Riley
“Come on, Rivera, this is the one that counts. Don’t mess it up now.”
I tried to keep my voice calm—clinical, like a real professional—but inside, I was a mess. My pulse was thudding in my ears as I guided Lucas into the last movement of the routine. The one I had adjusted again and again, obsessing over every motion so he wouldn’t snap that cursed tendon again.
His face was locked in focus. Jaw clenched. Sweat running down the edge of his cheek. His leg trembled under the pressure, every tendon firing like it had something to prove.
“If you think this gets any harder,” he grunted through clenched teeth, “I swear I’m filing a lawsuit. Cruel and unusual punishment.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re so dramatic. Do you want to walk again or not?”
“Play again,” he corrected, grimacing as he shifted weight onto his injured leg. “Though right now it feels like I’m scaling Everest barefoot.”
“Then maybe train for Everest next,” I shot back, my hands moving to steady his hips. Professional. Necessary. Clinical.
But when I touched him, the memory hit hard—soap, sweat, and something that smelled like everything I once tried to forget.
I had sworn I would never let myself be here again. Not with him. Not after what happened. But somehow, I was standing here, holding Lucas Rivera upright, both physically and emotionally.
“You okay back there?” he asked, sensing the shift in my breath.
“Focus, Rivera. Step through. Three… two… one…”
He moved with precision, barely holding the tremor in check. His whole body was fighting for every inch of recovery, and I knew that fight. I lived it beside him once—before the airport, before the silence, before I convinced myself I didn’t need him.
He swayed slightly, and my hand instinctively pressed against his back.
“Careful,” he said, turning his head, a smirk dancing on his lips. “You’re starting to get all soft on me.”
“Soft?” I scoffed, stepping back. “This is physical therapy, not flirting hour.”
“Oh, so we’ve left the flirting for after-hours?” His grin widened.
I groaned. “Keep it up and I’m canceling your Coldplay privileges.”
He mock-gasped, clutching his chest. “Not my carefully curated playlist! What will I do without ‘Fix You’?”
“Exactly. You don’t deserve Coldplay and recovery at the same time.”
He moved another step, slower this time, and whispered, “Maybe I’m just too much for you, Riley.”
I froze. Just for a second.
“You wish,” I shot back, arms crossed.
But it didn’t land like it used to. Because deep down, the joke didn’t sting anymore. It scared me. Because maybe it wasn’t a joke. Maybe he was too much for me. Or maybe I was too much for him back then. Too driven. Too scared. Too angry that he chose silence instead of letting me stay by his side when things got hard.
“You know,” he said, quieter this time, “I only left you alone because I didn’t want to hold you back. You had dreams. London. The research. I didn’t want you anchored to someone stuck on the sidelines.”
I looked away. That old ache flared behind my ribs. “And you didn’t think I should get a say in that?”
“I thought I was protecting you,” he said, then chuckled bitterly. “Clearly, I suck at it.”
“You do,” I whispered, voice tight. “You really, really do.”
His hand brushed mine. Just a graze. But I felt it everywhere.
Before I could pull away—before I could decide if I even wanted to—the door slammed open.
“Lucas!”
The voice of Daniela, a senior strategist at the facility, sliced through the air, panicked and breathless. She stormed in, phone in hand, cheeks flushed with urgency.
I stepped away from him instantly. His hands dropped. His face went cold.
“There’s a situation,” Daniela said, eyes darting between us. “Lucas, it’s not just a rumor anymore. Someone leaked photos from your first assessment. The one where the report said your injury was likely career-ending.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“They’re saying you faked your recovery. That you’re just playing for publicity. Fans are flipping. Sponsors are pulling statements together. The whole league’s watching.”
Lucas just stood there. Still. Silent.
I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to scream. Not again. Not when we were finally getting somewhere. Not when I’d just started to trust him—just barely.
“Who leaked it?” he asked, voice low.
Daniela’s eyes met mine briefly. “We don’t know yet. But this is bad. Really bad.”