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“Play like hell at training camp,” he says. “Make sure they see how essential you are.”

“And if I can’t play?” I ask.

He’s quiet for a beat too long before he says, “Let’s just hope you can.”

27

BECCA

I expect Theo to come out to the patio after he gets off the phone, but he never shows. I have no idea who he was talking to, but from what I saw through the window—mostly just Theo pacing around the living room—it wasn’t a conversation that made him happy.

After forty-five minutes of distracted conversation with the moms, I excuse myself and head upstairs.

I find him in his bedroom, door open. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt like he’s ready to check out for the night. He’s leaning forward, elbows propped on his knees while he massages his hand.

“Hey,” I say as I enter the room. I sit down beside him.

“Hey.”

“You disappeared,” I say. “Everything okay?”

He offers me a small smile. “Yeah, all good. Just a call with my agent. Typical start of the season stuff.” He winces, his jaw tightening as he presses on the skin around his scar.

“Here. Let me do it,” I say, reaching for his hand.

He relents, and I slowly start to massage, using the same technique I used when we were out on the beach our first day here. Somehow, that feels like a lifetime ago.

Theo lets out a little groan, his shoulders relaxing. “Why are you so much better at this?” he asks, and I grin.

“I’ve got the magic touch, I guess.”

“I might have to take you to practice with me.”

I move from his palm up to his wrist. “I’m sure one of your trainers could do the same thing.”

He chuckles, his expression heating in a way that makes the embers burning low in my gut spark into a much bigger flame. “Something tells me it wouldn’t have the same effect,” he says, his voice low.

I smile and drop my gaze back to his hand. “Are you worried about going back to practice?”

“Yes,” he says simply, and I pause, surprised by his honest answer.

“Tell me why.”

“Because I’m not ready, and everyone expects me to be. Because I don’t want to fail.”

“Theo, you aren’t a failure because you were injured,” I say. “And your team knows that.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything else. Not until I hit a spot between the pad of his thumb and his wrist.

He winces. “It’s sore there,” he says. “And it’s been bothering me more lately. There’s a tightness that wasn’t there before, or a kind of resistance? It’s hard to explain.”

“It could be the scar tissue,” I say as I move up toward his wrist. “When was the last time you had an MRI?”

“It’s been a while,” he says. “You think I need one?”

“I mean, your doctors know more than I do, but if you’re feeling tightness, it might be worth checking for a tendon adhesion.”

“What would they do about that?” he asks.