overheard. “You gonna kiss it better?” A couple of guys bark out laughs. The rookie giggles like he’s twelve.
Rage flares hot and clean. I keep my voice level. “One more comment and I file a harassment report, gentlemen. Then we all get to enjoy a delightful seminar about respect in the workplace.”
A chorus of faux groans. A muttered, “Yes, ma’am.” Sticks scrape. The moment shudders, then moves on. Jason doesn’t laugh. He’s looking at me like he wants to murder someone and also maybe scale a building. I do not deal with either of those realities.
“Last stitch,” I tell him, even though I’ve already tied off. It’s a lie I tell my hands, to buy one more breath, one more second where I control the narrative.
The needle slides. The world narrows to the tiny bright curve of metal, the thrum of the crowd vibrating through the boards, the scuff of his skate against the rubber mat. He’s so close I can count the darker lashes stuck to his cheekbone with sweat.
“Don’t move,” I whisper.
“Not moving,” he says, and then, in a voice meant for exactly one person, “Miss me, sunshine?”
My hand jerks. The bite of the stitch nicks deeper than I intend, and his breath snaps through his teeth. Heat detonates behind my ribs—anger, memory, the unforgivable gall of him. I look up, finally, straight into those ice-blue eyes.
“Hold still,” I say, even though I’m the one shaking.
Chapter 2
Broken Rules
Jason
Lockers slamlike cymbals in a bad marching band. Metal shudders through cinderblock, sweat hangs heavy as steam, and curls of loosened tape litter the floor like shed snakeskin. I hook a finger under the cuff at my wrist and tell myself the pulse there is leftover adrenaline—not Riley Lane’s green eyes living rent-free under my skin.
“Hey, Maddox,” Collins sings from two stalls down, grinning like he won a prize he didn’t earn. “How’s the girlfriend?” A couple of guys snort. Somebody wolf-whistles. Boys being boys; men being idiots.
I bite the top off a water bottle and drown the answer I want to give. “Hydrate, rookie,” I say, lazy on purpose. “Your brain needs the help.”
Laughter ripples. The room keeps moving. I use the noise as cover and peel back tape. The joint fights me—hot, swollen, electric. Riley’s touch flashes in muscle memory: sure, efficient, unbothered by my size or the way I look at her like she’s the onlything in a burning room worth saving. I wrap fresh tape tighter than I should. Pain is honest. It keeps me between the lines.
“Trainer said you’re fine,” a winger offers, dumping his pads with a clatter.
“Trainer says a lot of things,” I mutter, and the word trainer tastes like citrus and antiseptic and something I don’t call want.
The TV over the doorway squawks through highlights. Commentators pick apart my last shift like raw meat. I tune them out and scan the stall row. Helmets hang open-mouthed. Sticks lean like tired soldiers. The boys chirp, brag, bicker. I contribute on autopilot—three jokes, one threat, a shoulder shove that ends in a laugh. It keeps them from seeing the tell: my fingers hesitate before they make a fist.
