4. Chapter 4

I'd figured it out. What my problem was. With Dr James Sullivan, PT, DPT. Kitty. Jamie. Whatever name was going to get the biggest rise from him.

It was a two-fold problem.

One: I was horny. Like teenager with a dirty mag horny.

I'd left Cavs in June after playoffs, where the only other out guy was Gus L?vgren. And while we"d bonded on both being the gay, weird Europeans, there was no attraction there. Sure, Gus was cute. When he wasn't cutting his Swedish blonde curls into mullets or growing moustaches simply to piss off one very specific person. But his sights were firmly set on that one specific person, and if I'd learned anything recently, it was that the feelings were mutual. So there had never been a chance of a drunken hookup between us.

Plus, Gus was … a lot. He was A Lot. Capital letters. More chaotic than me even. We would never have worked. He needed someone dark and brooding that could tame him and anchor him to the ice.

And it wasn't like I got a lot of action in Carson, either. Small hockey town, mostly hetero. Though the big cities were pretty close if I became desperate for a release.

But after playoffs, I flew straight back to England for six weeks. Six weeks in Bruton Willesbury!

The place had two pubs, a cafe, a post office, a bunch of quaint little shops that sold things like crystals, and novelty mugs, and aprons with dick jokes printed on the front, a playground, a church, a primary school, and that was it.

That was everything. Sure, Bristol was an hour's drive away, so my brothers and I did a couple of trips there, but I'd not hooked up either time with anyone. London was two and a half hours drive, but once you'd found somewhere to park, paid for the parking, paid the fucking inner city emissions charge, paid for the tube, paid through the arse for dinner, well, was it all worth it for a casual shag?

So I had gone six weeks with only my fist and fingers for comfort, and had arrived in Bringham not knowing anyone. Moving into a big, hollow shell of an apartment, with a landlord-slash-roommate who I never saw.

I did the maths. I hadn't had sex in over six months.

Six months without a good hard fuck. If I didn't sate this burning need to bone something soon, I was probably going to lose my mind.

But, I realised there was only one person I wanted this to happen with. I had all the apps. Had sex at my fingertips if I wanted it. Which I did. Like more than I could fathom. But the thought of taking some rando home just wasn't hitting it right.

Which led me onto the second portion of my two-fold problem.

Two: Jamie Sullivan, my new PT, was criminally, achingly hot. No other way to put it. I had not stopped thinking about him, or what I'd let him do to me, since I met him that first time.

Not the drunken shitshow I was the very first time we met at The Lounge. But the time after, in his office.

He was a great big mountain of grumpiness, with magic fucking hands, that I wanted everywhere all over me, all at once.

I also realised he would never let this happen. He was a consummate professional. Dedicated. Passionate. A little overzealous perhaps. There was no way he would risk everything he'd built up for a quick fumble with the dorky British kid, who, he made perfectly clear, annoyed the living shit out of him.

But I am nothing if not very fucking persistent. And I Googled it. It wasn't against the rules, or the code of conduct or anything, for a player to be intimately involved with the team's PT. It wasn't even against my contract. I read the whole thing twice.

So, technically, he could fuck me. If he so wanted. And it wouldn't jeopardise his career. Or mine, because I still cared about that.

I needed to get it out of my system, clear my head—pun intended—because if I didn't do it soon, it was going to start affecting my game. All I thought about was Jamie Jamie Jamie. Those arms, that massive barrel of a chest, that precisely manicured stubble, the curve of his upper lip, his fingers. Those perfect, long, tanned, powerful fingers. I had wasted many an hour imagining exactly how those fingers might unravel me. When really, I should've been thinking about training camp in a few weeks, then practice and preseason games.

Which I could do—absolutely would do—as soon as I'd mounted Dr Sullivan. Preferably, on his special doctor's table.

And, not being big-headed, but he was into me, too. He just didn't want to admit it. He probably wasn't looking for anything serious, which was … good. It was good. Because neither was I. I think.

But I got the impression that Jamie was a guy with a lot of pent-up frustrations. His brow was always furrowed, his jaw always clenched, and if he didn't stop grinding his molars, all that beautiful American dentistry would've been for nothing.

He could do with the release just as much as I could.

We had been scrimmaging all morning and most of the afternoon, and it was all going great-ish until Aaron called it off to get lunch.

"MacKenzie's getting hangry, and Bowie's mind's clearly on his stomach," he'd said. I didn't bother to correct him, to tell him where my thoughts had really been.

"Shit, you should have seen MacKenzie's face when you dangled him at the blue line," Zac said to me, playfully pushing his ride or die, Aaron, aside to drape his arm over my shoulders as we bundled off the ice and walked down the short, padded corridor to the locker room.

"I would pay good money to see that again," said Aaron, stealing back his bestie by grabbing him and pinning him against the wall with his hips. He butted their helmets together.

I pulled my own helmet off and shook out my sweaty hair.

Rowan shoulder checked me lightly, his face all hot, angry caveman. "Only reason you've still got your teeth is because you're on my team now."

"Cheers for that," I said, heaping on the Britishness like sugar into burnt coffee. "Never let it be said that you, Rowan MacKenzie, are not the kindest, most considerate man in all of North America."

Rowan laughed and punched my bicep.

"Those two." I motioned my head backwards to Aaron and Zac still play-fighting—play-fucking?—by the gate. "They together?"

Rowan shot them a glance and offered me a knowing smile as we crossed into the locker room. He made a noncommittal "Meh" sound and pulled his shoulders up. "Aaron's straight."

The look on Rowan's face belied just how much he believed in that statement. I followed him to his cubby because I could tell he had more to say on the matter.

Rowan punched his locker open. Huh, people actually did that. "Aaron's the prom king type, right? Well, he had this highschool girlfriend, until about two, three years ago. They were together for about a decade. He proposed. Probably because everyone expected him to, but she said no. Moved to Arizona or some shit to be with another guy."

"That's shit," I offered helplessly.

Rowan shrugged again, sat on the bench and started hacking at his laces. "Think it was one of those ‘over before it's over' type of relationships. He wasn't too beat up about it."

"Zac helped him heal?" I said in a wink-wink nudge-nudge way.

Rowan caught his smile between his teeth and raised his eyebrows. "They've been friends since middle school. Apparently, that's why they're so close. Pretty sure Zac wants something more than friends, but we're all just sort of waiting for Aaron to—" He cut himself off as the pair in question barrelled into the locker room, helmets in one hand.

"Who are you two gossiping about?" Aaron said, sliding into the cubby next to Rowan.

"The doc," Rowan said without missing a beat.

"Right, you and Sul have some sort of"—Aaron looked at me—"unresolved sexual tension."

Rowan smoothed out his top lip with his forefinger and thumb as though he was flattening a smile.

"Yeah, what's going on with you two?" Zac asked. He'd pulled his jersey and shoulder pads off and was now stripping away his black base layer.

I played it cool. Totally chill. So fucking chill. "He's just soooooo hot."

Way to go, Archie.

"I mean," JJ chimed in from across the locker room, "I have a wife and three kids and even I know the doc is a good-looking man."

"Right?" I whined. I started unlacing my skates. "He told me not to go back to his office unless I have an actual injury."

"And how many ‘injuries' have you had so far?" Rowan asked, doing air quotes.

I puffed out my cheeks. "Oh, about six. He didn't buy my hamstring sprain, or when I said I pulled my … these ones." I pointed to my side.

"Obliques?" Aaron said.

"Yeah those. And he said it was impossible to fracture my glutes." I rolled my eyes dramatically. "He just gives me a nice massage and tells me to go to one of the other massage therapists next time."

"But you don't?" Zac asked.

"Of course not." I wasn't about to miss out on an opportunity to have Kitty's hands on me.

"You know he can just reschedule your appointments on their PT system, or whatever it is. Like your massages and stuff. Give them to one of the other techs. He does it with me and Zac all the time," Aaron added.

"And me," Rowan said.

"Me too," JJ and Rainer both said in unison.

"So he doesn't have to see me?" I asked, comprehension slowly drawing up around me like a mini personal tornado. "He could just pass me off to someone else?"

"There's a woman," Aaron continued. "Chloe. She's head of"—he waved a hand vaguely—"sports massage or something. She always does me. She's amazing, by the way. Better than Sul. He's all pointy thumbs and annoying questions about how much fluid you're drinking."

"But why? Why doesn't he just reschedule me with Chloe?"

As soon as I asked the question, I wanted to reel it back in. I sounded like a teenager with a crush. I felt like a teenager with a crush. Okay, fine, I was a teenager with a crush. But I didn't want the other lads answering it for me, even though I sort of already knew.

"Good thing you're so pretty," Rowan said, ruffling my sweaty hair.

I shoved him off. Most of the guys took this as their cue to strike up other conversations, and I was glad when none of them decided to pursue that topic.

"So, like, why's Jamie such a miserable bloke?" I asked Rowan, my words not quite a whisper but definitely hushed.

Rowan stripped off his socks and stood to pull his shorts down. He took a deep breath. "I think he feels trapped. In hockey. Maybe."

No … that made no sense.

"But he is hockey? He loves this sport, no?"

A few nights ago, while I was on the sofa, eating tacos—because when in America, eat Mexican food, right?—and watching Monsters, Inc., my phone had bing-bonged. I usually ignored it because it was only TopTier, the dating app I'd reinstalled when I got back to the USA and hadn't bothered to open since.

Now, I'd be the first to admit that I looked cute in my profile pic. I wasn't wearing my hockey gear, I wanted to keep things anonymous, but it was a topless gym selfie, obviously. Taken in the mirror of the Cavs' locker room. If anyone was looking closely enough, they might make out the gold feather of the knight's helmet on the floor. But nobody ever seemed to notice that. Because the muscles and the blonde hair and the fuck-me smile were the things that generally caught a guy's eye.

Needless to say, I got a lot of matches. Like a lot. And I'd become semi accustomed to dismissing them with little consideration.

But that day, when I was watching Sully and Mike and Boo, and eating my Chalupa Supreme, and thinking about Jamie and making myself unjustifiably aroused considering my chosen entertainment, something told me to open the notification.

And there he was, as though I'd willed him into existence. James Sullivan, SuperDoc. Staring up at me from his tiny five centimetre by five centimetre profile pic. Not smiling, of course he wasn't smiling, but he looked … relaxed in a way he'd never been around me. I had a momentary pang of jealousy for whoever he was with at the time, whoever had taken the picture, because it was definitely no posed selfie.

It was a head and shoulders shot. His eyes were slightly squinted against the sun. His brows slightly furrowed, and his mouth parted just a teeny amount. Almost as if he were about to say, "What?"

He held a giant sub-style sandwich in his hands. It was missing a few bites, so at the very least, I knew he ate human food and didn't feed off the souls of his enemies. The best thing about the photo was the tiny sliver of bare arm right at the bottom before it cropped out. I couldn't be sure, and it was probably shadows anyway, but it looked as though buttoned up Dr Perfect had a tattoo.

Of course, I instantly opened his profile and memorised everything. Favourite colour: Green. Sure. Favourite type of music: Rock. Snorlax, but on brand. Favourite place to vacation: Europe. Could always introduce him to the fam whilst on our holidays. Karaoke song: Gotye. I mean, I couldn't picture it, but that still didn't stop it from being cute. Favourite sport: Hockey. Duh.

I'd sent him a few messages. Jamie hadn't replied. If I was being honest with myself, I didn't expect him to. But every time I got a DM that wasn't from him, something heavy sank lower and lower in my chest.

Rowan's words bounced around in my head. I think he feels trapped. In hockey.

So then, why had Jamie said his favourite sport was hockey? There was nothing else on his profile that eluded to his career. It wasn't as though he was doing it to stay professional.

It just seemed weird, even for a man I knew little about. Why say he liked hockey if he felt trapped by it? There had to be other sports he liked, or other things in general. Surely? What about football? Or basketball? What was the other one … baseball?

There were other things. Of course there were other things. I knew he liked the colour grey, for example, and washing his hands, and scowling, and buttoning his cuffs, not rolling his shirt-sleeves up over his forearms even though I'd had very specific and elaborate fantasies about how perfectly thick and corded they appeared to be.

And he liked the rain (probably) and kicking orphans (also probably) and not fucking me. And he undoubtedly liked boring movies, like art house ones that were actually two-hour-long acid-induced perfume ads. And I expect he had a lint roller he was on first-name terms with. And he'd most likely, and more than once I suspected, been visited by ghosts of Christmases Past, Present, and Yet to Come.

He probably hated Monsters, Inc. Or worse still, never watched it. Dismissed it as childish nonsense.

Oh, my God, what if he'd never seen Shrek?!

But he does like you,a tiny hopeful voice in my head told me. Otherwise he would have just palmed you off with any old available massage therapist.

There was truth in that. Or at least, I wanted there to be truth in that. So maybe he liked me, I didn't know. But he loved hockey. That much, I was sure of. Down to the marrow of my bones. Down to the marrow of his bones.

It was something else. The root cause of this chronic grumpiness. Not hockey, but something much deeper.

"I'm gonna hit the showers. You coming? I've got an appointment with the doc in half an hour," I said. One the doc had deliberately, or not deliberately and I was reading too much into it, left un-rescheduled.

"Sure," Rowan replied. "So, what injury you got this time?"

I shrugged. "Maybe a hernia?" I said, to which Rowan let out a huge snort of laughter.

I was doing us both a favour.

This was what I told myself, anyway, as for the seventh time in two weeks, I headed to Jamie's office with yet another self-diagnosed ‘injury'.

"Where's the problem now?" Dr Perfect said, after I let myself into his office.

"No, hello? No, how are you, Bowie? No, I missed you. Come give Kitty a kiss?" Without invitation, I stripped my shirt off and hopped up onto his table. "Well, I missed you too. It's my adductor muscles."

"Your groin?" Jamie tucked one hand on his hip, crossed his feet at the ankles, and leant back against his desk. "Again, Bowman?"

"Mmhmm," I said, inching the waistband of my gym shorts down a fraction, revealing that little V of muscle I'd worked so hard on. Jamie raked a hand down his face, and a victorious jolt travelled up my spine. "Think it might be a hernia."

"A hernia?" he repeated. He inspected the back of his hand, fingers splayed, and picked out something from the corner of his nail. He was getting better at this whole ignore Bowie, pretend like he doesn't give me a raging hard-on, hide how much I'm into it deal.

It meant that I needed to up the ante. "Why don't you come over here and examine the affected area?"

"There's nothing wrong with you, Bowman."

"What if there is, though? And you miss the signs, and I have actually got a hernia, and I end up missing the season because you didn't take me seriously?"

Jamie's half-smile dropped faster than Rowan MacKenzie's gloves. I'd hit a nerve. Somehow. He went from affected boredom/slightly amused, to about to use his angry dad voice. I braced myself for the impact. But Jamie immediately fixed his face into the passive, done-with-my-shit default expression he always wore.

"You're right," he said, closing the gap between us. "We absolutely cannot have you suffering because of an oversight on my part. I wouldn't want to throw away someone else's hockey career."

Something about the words he'd said, or how he'd said them, rang like a hollow bell in my chest.

"Shorts off, Bowman."

"Uh …" I spluttered, my earlier bravado nowhere to be seen.

"No need to be shy. Shorts off. You can leave your underwear on." His expression was flat, deadpan, but there was an edge to his voice I couldn't quite place. "If you're going to come to my office with a suspected hernia, you can bet your chirpy British ass I'm going to take it seriously."

My brain came up with the responding quip. But my mouth didn't utter it. Something along the way filtered it. Stopped it from making its way out. So instead, I scooted my shorts down my legs, and tried, with all my might, not to feel completely swallowed by the swelling wave of shame.

Except I didn't fully understand what I'd said to trigger the change. He was a grumpy, serious person anyway. I was used to grumpy, serious Jamie. Would normally be doing everything in my power to poke the bear, or Debbie the rottweiler. But this time, his grumpy seriousness felt different. Somehow more real. And I felt as though perhaps, sometimes, Debbie ought not be poked.

"Okay, lie down," Jamie said.

I obeyed, and lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling. Jamie crossed the room, and I heard, rather than saw, him washing his hands in the little sink. He tore paper towels from the dispenser and opened the step-open waste bin with such force it sounded like a cymbal crashing against the wall.

"Which side?" Jamie said, reappearing near my feet.

It was as though I had floated outside of my body and was now looking down upon my pasty, prone ass spread out on Jamie's bench. I had the sudden realisation of how dickish I was being. I should have admitted I was lying. Just messing him around like always. I was so sure that he'd brush me aside. I should have apologised for wasting his time—because, let's face it, that had been my plan—jumped off his table, excused myself, and hit the weights room with the rest of the team. And never bothered the doctor again. Pulled up TopTier on my phone and got this itch scratched by someone else.

By someone I wouldn't bump into at every training session.

And … God forbid, what if I got a proper injury? I wasn't sure I could handle the sheer mortification.

But I couldn't bring myself to tell the full truth. Which was absurd. Jamie knew the truth, it was written all over my pallid, sweaty face.

"Actually, it's probably nothing," I said instead. "Don't worry about it. I'll just … Can I have a massage instead?"

"Now, now." Jamie raised a brow. "What kind of PT would I be if I ignored your complaint?"

"But I'm sure I'm fine. I'll be right as rain in no time."

Jamie crossed over to his desk, picked up a clipboard. "Do you want me to examine you or not?" Yes. No. Please? "Because I can refer you to one of the other massage therapists."

"No, I don't want …" I didn't want what? To be referred to someone else? To admit the truth? To give up my Bowie bravado and tell Jamie out loud that I liked him, and more than anything, I just wanted him to think of me as someone he could see himself liking too.

"One way or another, we address every complaint. So, would you like me to refer you?"

I cleared my throat. Tried to muster my earlier nonchalance. "No."

I expected an eye roll, a huffed out breath, but what I got was a smile. A pinched one, as though the mighty Jamie was attempting to hold back his mirth. He came to stand on my right side.

"I apologise if my hands are cold." He paused once again, waiting for my consent. Which I gave with a pained expression and a tiny nod. If he was calling my bluff, I realised, he might have been even better at this than being a super-serious doctor.

And then Jamie plunged his fingers under the waistband of my pants, right between my hip and my dick.

"Oh, God," I choked out. The coolness of the contact, the skin on skin, the shock that he'd actually gone through with the examination, and I was finally, thoroughly lost for words.

Of course he'd gone through with it. He was a pro. The pro-iest pro I'd ever met. And I'd been a total twatwaffle. Every time I was in his presence. Why was I the way I was?

I tried not to cant my hips, arch into his touch, whine. Because it shouldn't have felt good. Not with the sliceable tension between us, or this weird funk I'd somehow tossed Jamie into.

But fuck, it felt so—

No, it was wrong. So, so wrong. So very fucking wrong.

And … right … and … No, it wasn't right. But it was so right. Oh, God.

It started slowly. Like an airbed being slept on overnight, but in reverse. Little Bowie twitched once, twice, began changing direction, making a U-turn. Luckily, on the other side of Jamie's fingers.

His eyes flitted towards my face. His lips pulled taut as though holding himself back from laughing, and he stopped his examination. He pretended like he hadn't noticed my cock filling itself with blood only millimetres from his fingertips.

"Nothing seems to be amiss." His voice was a little squeakier than its usual husky tenor. "Would you like me to check the other side?"

Yes. "No?" I said, phrasing my answer as a question.

He permitted himself one fleeting glance at the blaring beacon now threatening to bust through the waistband of my boxers. His eyes flashed wide for a millisecond before he pulled his gaze to my, no doubt, beetroot red face.

"Would you like a breather?" he said.

And then I don't know what came over me. Perhaps it was the unbridled humiliation coursing through my veins. Perhaps it was that I'd realised the tables had turned, and I was now Debbie the rottweiler and Jamie was young Archie Bowman with a stick. Or maybe it was the glint in his eye. A flash of something new. A challenge? Something fun and playful that I hadn't seen on him before.

I broke first. My laughter came out as a massive pig-like snort. I needed to sit up, to breathe, but right then, it wasn't a possibility. Through blurry, tear-logged eyes, I saw Jamie double over. The table shook as his laughter, deep and melodic and fucking wonderful, reverberated through it.

It took a while for us to regain our composure. Every time I wiped my cheeks dry and caught his eye again, the giggles would start anew.

Eventually, we both released sighs. Jamie stood towering over the bed once more.

And would you look at that! My erection was gone.

Jamie raised a single brow at me. Laughter lines still ghosting his beautiful face.

"Fine," I said. "You win that round, Dr Sullivan."

He licked his finger and drew a ‘one' line in the air. Then, he handed me my shorts, but not my shirt. "Okay, Bowman, let me be serious for a sec."

"Hmm, are you sure you can pull it off?" I slipped my feet into my shorts, lifted my ass up, and pulled them all the way on. At least now if I got another boner, there'd be one more layer to hide it behind. "That whole serious vibe … it's not really your jam, is it?"

"Aaaaand he's back."

"Sure, okay." I leant on my elbows so I could keep this new smiling, adorable Jamie in my sights. "I'll let you be serious. Just this once, though. Don't want you getting any long-term ideas."

"Bowman," Jamie began.

"Nope, I changed my mind. I don't like where this is going."

He perched himself on the edge of the table and smiled, softly, as though underneath all the professionalism, he truly cared, not only about the team, or the game, or being really fucking incredible at his job, but about me. Bowie. The silly Brit with no filter. The guy who'd made repeated and unsuccessful—until five minutes ago—attempts to get Jamie's hands down his pants. Like there was a reason he wouldn't let me leave without being checked out. Even if he was ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine-nine-nine recurring percent sure I'd been faking it.

"You can't keep coming in here with fake injuries." His voice had taken on a gentle-parenting edge. He was letting me know I wasn't in trouble. "You're wasting my time. You're wasting your own time. And what happens when you have a real injury? You come into my office and I don't believe you. I don't want you throwing away your dream like that. Our relationship"—I sat up a little straighter, and Jamie tugged at his open shirt collar—"as PT and patient, can only work if there is absolute trust and honesty between us. So as fun as this entire game has been, it's time to stop playing."

As fun as this entire game has been.

That was the bit my brain chose to focus on.

He dug it. My prancing around his office like one of those fancy exotic birds with pretty feathers that David Attenbrough talked about. I knew there was a reason Jamie hadn't kicked me out of here.

Instead of bringing it up, I tipped my head up again to look at the ceiling. Realising, for the first time, how close to naked I was.

"So," Jamie said. "Honesty, yeah?"

I blew out a breath. "Sounds boring, but okay."

"Tell me what's up with your shoulder, then."

I sat bolt upright on the couch and stared at him. How did he know?

"I'm a PT," he said, as though reading my thoughts. "It's my job to notice these things. Did you think you could hide your twitch before every face off? Or how, when you take off your shirt, you favour your right side? Or the way you flinch when my fingers hit that area?"

"It's nothing," I said, putting as much off-handedness into my voice as I could muster. "Old injury."

"How old?"

I shrugged. I couldn't let him know the full details. The fact that over the summer I'd practically forgotten about the injury, yet since arriving back in America and spending more time on the ice and in the weights room, it had been getting incrementally more painful. Nothing too bad. I could ignore it if I needed to. It wasn't so bothersome that it affected my game in any way. But my shrug was more asymmetrical than I'd have liked. And Jamie had clocked it.

"How old, Bowman, and how did it happen?"

I stopped myself from huffing like a petulant teenager. "I don't know, about ten, eleven months ago. And I don't remember it happening, I just remember one time in the showers it felt … different."

Jamie ran a hand down his face. "You skated an entire season with an injured shoulder." It wasn't a question, more a horrified statement of fact. "Bowie, come on. Don't you have any self preservation?"

Apparently not, because my brain fixated on the use of my nickname. Bowie. Not Bowman.

"I didn't want to risk being benched," I said to my lap.

He was on his feet, pacing. "Fuck, kid. You wanna be benched for life? Does it hurt to hold a stick?"

Jamie took the answer directly from my silence. "It's okay, it's okay," he said, and I couldn't be sure whether he was talking to me or himself. "I'm going to refer you for some tests. An MRI, maybe an x-ray, and we'll see what we're working with here. That's all. I'll draw you up a recovery schedule. You might miss training camp. Maybe preseason, too."

"No," I said, finally finding my voice. "I can't. I need to play. I … what will … I …"

I couldn't comprehend the thought of not playing. I needed to play. I needed to stay here, in America, on this fucking team, playing the sport I was made to play. Not traded, or deported, or whatever would happen to me.

"Listen." Jamie placed his hand on my upper arm. I wasn't able to meet his eyes, so I stared at the point where our bodies made contact. Heat licked up my shoulder and down to my fingers. "You'll get through this. I'll explain everything to Turner—"

"No. Please don't tell Coach—"

"Bowie, they won't bench you for missing one teeny training camp, okay? I've seen you play. Nobody is benching you. You're"—he shot a glance towards the doorway as though someone might be hanging around eavesdropping—"you're one of the best players I've seen in … in my whole career. But we need to fix this now, before it ruins yours."

I lifted my eyes to his.

"Please," he said, his fingers digging into my tricep. I doubted he knew he was doing it.

After a few moments, I nodded.

Jamie mirrored my nod. "I'll tell Turner today, and as soon as we get your test results, I'll start work on your recovery programme."

I had nothing to say. I wanted to cry, and I wanted to thank him for caring. For being the first person ever to put me before the game, before everyone's expectations of me. Including mine.

But instead, I lay back on the couch, and rolled over onto my side. Ignoring the way my shoulder screamed its objections.