The Ashcats facility smells like floor wax and ambition at six AM.
I'm standing in the staff corridor in a grey polo two sizes too big with a temporary badge clipped to my chest, listening to Gary. My new boss just finished explaining my new existence.
"Locker rooms done before nine. Don't touch the coaches' offices. Don't talk to players. Don't breathe where they can see you."
"Inspiring pep talk," I say.
He doesn't smile. "Good luck."
The men's locker room is the size of my entire apartment building. Polished wood, the Ashcats logo inlaid on the floor in gold and black, rows of lockers with brass nameplates that mean nothing to me.
I push the mop across the floor in slow arcs and focus on the rhythm — drag, rinse, wring, repeat.
This is just a job. This is for William. This is fine.
I'm halfway through when the doors bang open and the world detonates. Twenty-something bodies flood the room in a wall of noise and cologne and testosterone, shoving each other, laughing, slamming lockers.
I try to melt into the corner—invisible, just like Gary said—but my foot catches the mop bucket and suddenly I'm going down. Arms flailing, dirty water arcing through the air in slow motion. My life flashing before my eyes and it's just as disappointing as I thought.
Then a hand catches my waist, yanking me upright hard, and my palms slam flat against warm, bare skin. When I look up my face is suddenly inches from a face I know better than my own reflection.
Jared freaking Morgan.
His hand is firm on my waist. Fingers spread wide, thumb pressing just above my hip bone. I can feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of my polo and every single neuron in my brain fires at once.
He's bigger than I remember, sharper too. The boyish softness carved away and replaced with angles that could cut glass. There's a scar through his left eyebrow and shoulders that look like they were designed by someone who gets paid to make mortals weep.
And those eyes… Jesus Christ, those eyes. Still impossibly green. Still devastating.
"You good?" He's still holding me, still this close.
I should move. Should grab my mop and disappear like Gary told me to.
I'm frozen instead, his hand still on my waist, my palms still pressed to his bare chest, and I can feel his heartbeat under my fingers—steady and completely unbothered.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rough. "I'm good."
His thumb moves against my waist. Just once, a small circle that might be accidental but feels extremely intentional. Then he lets go and I immediately miss the warmth.
I step back, grabbing the mop. "Sorry. I'll just…"
I turn for the door but his hand catches my elbow, casual, like redirecting a shopping cart that drifted into the wrong aisle.
"Boys," he announces, and the room half-quiets, "that's not how you welcome new staff." My lungs release for one stupid, grateful second, before he grins. "You gotta make it a challenge!"
He grips the towel wrapped around his waist, pulls it clean off, and my brain blue-screens. Completely shuts down.
Because Jared Morgan is standing three feet away from me with nothing on and apparently no shame about it, and my traitorous eyes drop for half a second before I can stop them and…
He throws the towel at me.
I catch it on pure reflex, my face erupting in flames hot enough to melt steel.
"Come on, boys!" Jared's grinning now—that same that made me write his name in heart-shaped bubbles like an idiot. "Don't leave the lady hanging!"
The room catches on like wildfire. One player unwraps his towel and flings it across the room. Another one peels his off with a whoop and lobs it toward my head. Towels fly from waists, off benches, across the room like the world's worst snowball fight.
Except every snowball is damp and smells like a gym bag left in a hot car.
"You're not leaving till every one of those is picked up." Jared leans back against his locker, arms crossed.
The room erupts with laughter and my jaw locks so tight I can feel my molars grinding. My hands shake at my sides and my vision narrows to the pile of fabric at my feet.
Something inside me snaps.
Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Maybe it's the fact that my son is in a hospital bed and I'm standing in a room full of millionaire athletes who think this is funny. Maybe it's ten years of swallowing my pride and my rage and my grief until there's nowhere left to put it.
Maybe I'm just done.
Instead of picking up their towels right away, I take a step toward him, then another. Until we're close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
His eyes search my face like he's trying to solve an equation. Then his mouth twitches into a smile but disappears quickly when I bring my knee up hard between his legs.
The impact is satisfying in a way that probably says terrible things about me as a person. Jared's eyes go wide, mouth opens in a silent ‘oh’ of shock and pain, as he doubles over, hands flying to his groin, and the entire locker room loses its mind.
Whooping. Shouting. Someone's laughing so hard they're crying.
I lean down—just enough that he can hear me over the chaos.
"Next time you want to mess around with the cleaning lady," I say sweetly, "remember that she might have exactly zero fucks left to give about your ego."
He looked up at me with barely hidden fury behind his eyes and practically hissed, "What's your name?"
"It's on my badge, jerk," I say flatly.
I turn around and bend down to pick up every single towel, loading them silently and mechanically into the bin until it overflows and heads for the door.
Behind me, I hear Jared wheeze out something that might be a laugh or might be agony—hard to tell. But just as I reach the exit, his voice cuts through the noise.
"Mia Scott." I stop, but don't turn around. "I'm remembering that name."
When I walk out, the corridor is blessedly empty. My face burns, towels spill over the bin's edge with every step while my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I shift the bin to one arm, fumble the phone out with the other, eyes on the screen — and walk straight into a wall of cheerleaders.
The bin hits the floor, towels scatter across the tile like surrender flags.
Great. Just great.
The girl in front looks down at the mess, then up at me, and smiles the way people smile when they've found something they're going to enjoy ruining.
"The new cleaning girl." She tilts her head. "Adorable. Maybe watch where you're going?"
Her girls laugh behind her. She opens her mouth to add something, I can see it loading behind her eyes, but I've already seen the name on my phone screen.
Dr. Martinez. William's cardiologist.
Everything else stops existing as I press the phone to my ear and turn away from the cheerleader mid-syllable.
"Good morning, Ms. Scott." Her voice is measured — the careful, controlled tone that means something underneath is not controlled at all. "William collapsed this morning. He's running a fever and presenting with chest pain."
"What?" My hand is gripping the phone so hard the case creaks. "How bad?"
"His valve is deteriorating faster than we projected. He's at Metro General now, he's stable, but…"
I don't hear the rest. The bin stays where it fell and the cheerleader says something sharp behind me as I'm already running to the break room.
"Is he okay?" My voice sounds like it's coming from underwater as I close the door behind me.
"The aortic valve stenosis has progressed faster than we expected. He's stable now, the fever's managed, but I can't guarantee stability beyond a month. Maybe less. He needs a surgical valve replacement. Soon."
"How soon?" My voice sounds like it belongs to someone standing very far away.
"Yesterday, ideally. Realistically, we need to schedule within four weeks or we're looking at emergency intervention with significantly worse odds."
I nod. Keep nodding to myself. Like if I nod enough the words will rearrange themselves into something manageable. "What's the cost?"
She hesitates and that tells me everything.
"The portion insurance won't cover, including facility fees and the specialist team..." She takes a breath. "We're looking at roughly two hundred thousand dollars."
Dr. Martinez is still talking—something about payment plans, assistance programs, financing options—but the words float past me like smoke. None of it matters. None of it is real.
Because there is no universe in which I can produce two hundred thousand dollars in four weeks. Right?
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