“How’s the shoulder?”
Dark eyes assess me. “We’re not working right now.”
“I’m always working. Scale of one to ten.”
He finally lets his guard drop, and there’s something tired in his expression. More than tired. Heavy.
“Four,” he says.
“Zayden.”
“Fine. Five.” He leans his head back against the seat. “Can we not do this right now? I just need to...”
He trails off. Closes his eyes.
I should push. It’s my job to push. But something about the way he looks—worn thin, like he’s holding himself together through sheer stubbornness—makes me say, “Okay.”
He opens one eye. “Okay?”
“We can do it later. Get some sleep.”
He stares at me for a long moment, like he’s waiting for the catch. Then he closes his eyes again, and something in his posture loosens. Just a fraction.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
I pull out my tablet and pretend to review his file while he rests. But I’m not really reading. I’m too aware of him—the warmth of his body in the confined space, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his face looks softer when he’s not bracing for a fight.
Stop it,I tell myself.He’s a patient.
I’m getting really tired of that reminder.
• • •
An hour into the flight, I get up to use the restroom.
The back of the plane is a whole different world. Banks is still reading, somehow making a paperback look intimidating. Archer hasn’t moved, dead to the world. A group of guys is playing cards at one of the tables—I recognize the backup goalie,Martinez, and a couple of defensemen whose names I haven’t learned yet.
“Hey, Doc!” one of them calls. “You play poker?”
“She’s not a doctor, dumbass,” another one says. “She’s a PT.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s literally not.”
“I’m good,” I say, sidestepping toward the bathroom. “Thanks, though.”
“Come on, we need a fourth. Arch’s useless, and Banks won’t play.”
“Because you cheat,” Banks says without looking up from his book.
“I don’tcheat, Istrategize—”
I slip into the bathroom before I get pulled into whatever that argument is becoming.
When I come out, I take my time getting back to my seat, stretching my legs. That’s when I see Zayden.
He’s not sleeping anymore. He has his phone in his hand, and he’s FaceTiming someone. A small face fills the screen—dark hair, dark eyes, the same stubborn set to her jaw that I recognize from her father.
