As we head toward the clinic entrance, Viktor’s eyes flick down at me.
“You got dressed in the dark?”
“Didn’t realize I needed fashion approval to get my knee fixed.”
“The hoodie doesn’t match the sweatpants.”
“Want me to knee you in the balls with my good leg?”
He chuckles. “You are a good flirt, Hutchison.”
As we approach, I notice my reflection in the glass doors, and I don’t like what I see. I look down at the pavement instead and wait for Viktor to open the door for me.
“Let’s go, Mr. Baby.”
My eyes roll back, but the corner of my mouth twitches as we make our way to the entrance. Because yeah, I’m grumpy as hell right now. But I’m also grateful, even if I’d rather eat glass than admit it.
The Moreno Clinic is trying too hard to be impressive. Glass walls, matte black railings, furniture that looks like it belongs in an art gallery instead of a medical office.
It’s the kind of place built for elite athletes with Olympic dreams and insurance that covers everything but their bruised ego.
A couple of the Colorado Mustangs are sprawled across the waiting room couches, one of the Miners’ rookies has ice strapped to both knees, and someone in a Team USA jacket walks out from the physio with a gait I don’t want to end up copying.
I adjust my crutch under one arm and limp forward toward reception, while Viktor sits down next to a Miners player and starts chatting.
Jenny, Moreno’s receptionist, who I’ve only met a couple times, is at the front desk. She’s focused on her typing, but the second she spots me, her posture straightens, and the smile she flashes is pure performance.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Hutchison,” she coos, her smile all teeth. “The clinic’s missed you limping through the halls.”
“Missed my cheerful demeanor?”
She gives a brittle laugh, as though it’s the funniest joke she’s heard all morning. “Of course. Dr. Moreno was hoping to be here for your follow-up today, but he was called into a last-minute consult. National gymnast. Achilles rupture during dismount. Tragic.”
I grunt, my eyes sweeping to the hallway. “Brutal.”
“So you’ll be with Dr. Park today instead,” she adds, flipping to another tab on her screen as her tone cools a few degrees. “I’m sure you remember her.”
My jaw tightens, but I nod once. Whatever. I just want this done.
Right on cue, she appears behind the frosted glass partition, pushing the door open with the side of her hip, her eyes trained on the tablet she’s holding.
She’s not in scrubs today, but not in her off-duty clothing either. The white lab coat is back, but she’s in a pencil skirt, with a tucked-in blouse underneath. My eyes trail down to her bare calves, lingering on the slender slope of her ankle.
“Jenny.” Dr. Park's voice cuts in, and my eyes jump back up to hers.
“Doctor,” Jenny replies, not looking up from her screen. “Mr. Hutchison is here.”
She doesn’t break stride as she makes her way over to me, a perfectly polite smile in place. “Hello again, Mr. Hutchison. You look…”
“Like hell. Yes, I’m aware.”
Her mouth curves, but she doesn’t argue. “Well, let’s see if we can change that. Follow me.”
She turns and leads the way down a hallway, her heels clicking against the polished concrete floors. The place is littered with framed jerseys and gold-trimmed certificates. The NHL’s Colorado Storm, the NFL’s Denver Mustangs, the NBA’s Denver Miners, and a handful of European club banners. There are evenOlympic rings in brushed metal on one plaque, which I scowl at as we turn.
The Moreno Clinic clearly wants to make sure everyone knows they treat the athletic elite.
She casts me a sideways glance, but doesn’t speak again until we reach her consult room.
