NAOMI’S POV
He showed up at my door smelling like ice and ibuprofen.
Didn't knock the way he usually did – two hard raps, the impatience of a man who expected doors to open because he existed on the other side of them. This was different. One knock. Soft. The knock of someone who wasn't sure he was welcome and was giving me the chance to pretend I wasn't home.
I opened it. He was leaning against the doorframe with his bag over one shoulder and his weight shifted to the left side – favouring his right ribs, which meant something had happened to the left ones. His knuckles were still raw from the equipment room door. Scabbed over but not healed, the skin pink and tight in a way that would scar. And blooming across his left shoulder, visible where his t-shirt collar shifted, a bruise the c
