One: he’s not an easy patient. He pushes back on everything—rest days, ice baths, the number of reps I assign. He argues like it’s a sport, negotiating his way through every session like he’s trying to find the loophole that lets him skip ahead to being healed.
Two: he’s not the arrogant ass I expected. There’s no entitlement in the way he pushes. Nodo you know who I amenergy.
Three: I look forward to our sessions more than I should.
“You skipped your cooldown again.”
It’s 3 PM on a Thursday, and Zayden is on my treatment table, his shoulder already showing signs of the inflammation I specifically told him to manage. He’s got dark circles under his eyes that he’s doing a bad job of hiding, and his jaw is tight in that way I’m starting to recognize as his default setting.
“I had somewhere to be,” he says.
“Your daughter’s recital isn’t for another two hours.”
His head snaps toward me. “How do you know about the recital?”
“I know everything, Bishop. It’s my job.”
He stares at me for a beat, and I watch the corner of his mouth twitch. Not quite a smile, but close. “You’re kind of scary, you know that?”
“I prefer ‘thorough.’”
“Sure.” He leans back on the table, letting me work on his shoulder. “We’ll go withthorough. If it helps you sleep at night.”
I press into a knot near his scapula, maybe a little harder than necessary. He hisses.
“Damn, Tori. At least buy me dinner first before the kinks come out.”
I freeze for a second, then roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. “That’s what you get for skipping cooldowns.”
“Noted. Seriously though, you’re supposed to wine and dine a guy before you torture him.”
“Sorry to disappoint. I don’t date players.”
He glances back at me, eyebrow raised. “No?”
“Never.”
“Probably a good rule.” He settles back onto the table, and I get an eyeful of his back—and I work to maintain clinical detachment while staring at a body that should come with a warning label.
His eyes flick to mine—warm and brown—and I can tell he’s not done. “So who do you date?”
“Why do you care?”
“I’m injured and bored. Humor me.”
I dig my thumb into another knot, and he grunts. “Lately? No one. My track record is... not great.”
“Hownot greatare we talking?”
I shouldn’t answer. This is personal territory, the kind of conversation that blurs lines I need to keep sharp. But something about the way he asked—curious, not flirty—makes me say, “My last date spent forty minutes talking about CrossFit and then tried to explain why I should let him manage my crypto portfolio.”
Zayden snorts. “On a first date?”
“He had a pie chart. On his phone. Ready to go.”
“Please tell me you walked out.”
“I finished my drink first. I was raised with manners.” I move to his rotator cuff, working through the tension there. “Before that, there was a guy who showed up twenty minutes late, complained about the restaurant I picked, and then asked me to Venmo him for my half of the appetizer we shared.”
