Rain hit the field like applause, each drop catching the stadium lights as we tore across the pitch. I didn’t feel the cold. Not with the adrenaline pounding in my ears and the way Riley’s laugh echoed from the bleachers. God, that sound—I still remember it. Back then, she used to wait for me after every game. No makeup, hair a mess from the rain, arms crossed like she hadn’t just screamed louder than anyone else when I scored.
That night, I won the match. I ripped off my jersey and ran straight for her—sprinting like it meant more than the damn goal. I lifted her. She laughed into my neck. And I said something I should’ve never said if I wasn’t going to live up to it.
“We’ll make it work, Riles. Madrid won’t change that.”
Yeah. I believed it too.
Idiot.
***
The rehab facility didn’t look like much, but it was clean and quiet. Smelled like bleach and desperation. My knee was killing me, but I kept my pace steady, refusing to limp more than I had to. No cameras here. No fans. Just the hum of treadmills and the distant thud of someone tossing a medicine ball.
And then the door opened.
And there she was.
Clipboard in hand. Hair tied up like she always did when she was stressed. Neutral clothes that tried and failed to hide the fact that she hadn’t changed at all—and yet somehow looked nothing like the girl I left behind. She was sharper now. Colder.
Riley.
Her eyes landed on me. Then on the coffee on her desk. I smirked. “Still like vanilla lattes?”
She didn’t flinch. “Still think charm covers trauma?”
Oof. Right out the gate.
I chuckled under my breath, stepping inside fully. “We’re skipping pleasantries, huh?”
She didn’t even blink. “I’m not here to please you. I’m here to fix your leg.”
Ruthless. And god, I missed it.
“I kinda missed that,” I murmured, glancing around the room to keep from staring at her too long.
Her arms crossed. “You lost the right to miss anything when you chose Madrid over—” She cut off fast, like the words tasted like blood. “Let’s stay professional.”
Right. That’s how we were doing this.
“Sure,” I said, still watching her, trying to read what was left behind those clipped tones and clenched fists. “Let’s start.”
She told me to get on the table, that we were doing a basic physical. Same voice she used to use on drunk frat guys trying to flirt with her during undergrad lab.
I pulled off the hoodie. Winced. She noticed. Of course she did.
She stepped closer. Her hand touched my leg: clinical, sure. But her fingers trembled for half a second before she caught it. I saw it. Felt it.
“Still nervous around me?” I asked, quieter now.
She didn’t look at me. “Just wondering if I should’ve worn gloves.”
That earned a half-laugh out of me, but it didn’t settle anything. Not the ache in my knee. Not the worse one somewhere else.
“Pain?” she asked, pressing into the ligament like she didn’t just jab my ego.
“A bit. Especially when I’m being manhandled by someone who still hates me.”
She exhaled hard. “You’re just another case file.”
Bullshit. “Yeah? This file calls you Riles in the dark too?”
Her hands jerked. She dropped my leg with more force than necessary and turned back to her tablet like she didn’t just flinch from a ghost.
“Let’s talk schedule,” she said, clipped again. “Daily sessions. Early mornings. Weekends included.”
“So, boot camp with a side of bitterness.”
Her eyes flicked up. “Fragile boys require intense care.”
I grinned, despite the way my chest was tightening. “You always were bossy.”
“And you always needed someone to keep you in line.”
There it was.
That snap. That spark.
I didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her, arms crossed like armor she’d forgotten how to take off. Her voice had bite, but her skin was flushing. And I saw her throat move when she swallowed.
She felt it too.
I let the silence stretch. Her fingers curled tighter around the clipboard. I didn’t push. Not yet.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said finally, voice softer than before. “Six a.m. sharp.”
I didn’t answer right away. Just nodded. Because suddenly, six a.m. couldn’t come fast enough.