Pieces snapped onto magnets.He sat cross-legged near the foot, leaving half the mattress between us.Close enough to feel the shift every time I breathed.
“You’re white,” he said, sliding the board my way.
I nudged a pawn forward.He mirrored.Two moves each, nothing fancy.The radiator hissed through the space.I tried to focus, but my attention kept skidding to the hollow of his throat, the way shadows dipped there when he leaned over the board.
“How’s your brain?”he asked after I blundered a knight.
“Improving.”My voice came out tight.“Still some interference.”
He studied me, not the pieces.“Want to reframe the problem?”
“Please.”
“Okay.”He tapped the knight I’d misplaced, moved it back, and set my pawn upright again—reset the variables.Then he surprised me: closed the board entirely and set it aside.
No distraction now.The narrow mattress, the radiator, and him looking at me like the next move wasn’t on the board at all.
A dozen possible words lined up in my head; none cleared grammar check.I settled for honesty.“Don’t know how to shut it off.”
“Your brain?”
“Check,” Austen said, sliding his rook across the duvet.
I ignored the board.My shoulder was throbbing—a dull, rhythmic ache that timed perfectly with my anxiety.
“Yeah.”I swallowed, staring at the white and black pieces.“If I screw up the exam, eligibility’s gone.If eligibility’s gone, starter spot follows.Scholarships get reviewed.That’s the whole net, Austen.”
He nodded slowly, watching me rub the joint.“And if you pass?”
“We celebrate with fries at trivia.”
“Reasonable incentive.”
I grabbed the tube of muscle cream from the nightstand.The smell of menthol cut through the room instantly.I squeezed a glob onto my fingers and tried to reach back over my left shoulder to the scapula, but the angle was impossible.My deltoid seized up, and I hissed through my teeth, dropping my hand.
“You are mechanically compromising the joint you are attempting to heal,” Austen observed.
“I can reach it,” I lied.I tried again, contorting my arm.Pain shot down my triceps.
Austen sighed—not annoyed, just practical.He reached out.“Give it here.”
I hesitated.“It smells like a locker room.”
“I’ve smelled your gear after a game.This is an improvement.Turn around.”
I let out a shaky breath, handed him the tube, and shifted my legs, turning my back to him.
The mattress dipped as he shifted closer.
“Shirt,” he commanded.
I pulled my T-shirt up over my head, bunching it at my neck.
The air was cool, but the gel was freezing.I flinched when he applied it.His hand followed—warm, firm, and shockingly strong.
“Relax,” he murmured.
He worked the cream into the muscle with efficient, circular motions.The sensation of his thumb digging into the knot near my spine made my eyes flutter shut.
