“They just told me I’m being reinstated. Temporarily. Only for key games. So we’ll need to fit in the sessions around travel.”
I freeze.
“Reinstated?”
He nods, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. But also something else. Fatigue? Sadness?
Shouldn’t he be ecstatic?
“This means the calendar has to be updated,” he continues, voice unusually calm. “Games, travel, training. We’ll have to squeeze the sessions in between all that.”
I grab my temples.
“Perfect. So not only do I have to manage an impossible repeat-offender athlete, now I get to be his sports-schedule secretary too.”
He watches me for a moment, and I swear a thousand emotions flash through his eyes before he admits, with a sigh:
“They decided I can return for the key matches. In exchange, I have to do my part here—with you. And give a couple of public statements to show I’m ‘working on myself.’”
He even air-quotes it.
I stare at him, unable to decipher whatever is going on inside that aggravatingly beautiful head.
“Well,” I finally say, “at least that’s one good piece of news. I’ll help you manage the schedule.”
“No doubt. You’re good at managing things.” His tone is calm. Too calm.
There’s something beneath it. There always is.
“Cohen, I swear—”
He laughs, low, stepping even closer.
Too close. Always too close.
“Don’t get mad, Angel. I’m just giving you a heads-up.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“As you wish, Doctor Heart.”
My throat tightens.
“Out of my office. We’re done for now.”
“Right away, boss.”
But he doesn’t move. Not for a few seconds.
He just stands there, looking at me with that focused, unreadable stare, like he’s trying to see straight through me.
Then finally, he turns, opens the door, and leaves.
The second the handle clicks shut, I collapse onto my chair and press my palms to my eyes.
Perfect… I forgot I’m wearing glasses. And mascara.
Cohen is getting into my head.
