Her eyes hold mine, the air thickening again. She nods, clears her throat, and switches to the next exercise.
After the bike, we move through the drills—resistance, controlled extension, balance work—but every small touch hums louder than it should. Her hand at my knee, my fingers brushing the band she passes me. The silence between us says the rest.
When we finish, she jots down some notes. Then she straightens, professionalism sliding back into place.
“You’re good for today,” she says softly.
I nod, grabbing my brace strap and crutch. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” She hesitates, voice lower. “And… thank you. For not making this harder.”
“This isn’t easy,” I admit. “But I’m not walking away.”
Her breath catches, eyes lifting to mine. For a second, the whole world narrows.
“You’re impossible,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling now, cheeks flushed.
“I have a feeling you like impossible,” I say.
She laughs under her breath, shaking her head.
“Get out of here,” she says, waving me off with that grin that makes it way too hard to leave.
I grab my brace strap, adjust the crutch, and step out before I can change my mind.
The hallway air hits cooler, sharper. I need that. A reset.
I make it halfway down the corridor before I spot David leaning against the far wall, arms crossed.
His expression isn’t angry—just tight, unreadable in the way that makes my gut knot faster than any post-game loss ever could.
“Got a minute?” he asks. His tone’s level, but there’s no mistaking the edge beneath it.
“Yeah,” I say, steadying myself on the crutch. “What’s up?”
He jerks his chin toward the nearest office — the small video-review room off the main hall. Empty, door cracked open.
Inside, the lights are dim, monitors dark. He closes the door behind us and flicks the light on.
He studies me for a beat too long. “You want to tell me why Maya said Sophie told her you and my sister had dinner last night?”
I go still. There’s no point pretending, no version of this that doesn’t sound bad.
“Sophie’s sleepover got cut short,” I say carefully. “Erin stopped by on her way to the pharmacy.”
“Yeah, I got that part,” David says. “What I don’t get is the rest.”
There’s a long pause—just the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant clang of weights from the gym. I meet his eyes.
“We’re seeing each other,” I say finally. “Quietly. It’s new.”
He exhales through his nose, pacing once. “Christ, Declan.”
“I know.”
“She’s the team PT. You’re her patient. Do you have any idea how bad that looks?”
“That’s why we’re keeping it quiet until I’m medically cleared and I’m not her patient anymore. Then we disclose it and do it clean. And if I ever need PT again after that, it won’t be her.”
