Riley POV
Rain. That’s the first thing I remember.
Laughter under silver clouds, his hair soaked and curling, cleats splashing through muddy puddles as he raced across the field like he could outrun gravity. We were eighteen. Wild. Invincible.
He scored the winning goal that night. Ripped off his jersey, sprinted toward me like a storm, and lifted me off my feet.
Under the stadium lights, with the crowd still screaming, he whispered, “We’ll make it work, Riles. Madrid won’t change that.”
I believed him.
Idiot.
I stared down at my desk like it had personally offended me. Every document was laminated. Every file labeled with military precision. The binders were color-coded by muscle group—red for hamstrings, blue for quads, green for everything in between. I’d printed his scans five times. I didn’t need five copies. But the act of organizing gave me something to hold onto.
Because I hadn’t said his name out loud. Not once. Not even in my head. He was “the patient.” Nothing more. Nothing personal.
The door slammed open.
Zara burst in like a gossip tornado in sneakers. “No way. Don’t tell me. Don’t you dare tell me he’s the mystery client.”
I didn’t look up. “I got the file this morning. Confirmed it’s him.”
She gasped so hard I thought she might actually choke. “Lucas freaking Rivera? I saw him on the news last night, limping like a tragic soap opera character. I thought, ‘Wow, karma has great aim.’ But Riles—you? You’re gonna be patching up him?”
I finally met her eyes. “Apparently, I’m the only one who can.”
Her eyes widened. “You told me about him that first week of college orientations, remember? When I found you crying in the gym bathroom with an ice pack on your own damn heart. I took one look and thought, ‘Yup. That’s the emotionally unstable best friend I want for the rest of my life.’”
I laughed under my breath. “You practically recruited me.”
She shrugged. “What can I say? I have a radar for emotionally messy overachievers.”
A flash—his bedroom, dim and warm. Lucas kneeling on the floor, sketchbook balanced on his knee. He grabbed my hand, grinning.
“I designed you a tattoo,” he said proudly.
I looked down. “Is that… a soccer ball with angel wings?”
“What? It symbolizes freedom and—”
“—and terrible taste,” I cut in, laughing. “Are you twelve?”
He grinned wider. “Fine. I’ll make it your initials. Permanent enough?”
I blinked it away.
Professional hat on. Clinical mask secured. I would not be the girl crying over old sketchbook memories.
***
The rehab facility buzzed with background noise—distant whistles, the low hum of treadmills, the occasional echo of bouncing medicine balls. I stood near the exam table, clipboard in hand, dressed in neutral colors like armor.
Then the door opened. And there he was.
Lucas Rivera.
He walked in like he owned the building—and maybe he did, with the way the air shifted around him. Bulkier now, shoulders broader, jaw sharper, like life had carved away the softness of youth and replaced it with something raw and sculpted. But his eyes?
Still the same.
Dark, sharp, and way too good at seeing straight through me.
I dropped my pen.
He looked at the iced drink on my desk, a cocky smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Still like vanilla lattes?”
I didn’t miss a beat. “Still think charm covers trauma?”
He gave a low chuckle, stepping closer. “Wow. We’re skipping pleasantries, huh?”
“I’m not here to please you,” I said flatly. “I’m here to fix your leg. Nothing more.”
“Ruthless,” he murmured, eyes scanning the room. “I kinda missed that.”
I crossed my arms. “Well, you lost the right to miss anything about me when you chose Madrid over—” I cut myself off, jaw tightening. “Let’s stay professional.”
He was smug and polished, like every media-trained muscle in his body had been prepped for this. And me? I was brittle under the surface. Every word was sharp because it had to be.
“Let’s start with a basic physical,” I said, gesturing toward the table. “Off with the jacket.”
“Not even a dinner first?” he teased.
“Mr. Rivera.”
“Right. Serious. Got it.” He peeled off the hoodie, wincing slightly as he sat on the table.
I adjusted the knee brace and placed my hand on his thigh to examine the joint. The tremor started in my fingers before I could stop it.
He noticed. Of course he did. His voice dropped, softer now. “Still nervous around me?”
I kept my gaze on the scan in front of me. “Just wondering if I should’ve worn gloves.”
He chuckled again, but there was an edge to it.
I pressed gently along the ligaments. “Pain?”
“A bit. Especially when I’m being manhandled by someone who still hates me.”
I exhaled sharply. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m emotionally detached. You’re just another case file.”
He smirked. “Yeah? This file calls you Riles in the dark too?”
I dropped his leg with a bit more force than necessary and grabbed my tablet.
“Let’s talk schedule,” I said, voice clipped. “You’ll need daily sessions. Early mornings. Weekends included.”
“So… boot camp with a side of bitterness.”
“Fragile boys require intense care,” I replied, eyes narrowed.
“You always were bossy.”
“And you always needed someone to keep you in line.”
The second it left my mouth, I knew I’d gone too far. Or maybe not far enough. His smile did that slow curl thing, the one that always used to mean trouble, and it pulled at something I’d sworn was dead and buried.
I shifted my stance, arms crossing like armor. I told myself it was about professionalism, boundaries. But the truth was, I could feel the heat rising beneath my skin, blooming in places I had no business feeling warm.
His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it dipped—just a fraction—and my pulse stuttered.
Get it together, Riley.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, reaching for cool and clipped, but my voice had softened. Just enough for him to hear it. “Six a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”