“Debatable.” His gaze drops to where I’m touching him. “Careful, Sunshine.”
The nickname flicks a match. “Don’t.” I step back so abruptly the stool squeaks. Space helps. It doesn’t fix. “You want rehab, I’ll give you rehab. You want nostalgia, write a song about it.”
He huffs a laugh that isn’t amused. “You were meaner when you were scared.”
I go still. The room clicks louder in the silence his words make. Jason Maddox has never met a line he won’t stride over.
“I’m not scared,” I say, calm because I decide to be. “I’m employed.” I lift my chin toward the window that looks into the hallway—shadows moving beyond it, a world always watching. “And I like my job.”
His jaw works. “I’m not here to wreck it.”
“Then don’t,” I say. Easy. Impossible. My hands find the tape again, because tasks are survival. “We’re building a routine: post-practice treatment, ice, soft tissue, mobility. You show up on time. You don’t argue. You listen.”
“Bossy,” he says, something almost relieved under it, like rules taste good in his mouth if I’m the one making them.
“Structured.” I cut the tape, toss the tail. “Four weeks minimum. Travel included.”
His brows lift. “Travel?”
“It’s standard when we’re managing an injury with risk of compensation.” My voice doesn’t shake. Progress. “You want the wrist, you get me.”
His eyes heat, a banked flame catching. I feel it under my skin and pretend I don’t. “Careful, Lane. Sounds like nostalgia.”
“Sounds like work.” I toss the cold pack, reach for sanitizer. The smell blooms sharp between us. “You’ll be fine if you keep your head on straight.”
He leans in, elbows on knees, smile a slow, dangerous thing. “Define straight.”
I open my mouth with a retort loaded?—
The door bangs open so hard the stopper squeals. Coach Evans fills the frame like a thundercloud in a tracksuit, whistle string cutting a diagonal across his chest. “Lane. Maddox.” Gravity doesn’t ask before it drops you.
Jason leans back a fraction, charm wiped clean. I straighten, gloves squeaking as my fingers curl. “Coach,” I say, neutral. Safe.
He plants his hands on his hips and rakes a look over Jason’s wrist, my setup, the clock. “How long?”
“Ten minutes for contrast, then soft tissue and mobility,” I answer. “He’s taped and stable.”
“Stable is not good enough,” Coach snaps, eyes flaring. Then to Jason: “You love a hero play, kid. Save it for the third. Until then you do exactly what she says or you don’t see the ice.”
Jason’s jaw ticks. “Yes, Coach.”
“Good.” Coach turns to me. “Blackwood’s on a tear about keeping our assets upright. You’re point on Maddox until he’s boring to look at.”
“Point,” I repeat, because that could mean a dozen things, half of which I can manage without losing parts of myself.
“Travel. Practice. Game ops. Off-day protocols.” He fires the words like pucks from a machine. “You stick to him like epoxy. If he breathes wrong, you fix it. If he argues, you report it.”
My stomach does a controlled free fall. “Travel included?” My voice stays even. I’m proud of that and hate that I have to be.
“Road trip starts Thursday,” he says. “Back-to-back, then a three-city swing. No excuses.” He points his whistle at Jason. “You get one body. We’re in the business of keeping it expensive.”
Jason’s gaze skims my face and away, quick as a blade. He’s good at hiding tells. He forgets I’m good at catching microflinches. The one I see now lands under my ribs. Useless data. I file it anyway.
Coach narrows his eyes. “Questions?”
I have a hundred. Boundaries. Optics. The exact pattern of freckles on a shoulder I no longer have the right to touch. I pick the only one allowed out loud. “Authority to override him if he resists treatment?”
Coach’s mouth kicks, almost a smile. “You always had that, Lane.” He jerks his chin at Jason. “And you—if I hear even a whisper you’re freelancing, I bench you and we watch tape for eight hours. Your choice.”
