Mäkinen
sure
Chapter 20 — ZAY
Berger is quieter today. I’ve been paying more attention since Teo told me about his phone call with Berger’s old teammate.
I press into his muscles and he winces but doesn’t narrate the way he would have two months ago, when every sensation came with a score and a comparison.
“Still compensating through the ankle.”
“I’m aware.” He studies the ceiling. “I’ve added distance to my runs.”
“How much distance? I need to know so we don’t create an imbalance with the strength and conditioning.”
“Enough. Maybe an extra mile.” The words sit there with no elaboration. No scoring rubric. No follow-up about the route or the shoes or the weather’s effect on his splits. I let the quiet hold because pushing Berger when he’s pulled in like this just pushes him further. His eyes stay on the ceiling even after I move to the ankle. I don’t think the extra mile is about running.
I finish his session and strip the table when he leaves. Wipe it down, reset the bolster, drop the used towel in the bin. Thirteen names on today’s schedule and Marchetti’s is ninth.
Tyler catches me in the corridor on my way back from the supply closet.
“Hey, Brooks. Quick thing.” He falls into step beside me, tablet tucked under his arm. “I was pulling Marchetti’s file on the road trip to prep for his sessions. That scheduling cadence is locked in. Same frequency, same slot, every week since September.”
“Long-term rehab. The protocol benefits from consistent frequency through the recovery”
“No, yeah, totally.” He nods. “Just noticed it stood out from the rest of the rotation. Most of the guys taper by this point or shift to maintenance. Marchetti’s the only file that hasn’t moved.” He gives me a quick, collegial grin. “Must be a hell of a protocol. Anyway, let me know if you need anything for the Hájek groin. I’ve got notes from Pittsburgh.”
He taps the doorframe once and keeps walking. His footsteps move down the hall, unhurried and easy. Twice now he’s noticed. From a man who isn’t looking for anything, that’s concerning.
Between sessions, I refill my water bottle and hear Marchetti before I see him. He’s at the far end of the corridor with Jensen and one of the equipment staff, both hands moving, explaining something with the total focus he gives everything. Jensen is grinning. The equipment manager is grinning.
Everyone gets this version. The full attention. The grin that makes you feel like the most important person in the building. I’ve seen him do it with trainers, with front office people, with the woman at the smoothie counter in the lobby who knows his order by heart because he made sure she would. He means it every time. The generosity isn’t fake or acting. It’s just him, running warm with whoever is nearest, and the question I don’tlet myself finish is whether what he gives me at midnight is different because we’re simply alone or because it’s me.
I close the treatment room door and wash my hands and stand at the sink longer than the soap requires. Marchetti walks in humming. Pulls himself onto the table. Grins at me the way he grins at Jensen, at the equipment manager, at everyone.
“Range of motion. Let’s see where we are.”
“Missed you too, Brooks.”
The tissue is healthy, responsive, the impingement reduced to a footnote. His range is exactly where I want it to be. The session takes minutes now instead of the thirty I used to need. I’m running out of things to assess and we both know it.
“Flexion looks good. Abduction is full. We’re trending toward discharge.”
“You say the most romantic things.”
I write the numbers down. “We’ll reassess next week.”
He slides off the table. Stops at the door with the quieter grin, the one the corridor doesn’t get.
“Your place tonight?”
“After seven.” I don’t look up.
He’s at my door at seven twelve. I open it and his mouth is on mine before the lock catches, his hands on my jaw, the kiss open and hungry. I pull him into the apartment by the front of his shirt and his back hits the hallway wall and I press into him, my whole body against his, closing the distance that twelve hours of professional language put between us. His hands find the hem of my shirt. Pull it over my head. His palms slide warm up my ribs and I strip his shirt and put my mouth on his shoulder, his collarbone, the hollow at the base of his throat where I can feel his pulse under my tongue.
The bedroom. His back on my sheets. I follow him down and his legs open and I settle between them, his hips rolling up against mine through the fabric still between us. I push into himand his breath catches. I get his belt open, push his jeans down with his briefs, and wrap my hand around him. I stroke fast, no teasing, no patience for the slow build tonight, pulling every sound out of him because I need them, because the sounds are proof that I’m here and he’s here and the door is locked.
“Zay.” His hand closes around my wrist. Not stopping me. Steadying. “Slow down.”
