Chapter EIGHTEEN Lexi

I don’t want to do this—observe the Ace-ettes Cheer practice. I want to be in bed, hiding under my covers, trying to sort out the mess that is Wes and the internship and Noah and his confession. But here I am, stuck in the gymnasium, the scent of polished wood and sweat greeting me like an old teammate's slapshot. Coach Thompson is keeping me away from the players in the final practice before the playoffs. I would be a fool not to notice,

So, it's cheer practice, and I'm here under the guise of observing athletic form—part of my sports medicine studies—but the truth is I'm studying Cassidy.

"Stick the landing, Cass! You got this!" shouts one of the cheerleaders, her voice echoing off the high ceiling. I lean against the bleachers, pretending to jot down notes while really just watching her.

She’s Noah’s… situationship. Does she think they are more? Does she know what he said to me?

Cassidy takes her position at the center of the mats, hazel eyes locked in concentration. She's the epitome of focus—a trait I begrudgingly admire. As the captain calls out the routine, Cassidy launches into motion. It's like she's part of some intricate dance with gravity, each flip and twist defying physics in a way that would have Newton tossing his apple aside in disbelief.

I've seen her nail this routine a dozen times at games, but today there's a hesitation in her jump, a wobble that wasn't there before. My heart stops for a split second, recognizing the precursor to disaster—an injury waiting to happen.

And then it does.

Cassidy lands awkwardly, her ankle folding beneath her in a way that churns my stomach. A collective gasp reverberates around the gym as she crumples to the mat, her face contorted in pain, trying to mask it with that practiced look of indifference.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, my medical instincts already flaring up despite our complicated history. I know what comes next—the swelling, the bruising, and if she's unlucky, torn ligaments.

"Is she okay?" The concern in the other cheerleaders' voices is palpable as they rush to her side, their pom-poms forgotten mounds of color against the hardwood floor.

"Stay back, give her space!" I hear myself calling out, surprising even me with the urgency in my voice. But I can't help it. Despite everything, seeing Cassidy hurt tugs at something within me—something annoyingly empathetic.

Stepping forward, I prepare to do what I do best—help athletes in trouble—even if the athlete in question is the same girl who's been making my life annoying lately. I'm across the gym floor before my brain catches up with my feet, knees pumping, ponytail swinging. Cassidy's still on the mat, her long dark hair fanned out like a distress signal. I drop to my knees beside her, my hands automatically hovering over her ankle without touching.

"Hey, Cassidy," I say, trying to keep my voice steady and professional. "I'm going to take a look at your calf. Can you tell me where it hurts?"

She tries to sit up, wincing as she attempts to wave me off with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "I'm fine, Lexi. Really, it's just a little twist."

Her voice is tight, though, betraying the pain she must feel. Classic Cassidy Harper—too stubborn to show weakness, even when lying flat on her back in front of the entire cheer squad. It would be almost admirable if it wasn't so exasperating.

"Come on, Cass," I chide gently, not buying it for a second. "You and I both know you're about as 'fine' as I am a synchronized swimmer. Let's not make this worse by being prideful, okay?"

I can see the battle in her—the desire to shrug it off, to maintain that veneer of untouchable cheer captain, versus the reality of her body screaming that something's wrong. She bites her lip and looks away, her shoulders tensing under the strain of maintaining her facade.

"Look, I know we're not exactly besties," I continue, keeping my tone light despite the tension, "but I've seen enough injuries to be in the know. And yours is already starting to swell. Let's treat it now before you need pom-pom festooned crutches just to walk."

For a moment, she seems to consider my words, then she huffs out a breath and nods curtly, finally conceding. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it. As much as Cassidy and I are rivals, I don't want her hurt—not really. Not when I can do something about it.

"Fine," she relents, her voice softer now, less sure of itself. "But only because you're so annoyingly persistent."

"Persistent is my middle name," I quip, allowing a small smile to play at the corner of my mouth. As I carefully examine her leg from calf to ankle, I ensure I cause as little discomfort as possible. I ease Cassidy's sneaker off with the care of disarming a bomb, her hiss of pain cutting through the gym's charged silence. Her ankle's already puffing up like a marshmallow over an open flame—angry and swollen.

"Okay, Cass," I say, keeping my voice steady, "I need to feel around to see if it's a sprain or something worse. Might be uncomfortable, but I promise, I'm not here to torture you."

She rolls her eyes, wincing as she shifts on the bleachers. "As tempting as that sounds, Lexi, can't we just skip to the part where you magically fix me?"

"Sorry, no magic. Just good old-fashioned medical know-how." My fingers probe gently, testing the tender ligaments. "You'll thank me when you're back cheering and not stuck on the sidelines. Ask Noah—he had a similar sprain."

I wince inside at the mention. If she does have an inkling of his feelings for me, that might have been a bad move.

"Fine," she mutters, gripping the edge of the seat as if bracing for a tidal wave, "just do what you have to do."

"All right, gonna wrap it now," I inform her, reaching for the athletic tape I always keep in my backpack. The tape unspools with a whisper, and with practiced hands, I secure her ankle, the black lines crisscrossing her skin in a pattern only those versed in sports injuries would appreciate.

"Wow, you're pretty good at this," Cassidy admits begrudgingly, watching the tape cocoon her injury.

"Thanks," I reply, trying not to let the compliment from my rival send a weird thrill through me. "Spent more time than I'd like to admit wrapping my own injuries back in high school. Guess it paid off."

"Guess so," she concedes, a shadow of respect flickering in her gaze.

I watch Cassidy's chest rise and fall with a deep breath, her lips parting as if she's about to spill secrets kept locked away for far too long. There's an unguarded look on her face, one I'm not used to seeing on the girl who always seemed untouchable.

"Lexi," she starts, the inflection of my name sounding like the beginning of a confession. "I can't be sidelined now, not when pro scouts could be watching. If I lose my spot because of this..." Her voice trails off, but her gaze is pleading, almost desperate.

"Hey," I say softly, squatting down to her level. "You're not going to lose your spot. You're the best they've got, and everyone knows it."

"It's not just about being the best. It's about staying the best." The vulnerability in her voice catches me off guard. "My parents... they have these expectations. And I've worked so hard, but the pressure, it's like—like I can never do enough, you know?"

"More than you think," I admit. It's true; growing up with a dad who coached hockey, I've felt that same relentless drive to meet expectations, to make him proud. "But sometimes, we put more pressure on ourselves than anyone else does. Your health is important, Cassidy. Without it, you can't meet any expectations, let alone your own."

She looks at me then, really looks at me, and I feel the weight of her scrutiny. "How do you do it? How do you keep pushing forward when everything seems to stack up against you?"

"By remembering why I started in the first place." My hand hovers over her taped ankle. "For the love of the game, right?"

"Right," she echoes, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you. For...this." She gestures to her ankle and then to her heart, a silent acknowledgment of the support beyond physical injuries.

"Anytime," I assure her, and I mean it. We may be from different worlds, Cassidy Harper and I, but in this moment, there's an understanding between us that goes beyond rivalries. "For what it's worth, I've seen you perform. You're not just coasting on your family's name."

"Thanks." She looks at me, and there's gratitude there, but also something else—something that makes my stomach do a weird little flip. I think of Noah again.

"Look," I continue, my voice steadier than I feel, "I know it's none of my business, but if you ever need to vent about the BS of competitive sports... I'm around."

"Are you offering to be my therapist?" Cassidy teases, though I detect a note of sincerity beneath her jest.

"Let's call it mutual commiseration. A solidarity thing."

"Solidarity," she repeats, testing the weight of the word between us.

"Solidarity," I confirm, with more conviction than I'd expected.

As she nods, there's an unspoken agreement—a truce of sorts—that blossoms in the space between us. And as we stand there in the quiet aftermath, I can't quite shake the feeling that this unexpected connection might just redefine the rules of the game.

If her boyfriend doesn’t tell her he’s falling for me, that is.