Riley
“I’m not moving in,” I said, for the fourth time that morning, gripping my phone like it owed me an apology.
“Ms. Morgan,” the Premier League official sighed through the line, his voice too smooth, too rehearsed, “we’ve arranged a full-service suite in the staff wing of the training facility. It’s essential for the intensity and frequency of Rivera’s rehabilitation. Time is of the essence. You understand.”
“No, what I understand is that you want me to live in a glorified locker room with men who think ‘icing’ means flirting with interns,” I snapped. “I do not move in with patients. I clock in, I fix them, I go home.”
“We’re prepared to increase your fee by thirty percent and include research rights for your recovery protocol.”
I paused. Thirty percent. Research rights.
Damn them.
“Fine,” I gritted out. “But I swear, if someone leaves protein powder in my shower again, I’m filing an emotional trauma report.”
“Understood,” he said, way too cheerfully. “Oh—and Rivera’s suite is three doors down. Just a heads-up.”
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
***
“Who do I have to stab to get a latte around here?” I growled the next morning, dragging my rolling case into the concrete hallway of the facility.
Zara appeared as if out of nowhere, holding out a large iced coffee like she was a caffeine angel sent from the gods. “You rang, your royal rehabness?”
I took it without a word and sipped. Bless her.
She peeked over my shoulder like a squirrel searching for scandal. “Sooo… which room is Lucas in? Just asking for scientific purposes.”
“Nope,” I said, blocking her view with my entire body. “Turn around. Go back to your car. I am not letting you thirst over a walking tabloid headline.”
“Oh come on, Riles,” she whined, pouting. “You’ve seen his abs. I’m just trying to appreciate the hard work of physical genetics.”
“He’s not art. He’s a health hazard.”
Zara laughed and backed away with her hands up. “Fine. But if you need someone to tase him mid-PT, I’m available.”
I waved her off and walked toward the therapy room. Deep breaths. Game face on. Nothing personal.
Nothing. Personal.
***
Lucas was already inside. Shirt off, of course. Always dramatic. He sat on the mat, stretching like he was in a calendar shoot instead of physical rehab.
“You’re early,” I said, setting down my clipboard with a thud.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, not looking up. “I thought you’d appreciate the dedication.”
“I’d appreciate a shirt.”
He grinned. “Why? Am I distracting you?”
“No. I just don’t want to have to sterilize the mat after your ego rubs off on it.”
He chuckled as I knelt beside him. “You always had the sharpest mouth in the room.”
“Good. Let’s see if your knee can handle the pressure better than your pride.”
I guided his leg into position, hands firm but clinical. Full contact, full trust. My hands on his thigh, his shoulder, his back. His breathing synced to mine as I coached him through each movement.
It wasn’t romantic.
At least, that’s what I repeated in my head every time his skin brushed mine and the heat curled a little too deep in my gut.
“Don’t smile at me like that while I’m icing your quad,” I muttered, adjusting the wrap.
He tilted his head. “I’d smile anywhere you touch me.”
“And I’d dropkick your ego,” I replied sweetly, “but your knee would cry.”
He laughed. Deep, throaty, warm. Like it belonged in a memory.
And just like that, one came rushing back—
Midnight. High school gym. The lights off, but the scoreboard still blinking from the scrimmage earlier that night. It was just the two of us. Sweaty. Breathless.
“I dare you,” he said, smirking in that reckless way he always did. “Kiss me.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s not even a real dare.”
“Then do it.”
I grabbed his collar and kissed him—just to shut him up. But he kissed me back like I was air and he’d forgotten how to breathe. Like I was the answer to every question he’d never asked out loud.
I blinked the memory away and cleared my throat, stepping back.
“Ten more reps,” I said firmly. “Let’s focus.”
But Lucas wasn’t done. He sat up, rubbing his towel over the back of his neck. “Do you ever think about… us?”
“No,” I said immediately, reaching for the clipboard.
He didn’t move.
“You used to trace the scar on my shoulder with your fingers. Remember that?”
I kept my eyes on the notes. “We’re not doing memory lane. We’re doing muscle rehabilitation.”
He exhaled slowly. “Right. Of course. Keep it clinical.”
I turned toward him, eyes cold. “If you want to talk about the past, book a therapy session. This is physical therapy. Not emotional CPR.”
Lucas stood, moving carefully on his recovering leg. “Got it, Dr. Morgan. Nothing but business between us.”
I nodded once. “Exactly.”
Just then, my phone buzzed. Zara’s name lit up the screen, and I smiled faintly, expecting one of her usual caffeine-fueled rants or memes. Instead, her text was something else entirely: “Leaked story: Lucas Rivera’s mystery therapist is his ex-girlfriend from high school.”