Silence.
I can see him doing the math—the games he’d miss, the playoff implications, whatever else is going on in his life that makes him treat his body like it’s disposable. For a second, he looks tired. Not physically, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere he probably doesn’t let most people see.
“Fine,” he says. “What do you need me to do?”
“Ice, rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow at eight AM. We’ll start with mobility work and go from there.” I pause. “And Zayden? When I ask if something hurts, I need the real answer. Not the tough-guy answer. I can’t help you if you lie to me.”
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. “You always this bossy?”
“With patients who hide injuries for three months? Yes.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. Closer than anything I’ve seen from him since he walked in.
He pulls his shirt back on, and I turn to my tablet, typing notes I don’t actually need just to have something to do with my hands. The assessment is done. I should let him leave. That would be the professional thing to do.
“There’s a place on Fifth that does recovery smoothies,” he says.
I glance up. He’s still by the exam table, hoodie in his hand, watching me.
“What?”
“If you’re looking for post-workout fuel recommendations for players. The green one tastes like ass, but it works.”
I give him a confused look. “I have a nutrition protocol.”
“I’m sure you do.” He shrugs into the hoodie. “Just saying. It works.”
I go back to my notes. “Noted.”
“You’re not going to write that down?”
“I have a nutrition protocol,” I repeat, but something’s creeping into my voice. Something that sounds dangerously close to amusement.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me. “What about tacos?”
I look up again. “Excuse me?”
“Best tacos in the city. In your opinion.” He tilts his head slightly. “Just to check your credibility.”
“My credibility?” I blink.
“Tell me your favorite taco spot and I’ll tell you if I can trust you.”
I shouldn’t engage. This is exactly how lines get blurry—the casual banter, the “we’re just friendly” energy that slowly becomes something else, something dangerous. I have rules for a reason. Good reasons. Reasons I paid for in humiliation and tears and watching my reputation get shredded by a guy who smiled just like this one does.
But something about the way he’s looking at me—not flirty, just genuinely curious, like my answer actually matters—makes me say, “Rosario’s. On Twelfth.”
He winces. Actually winces, like I’ve personally insulted his grandmother. “Rosario’s? That tourist trap?”
“It’s not a tourist trap. It’s authentic.”
“It’s Instagram bait. You want real tacos, you go to Tito’s. Cash only. No menu. You eat what they give you.”
I lift one brow. “That sounds unsanitary.”
“That sounds like you’ve never had a good taco.”
“Still, not sure I’m willing to take my chances atTito’s.”
