“I tripped,” I grit out. “Literally. My cleat caught in the turf. One step. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t move or soften. Just watches me withthat signature Max judgment. “And Coach Gray benched youfor tripping?”
“Apparently,” I snap. “Wants confirmation I’m not secretly broken.”
Max pushes off the table with a sigh that feels like it’s aimed directly at my soul. “God forbid I have a quiet afternoon.”
He pats the table. “Up.”
I climb onto the padded bench like it’s a throne of shame. Max doesn’t talk as he rolls up my pant leg and starts his full diagnostic routine—testing flexibility, rotation, pressure points. His touch is quick, clinical, zero comfort.
“Any pain?” he asks.
“No.”
“Swelling?”
“No.”
He eyes me. “Discomfort? Soreness? Twinge of mortality?”
“I’mfine,” I snap.
“You’re testy.”
“I’mfine,” I repeat, louder.
Max raises a brow and presses just above my kneecap—hard. I grunt. It doesn’t hurt, but it surprises me.
“That wasn’t pain,” I bark.
“Sure,” Max mutters, scribbling something on his clipboard. “Coach Gray overreacting or not, you should still ice it tonight.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Humor me, Maddox.”
I blow out a breath and rub a hand down my face. I’m still wound tight. Max isn’t the one I’m mad at—but he’s here, and Silas isn’t.
He glances up. “You gonna tell me why this is actually pissing you off, or are we pretending this is all about your knee?”
I stiffen.
He waits.
“I’m not talking to you about this.”
“I’m Eli’s boyfriend. That makes me emotionally qualified.”
“You’rethe Grinch. Nobody thinks you’re emotionally qualified.”
“Exactly. No coddling. Just facts.”
I swing my legs off the table and mutter, “I slept with him.”
Max blinks. “Coach Gray?”
I nod.
