He salutes.
“Hit me.”
I grab my clipboard, flipping to a clean sheet.
“You’re going to rest after practice. You’re going to take your anti-inflammatories like a grown adult. You’re going to avoid direct hits to this side as much as you can—which I know isn’tfully in your control, but maybe don’t throw yourself into every board battle like you’re auditioning for a demolition derby.”
He winces.
“You’ve been talking to Coach.”
“I’ve been talking to your ribs.” I scribble some more notes down, then glance back up at him. “And you’re going to come back in here at the end of the week so I can recheck motion and pain. If it’s worse, you’re getting imaging whether you like it or not.”
“Got it,” he nods, more serious now.
I hold his gaze for another second. There’s something there beneath the charm: an edge of hunger I recognize. Not just for the game, but for something steadier.
Someone to tell him when to stop before he breaks.
The thought surprises me, and I shove it aside.
“I mean it, Connor,” I add. “I’m not here to be the fun aunt who tapes you up and sends you back out to die. If you want to play long-term, you treat your body like you plan on still using it at thirty-five.”
“Wow,” he says. “You really know how to talk dirty to a guy.”
I give him a flat look, and he laughs, lifting both hands up.
“Kidding. I hear you. Seriously. I’m not gonna mess this up. Not with a real PT on site now.”
“Good,” I say, softening just a little. “Then we’ll get along fine.”
He hops off the table, rolling his shoulders experimentally before tugging on his t-shirt.
“Feels better already.”
“Placebo,” I comment dryly. “Don’t get cocky.”
He’s halfway to the door when he pauses, fingers on the handle, and looks back at me.
“Hey, Emery?”
“Yeah?”
“If you ever need backup,” he says, tone easy but eyes a little more intent, “with the guys, or with…you know. This town. Ken. Whatever. You’ve got more than one brick wall in the room.” He taps his chest lightly. “Just saying.”
My stomach does a weird flip.
“Noted,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Now get out before I decide you need breathing exercises and a lecture about sleep hygiene.”
“That’s pretty pack-like, you know,” he says, grin sliding back into place. “Bossing us around about bedtime.”
“Out, Rocket,” I repeat.
He laughs, opens the door, and nearly collides with a much larger body waiting on the other side. Another alpha scent rolls in on the draft, and I sigh.
“Dude,” Connor grins. “She’s scary. You’re gonna love her.”
I feel my lips twitch as the door swings shut again. My stomach growls as the clock keeps ticking, but I ignore it. The guys are coming; one by one, a steady stream of alphas with bruises, injuries, and too much energy.
