“Shepherd.”
“I’m going, I’m going.”
He disappears into the exam room, the door closing behind him with a soft click. Only then do I let out an unsteady breath. My hands tremble, and I clench them into fists to make it stop.
I should sit down. I should find a chair or something, but I can’t make myself move from this spot. What if they find something wrong? What if it’s worse than he’s letting on? My mind races with possibilities, each one worse than the last.
Time crawls. I check my phone, clocking that ten minutes have passed. It feels like hours. I pace back and forth, stopping occasionally to listen at the door. I can’t make out any words, just the low murmur of voices.
Footsteps echo down the hallway. At first, I don’t pay any attention to them. There’s been a steady flow of people moving through here—trainers, players, staff—everyone with somewhere to be and something to do. But then a voice, low and familiar—too familiar—rings down the hall and my entire body goes still.
No.
No, that’s?—
I don’t turn right away. I can’t, because if I don’t look, then maybe it’s not real. Maybe it’s just my brain doing that thing where it drags old ghosts into places they don’t belong.
The footsteps get closer and closer and though I stare at the ground praying it’s all in my mind I hear, “Sutton?”
Fuck.
His voice.
Shit.
Everything inside me drops.
This can’t be happening.
Slowly—too slowly—I turn. And there he is. Micah Brannigan, standing ten feet away like he didn’t just step straight out of a part of my life I’ve spent years trying to bury.
He looks the same. Older, maybe. A little broader, but the same smug set to his mouth. The same eyes that used to look at me like I belonged to him. Like I was his toy to play with and discard at his pleasure. My stomach twists so hard I think I might be sick.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, glancing up and down the hallway in hopes someone, anyone, will save me from this inevitable hell I’m standing in.
“I work here,” he proclaims proudly as if he’s one of the millionaire players on the team.
As if.
I almost laugh but bite the inside of my cheek to restrain myself. “Oh, you’re on the team?”
His shit-eating grin falls just slightly. “Equipment manager. I go where the team goes.” His eyes rake up and down my body in a way that makes my skin crawl. “And what are you doing here? I know you like football but never expected to see you…wait…” His gaze narrows and then flicks briefly to the closed exam room door behind me. Understanding clicks and his smile grows like the fucking Grinch who just stole Christmas from all of Whoville.
God, that smile. I wish I could tear it off his fucking pretentiousface. “Ah,” he says, nodding slowly. “That makes more sense.”
My heart starts pounding too fast for my comfort.
“You always did have a type,” he continues, taking a step closer. “Or maybe you just never learned.”
“Don’t,” I say quickly, my voice low. Controlled. “Not here.”
His brows lift slightly, amused. “Relax,” he murmurs. “I’m just catching up with an old friend.”
Friend my ass.
We are not catching up.
Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to leave. To run. To get as far away from him as possible. But I don’t move. I can’t. Because Shepherd is right behind those doors and I promised him I would be here when he’s done.
