Post-game, the treatment room is quieter than the arena outside.
Mia works through the shoulder assessment methodically—range of motion, muscle response, the scar tissue that's been her primary concern for weeks. It holds. Everything holds.
She exhales without meaning to make a sound.
"Good recovery," she says, noting it in the file. "You followed the protocol this time. If you drink tonight and feel any stiffness in the joint, contact me immediately." She's already reaching for her pen. "And one more thing—"
His hand closes around her forearm.
Not a grip—more like a question, his palm warm against her skin, the calluses she knows by touch now.
She goes still.
He can wrap his whole hand around her arm, he thinks. How is she this small and this relentless at the same time.
"Thank yo
