“No,” Emery says immediately, stepping back and reaching for her clipboard. “I was just finishing up, actually.”
Connor hums, unconvinced, but lets it go.
He grins at me instead.
“Was gonna head over to Beau’s later. Game’s on.” Something flickers in his expression as he tilts his head thoughtfully. “Fancy joining us?”
Emery’s scribbling down notes, and I spot the way her writing falters.
She clearly wasn’t expecting Connor to ask me that, but she recovers quickly, and I try to ignore it, returning my attention to my teammate.
“Erm. Yeah,” I say after a beat. “Sure. I’m in.”
“Cool.” Connor’s smirk widens. “Thought so.”
He gives Emery a nod that’salmostrespectful, then backs out the way he came in, leaving the door swinging shut behind him.
The room settles again, and Emery exhales, her shoulders dropping.
“Okay,” she says, refocusing. “I’m going to draft you a rehab plan. Nothing dramatic, but I don’t love what I’m seeing.”
I already know what’s coming. “Bench?”
“At least one game.” She hesitates. “Maybe two.”
Disappointment curls in my gut.
“I get it,” I sigh. “I’d rather miss one game than the rest of the season.”
Her mouth softens at that. “Exactly.”
She finishes up quickly after that, professionalism snapping back into place. When I hop off the table and tug my hoodie back on, she hands me my notes.
“I’ll send the exercises through later,” she adds. “Keep me updated, and let me know if anything feels worse.”
“I will.”
I head for the door, then pause.
“Guess I’ll… see you later.”
“At the house,” she says, nodding. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
The words shouldn’t feel loaded, but they do, and I step out into the hallway with the faint sense that something’s shifting around us.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Emery
The house smells like garlic and butter when I walk in, ending my call with Sasha. It's been surprisingly difficult to keep in touch, given how busy everything has been here, but one lovely thing I'm learning about long-distance friendships is that you don't have to speak every day to still hold that bond.
The delicious scent stops me short in the entryway, keys still in my han. It’s such a simple thing—the smell of someone cooking—but it hits differently now. Nothome, exactly, but something close enough that my instincts lean toward it before my brain has time to catch up.
Beau’s in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up and broad shoulders slightly hunched as he stirs something on the stove. He doesn’t turn right away. The bond is still learning the shape of us, but I know he knows I’m there.
“You’re late back,” he says eventually, not looking over his shoulder.
“Long day,” I reply simply.
