But they already are.
4
ROMAN
Week 2 of Rehabilitation - Late July
The coffee mugshatters against my kitchen tile at 5:27 AM.
I stare at the spreading puddle of dark roast and ceramic shards, my hand still extended in the motion that should have set it on the counter. Except I missed. By three inches. Because I was thinking about the way Marnie’s hair falls out of that messy knot when she’s concentrating, and how one strand always catches against her cheek, and whether she knows she hums along to Fall Out Boy when she thinks no one’s listening.
“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing a dish towel.
This is exactly why the guys call me “The Machine.” Because I don’t get distracted. Because I’m disciplined. Because my pre-game routine hasn’t varied in seven years, my meal prep happens every Sunday at noon, and I can tell you my exact sleep schedule down to the fifteen-minute window I allow for falling asleep.
I don’t spill coffee. I don’t miss counters. And I definitely don’t think about physical therapists while I’m makingbreakfast.
Except apparently now I do.
The facility at 5:45 AM should be empty, but Brody’s already in the weight room when I arrive, working through his usual routine. He’s been keeping these hours since he joined the team, back when he was trying to prove he belonged. Now he just likes the quiet, same as me.
“Morning, Cap.” He doesn’t look up from loading his bar. “You’re here even earlier than usual.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Shoulder bothering you?”
My grunted response could be taken either way. The truth is that after only three sessions with Marnie, the constant ache I’ve been living with for months has started to ease, replaced by the clean soreness of actual healing.
“Just restless.”
“Mmm.” Brody starts his set, and I move to the light weights she’s assigned, trying to focus on form. On breathing. On anything except the fact that I have another appointment with her this morning and I’ve been counting down since I woke up at 4 AM.
“So the new PT,” Brody says between reps, his tone deliberately casual. “She’s good.”
“Yeah.”
“Called me out yesterday for cheating on my ankle exercises. Didn’t even blink when I tried the charm offensive.”
I squeeze the dumbbell hard. “You tried to charm her?”
The words come out crankier than I intended.
Brody racks his bar and looks at me, eyebrows raised, a grin spreading across his face. “Oh, this is even better than I thought.”
“I meant?—”
“No, no, please continue explaining why you sound like I just told you I wrecked your truck.” He’s fully grinning now, the bastard. “Or better yet, explain why you care if I flirted with someone you barely know and definitely don’t have feelings for.”
I set down the weight, needing distance. “I’ve got a meeting.”
“It’s not even 6 yet.”
“Then I’ve got something else.”
His laugh follows me into the hallway. “You know, for someone with a murder face that scares half the league, you’re terrible at hiding when you like someone!”
I keep walking, focusing on breathing. On not punching walls. On not turning around to confirm what we both know is true.
