I pocket my phone and head to my office.
He’s a patient. That’s it. I just need to keep reminding myself of that.
2
PLAYING THROUGH THE PAIN
Zayden
My shoulder is on fire.
I knew it would be—the assessment wasn’t gentle, and the new therapist has hands like she’s trying to find every single thing I’ve been hiding. Which, apparently, she did. Six to eight weeks. The number keeps rattling around in my head as I pull out of the training facility parking lot and merge into Manhattan traffic.
Six to eight weeks I don’t have.
The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm against the freezing rain—not quite snow, not quite sleet, just that miserable hybrid that coats everything in a thin layer of ice. I crank the heat. January in New York is brutal, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes old injuries ache. My shoulder throbs in agreement.
I flip on sports radio out of habit. They’re talking about the Rangers’ defensive line, which means they’ll get to us eventually. I switch it off before they can. The last thing I need is to hear some analyst break down everything wrong with my game while I’m stuck in traffic on 47th.
I can’t fix what you won’t admit is broken.
Victoria Wells, but she goes by Tori, which she’d told me after calling me “Mr. Bishop” the entire session like she was making a point. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Eyes that missed nothing. The kind of face that probably stops most guys in their tracks, all high cheekbones and full lips and zero interest in being looked at.
She didn’t offer much of anything except sharp observations and zero tolerance for my bullshit.
I’m not used to that.
Most people look at me and see the jersey. The multi-million dollar contract. The headlines from three years ago that I’m still trying to outrun. They either want something from me or they’re afraid of me.
She didn’t seem like either.
She looked at me like I was a problem to solve. A body to fix. And when I lied about the pain—four, what a joke—she called me on it without blinking. Didn’t back down when I tried to stare her into submission, which works on literally everyone else.
And then... tacos.
I don’t know why I did that. Small talk isn’t my thing. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of saying nothing, giving nothing, keeping everyone at arm’s length so they can’t disappoint me or leave me, or decide I’m not worth the effort.
But she was standing there with her tablet, all business, and something made me want to see if I could crack that professional mask. Just a little.
I still can’t believe she said Rosario’s, like that tourist trap is actual food.
And she smiled. Fought it the whole time, but I caught it—just a flash, just for a second—and it changed her whole face. Made her look less like a physical therapist who was about to ruin my season and more like... I don’t know. Someone I’d want to talk to.
Which is dangerous.
I don’t have time for dangerous. I have a season to salvage, a shoulder that’s falling apart, and a six-year-old who needs me to keep my life together.
Speaking of which.
I check the clock on the dash. 3:15. School gets out at 3:20, and I’m still twelve blocks away. I’m going to be late. Again.
I weave through a yellow light and nearly clip a delivery truck. The driver lays on his horn—a long, angry blare that follows me down the block. Welcome to New York.
By some miracle of traffic lights, I pull up to Maple Street Elementary at 3:23. Not bad. Only three minutes of Maisie standing on the sidewalk wondering if today’s the day I don’t show up.
She’s waiting by the fence when I get there, backpack hanging off one shoulder, clutching a piece of paper to her chest like it’s classified information. Her teacher, Mrs. Patterson, waves at me with the tight smile of someone who’s definitely noticed I’m late.
“Hey, Maze.” I crouch down to her level. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was—”
