Riley
The moment Lucas walked into the therapy room, that familiar spark ignited between us. I hated it.
I hated how I’d started checking the clock before each session. Hated that my stomach did a stupid little flip whenever I heard his footsteps in the hall. Hated, most of all, how easily he unraveled my sense of professionalism with just a look.
“You’re late again,” I said, setting down the resistance bands with a pointed glare.
He grinned, all charm and unapologetic swagger. “I’m fashionably late. Something you wouldn’t understand.”
I arched an eyebrow. “You know what I do understand? That you’re still recovering, and I’m the one who’s supposed to make you better.”
“Good thing you’re here, then,” he said, stepping just close enough to crowd my space. “Because I’m terrible at taking care of myself.”
I backed up a half-step, which only made him smirk wider. “You make it sound like I’m your personal savior.”
“Oh, you’re more than that, Riley. You’re the drill sergeant of my dreams.”
I snorted, despite myself. “Flattery doesn’t count as progress.”
“Damn. Then I’m in trouble.”
Trying to redirect us before the flirting got out of hand—which, let’s face it, it already had—I pulled out my phone and opened a playlist. “I brought music today. Thought it might help.”
His eyes narrowed playfully. “Music? What kind?”
“Some Coldplay. You know, mellow stuff.”
Lucas looked physically pained. “Coldplay? Riley. I expected more from you.”
I rolled my eyes. “And you still think EDM is a personality.”
He laughed. “Hey, EDM is an experience. You feel it in your bones.”
“Yeah, right next to the migraine.”
“Wow,” he said, accepting the resistance band. “You're mean when you're in charge.”
“And you’re worse when you’re not.”
He gave a dramatic sigh and got into position for his first set. We spent more time arguing about music than we did the exercises. He kept trying to hijack the speaker with his own playlists, and I kept batting his hand away.
Between reps, he made it a game—reaching for the phone just to get a reaction, teasing me with bad song requests, mouthing cheesy lyrics to get me to laugh. I tried to stay focused. I really did. But every smile chipped away at the careful distance I’d built between us.
He wasn’t just charming. He was infuriatingly present. Not just with his body, but his attention, his energy. He made everything feel like it mattered—like every word I said was worth catching.
But his progress was astonishing.
Too astonishing.
He moved with a precision that shouldn’t have returned so soon. His stride was cleaner, his balance sharper, his strength undeniable. Each session, he pushed harder than the last, like he was chasing something invisible. Or outrunning it.
But while the physical improvements were impossible to ignore, so was the quiet panic growing at the edges of my mind. Bodies didn’t heal this fast—not without strain hiding just beneath the surface. And with Lucas, there was always a danger he’d push past pain just to prove something. To himself. To me. To everyone watching.
After the session ended, he lingered on the mat, arms spread, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat across his brow. And still—he smiled. Not just at me, but like the world hadn’t been doubting him for months.
I left him to cool down and retreated to my office, needing a few minutes to decompress. My hand hadn’t even reached the water bottle before my phone buzzed sharply on the desk.
An email. Subject line: Player #918 – Evaluation Status
From the Premier League board.
I opened it with a practiced breath. The message was blunt. Clinical.
Push his body. Championship scouts are watching.
That was it. No context. No concern. Just an order.
My stomach dropped.
I turned in my chair, looking through the narrow office window to where Lucas was still seated on the mat, tugging off his compression brace. He was tired—bone-deep tired—but grinning like he’d won something. He stretched his arms behind his head, laughing softly at something on his phone.
They didn’t see that.
They didn’t see the man who stayed after sessions to finish stretches without being asked. The one who made jokes even when his knee gave out mid-drill. The one who watched me when he thought I wasn’t looking, like I was something worth grounding himself in.
No. To them, Lucas was a product. A showpiece. A body to be pushed past its limits and polished just in time for scouts to clap politely from the stands. They didn’t care if the fix held—only that it looked good long enough to sell.
I clenched my jaw, the sharp edges of anger catching in my throat. How many times had I seen this before? Athletes treated like assets until they broke. Used, praised, discarded.
Not him. Not this time.
I stared at the screen for a long moment before closing the email and locking my phone. My hands trembled slightly as I exhaled, the decision settling in my bones.
I wouldn’t let them rush him. Not anymore.
Lucas might be desperate to prove himself, and the board might think they owned his timeline—but I was the gatekeeper here. I was the one who understood how delicate the human body was beneath all that performance.
And I cared.
Too much, maybe. But I did.
I glanced at him again—Lucas, still smiling, still unaware. And for the first time since he’d walked through my door months ago, I felt something shift inside me. A quiet vow, sharp and steady:
If they wanted to break him again, they’d have to go through me first.