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I don’t even hear him come up behind me.

One second, I’m scribbling notes into Riley’s clipboard, and the next—his voice cuts straight through my spine.

“You think I should be benched?”

I freeze.

Slowly, I look up.

Slater Castellano. Closer than he should be. The hallway is empty, too narrow, and he’s blocking the only exit.

“Excuse me?” I try to keep my voice even, professional.

But he steps closer.

Now I can see the lines at the corners of his mouth, the faint bruise along his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. His gaze doesn’t waver.

“You said it yesterday. To Riley.”

“I—” My grip on the clipboard tightens. “That wasn’t my call. He asked for my observation.”

“You told him I’m hurt.”

“I told him you refused evaluation.”

His jaw twitches. “Which means you told my secret.”

“Your stride favors your right hip.”

“You’ve been watching me that closely?”

I don’t answer.

Because yes. I have. But not the way he’s implying.

“Do you want to know what happens when you tell my secrets?”

He steps into my space. Close enough that I catch the scent of sweat and cold metal. There’s an ache in his body, I can feel it in the way he leans—protective, like it costs him something just to stand still.

I lift my chin, heart pounding.

“I kept your secret. He tried to use me to get to you.” Let him swallow that one. “If you’re pushing through pain and hiding it, you’re a liability on the ice.”

Wrong thing to say.

His expression hardens, lips pressed flat. “You think they’ll keep you if I get benched?”

“What?” I stare into his eyes, confused by what that has to do with anything.

“You think you’re untouchable in this building?” he says, voice lower now. “One whisper from me and you’re out. Gone.”

That hits something low in my gut. Fear, sharp and sudden. He’s not yelling. He doesn’t have to. He’s using his height, his presence, his voice like a weapon.

And it’s working.

But I won’t fold.

“You don’t scare me,” I lie. He scares the hell out of me, but I’ve had it with arrogant men who think they run the world.

His eyes flick down my face. “No?”

His hand comes up—slow, deliberate. He presses it against the side of my neck, fingers warm and wide, wrapping around the space just under my jaw. Not tight. Just there.

My breath catches.

Is he going to choke me to make a point?

The hallway is silent, but my pulse is a drumbeat in my ears.

I grab his wrist—on instinct. Not to push him off. Just to remind him I’m fucking human.

“There it is,” he says, voice like gravel. “Now you’re listening.”

He steps in so close I have to tilt my chin to keep looking at him. His breath ghosts over my cheek.

“What are you so afraid of?” he asks.

“You,” I say, honestly this time. Maybe he wants to be feared and needs to hear it. I drop the ego and admit it because I don’t like his hands on me.

But I don’t drop his wrist. My fingers are still on his skin, and his thumb flexes against my neck like he’s thinking.

I speak again, voice tighter now. “You don’t want to be treated because you’re scared it’ll make you look weak.”

His grip tightens—not painfully, but enough that I feel the strength he’s barely restraining.

Hit a nerve.

“Maybe the pain’s making you angry,” I add, too quietly.

His nostrils flare. His eyes narrow.

“I could help you. Off the record. No one has to know.”

For one beat, his gaze holds mine.

Then he lets go.

Just like that, the heat drains away. He turns and walks off, not saying another word. Like I didn’t just offer him a lifeline. Like he didn’t have his hand on my throat.

My heart races out of control, panic overtaking me.

I lock myself in the bathroom and lean back against the door.

My fingers shake when I press them to my neck.

He didn’t hurt me.

But he could’ve.

I pull myself together. Wash my hands. Reapply my lip balm. Check my reflection until my face looks neutral again.

Then I finish the rest of my rotation like nothing happened.

I don’t go near Slater the rest of the day.

And he doesn’t look at me.

But I can feel the tension.

Coiled. Waiting.

The last time a man used his size to make a point, I didn’t have the option to walk away.

And now it’s happening again.

No, I tell myself. It’s not.

I’m not going to run again. I’m not going to lose this job over one confrontation. I’ve worked too hard to get here.

Stay out of his way. Do your job. Keep your head down.

That’s all this is.

By the time I step back into the training room, it’s buzzing with post-practice traffic. Half the players are sprawled across recovery stations. Music plays low. The smell of sweat and antiseptic hangs thick in the air.

Riley waves me over. “Back quad flush on number twenty-six. Then hot pack on the knee.”

Easy.

Routine.

Safe.

I get to work.

The player sprawled on the table—Jason Belinski, a right winger I vaguely recognize from practice—grins when I greet him.

“You’re the new PT, right?” he says.

“PTA. I’m Sage.”

“Right. You’ve got a good touch,” he adds with a wink. “Way better than Kyle. That guy massages like he’s kneading dough.”

I smile politely and keep my hands moving. The muscle tension is real, but manageable. Deep enough to need focus, but not complicated.

“So,” he says, voice easy, “where you from?”

“California.”

“Damn. Thought maybe you were local. You’ve got the vibe.”

“What vibe?”

He shrugs. “Chill. But you don’t take shit.”

I huff a breath—almost a laugh. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It is if you’ve met this team.”

I glance around the room. No sign of Slater.

And for the first time since he walked away, my shoulders drop. My chest expands.

Belinski keeps talking—something about how he’s going pro, how the rookies are annoying this year—and I let myself sink into the normalcy of it. The rhythm of conversation. The ease of a man who isn’t trying to intimidate or control.

Just a guy. Just a patient.

Just my job.

I can do this.

I’ve done it before.

This guy seems nice. I reassure myself he doesn’t have an ulterior motive, not everyone is out to get me.