My whole world narrows. That voice. It doesn’t matter that the light is too bright, or that my knee’s screaming, or that the cot feels like it was assembled by IKEA sadists—because he’s here. Standing behind me, arms crossed, hoodie stretched across those shoulders. One foot hooked back like he’s lounging but his stare’s locked in, lethal.
Light, pain, nerves—gone. My whole chest tightens as if he’s already touching me.
The doctor clears his throat, glancing between us like he definitely knows what’s going on and definitely regrets being in the room. “He can play,” he says slowly. “But if he takes another hit to the same spot, there’s a risk. Not career-ending. But you’ll miss games. Maybe the rest of the playoffs.”
Damian doesn’t blink. “How much risk?”
The doc shrugs. “Fifty-fifty.”
I shoot him a look.Whose side are you on, Benedict fucking Keene?
Damian steps close enough that I can feel him as his hand lands heavy on my shoulder, steady and hot through the thin layer of my undershirt. His thumb strokes once, slow along the curve of my trap—grounding and possessive—and he leans downuntil his mouth brushes close to my ear. “Can you handle it, pup?”
Jesus. My thighs twitch and my body reacts before my brain can catch up, and when I whisper back, “I can handle it,” it comes out a little too fast and a little too breathless.
The doctor mutters something about inflammation and rest, already grabbing a new ice pack, but I don’t hear a word of it. All I hear is sir in my head. All I feel is that grip on my shoulder, that thumb still stroking like a metronome against my racing pulse.
And when Damian murmurs “Good boy,” so low only I can hear it?
I would skate Game 4 on a broken leg.
The doctor sighs. That long-suffering, I-regret-my-career-choices kind of sigh. He grabs a tube from the shelf, smacks it into my hand. “For the pain,” he mutters. “Apply twice a day. Helps with inflammation.”
I turn it over. Read the label. It’s got some unholy combination of menthol, camphor, and don’t-ask-just-suffer. I stare at the tube. Then stare at him. Then I almost say it. The wordsis it lube?are at the edge of my tongue, begging to make a scene. Because I’m me and because Cole’s chirping lives in my brain like a goddamn parasite.
But then Damian’s hand tightens on my shoulder. Like he can hear my thoughts before I even open my mouth. I barely stop myself.
The doctor stares between us. “No partying tonight, Mercer,” he says flatly.
I grin wide enough to crack my face. “Define partying.”
The doc’s eyes narrow. “Anything that includes sweat, friction, vertical movement, or activities that cause groaning.”
I blink, because that could mean literally anything, and he knows it just as well as I do—Damian definitely knows it, judgingby the way his fingers dig deeper into my shoulder likedon’t. I grin wider anyway. “So no cardio?”
“No you,” the doctor mutters. “Just… don’t be you for twelve hours. Please.”
Damian’s mouth twitches—not a smile, not even close—but I feel the amusement anyway in the way his hand grips me, steady and hot through my shirt. “Understood,” he says, voice low and final.
I pout, but only a little, and the doctor tosses a few more ice packs onto the cot like he’s salting a wound before walking out, clearly deciding not to give me another opening to mouth off. The door clicks shut behind him and silence buzzes against the white walls.
I turn my head to look up at Damian, and he looks down at me, and that’s it—that’s all it takes. My whole body lights up, because that’s the look, the one that says I’m getting wrecked tonight, even if we don’t party.
“Get your ass to bed, pup.” Damian’s voice slices straight through my chest.
I hop off the cot like an obedient little menace, landing on one leg with all the grace of a wounded gazelle. My hands are full—ice packs, a sad little roll of wrap, and the now suspicious tube of pain gel. I tuck them all to my chest.
“Yessir,” I purr, and start hopping toward the door. Literally hopping. One foot. Bounce. Bounce. The tube almost slips from under my arm, and I fumble it back into place, snorting to myself. Because if I drop it, he’ll definitely see the label, and I’ll definitely say something unholy.
I reach the door, balance on one leg, hand stretching for the handle—and then I’m airborne. “FUCK—” I yelp as Damian swoops in out of nowhere, arms hooking under my knees and back in one brutal, effortless motion. One second I’m standing, the next I’m bridal style in his arms. The world tilts sideways.The tube of "lube" nearly hits the floor. I flail, grabbing it before it escapes.
He starts walking toward the elevator like this is normal
“Could’ve walked,” I mutter into his chest.
“You were hopping like a cracked-out bunny,” he says, calm as death.
I sigh dramatically, head thunking against his shoulder. “You’re such a caveman,” I mumble, clutching my pain gel. He adjusts his grip under my thighs, cradles me closer, and keeps walking.
