Page 13

I shouldn’t be here.

Eight o’clock.

He said eight.

I’d told Riley about the offer, half-joking, trying to feel out if I could back away from this quietly. But Riley’s face had gone serious fast.

“If a player prefers to do private rehab, that’s his prerogative. We don’t argue with clients.”

Then he added, “If you’re not comfortable, I’ll go.”

That’s when I’d backpedaled. Said I didn’t know if Slater meant it seriously, that he’d probably just been messing with me. Being a prick.

Riley nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t buying it.

So now I’m here.

Sitting in my car, regretting every career choice I’ve ever made.

I should have learned from the situation with Tyler, but it seems like I really get myself into these situations. My heart jumps as memories of that night cross my mind.

Shit.

Why can’t I just forget it?

I need to––

A knock on the window shatters my thoughts.

I flinch so hard I hit the side of my head on the glass. “Jesus!”

I roll the window down. Slater leans down, hoodie pulled low, mouth curled in a smirk.

“You still have time to turn around.” He points behind the car.

My heart is still hammering. “I’m here to work on your hip.”

He pulls the door open, steps back. “Bet you can’t wait to get your hands on me.”

I climb out, grab my small case from the back seat. “If I didn’t come, Riley would’ve shown up instead. And it’s him who wants to touch you. Not me.”

He lets the gate close behind us. Doesn’t laugh, but he’s smiling.

“You told him?” he says, glancing at me sideways.

“I told him what you offered.”

“I thought you were smarter than that.”

I look at him directly. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Slater’s house is big. Sleek and quiet. Modern, but not in that sterile way. The floors are dark. The walls a stormy gray. The air smells like cedar and something more subtle beneath it—warm, masculine.

I don’t comment on any of it.

He doesn’t show me around, just leads me down a hallway and into a guestroom.

No decor. No clutter. One bed. A single nightstand. No mirror. The windows are shuttered.

This room isn’t prepped for company. This room sits empty.

I set the case down on the floor, unzip it. He doesn’t move until I nod for him.

“Hoodie off. Shoes too. Lay back.”

He pulls his hoodie off without a word, lets it fall to the floor.

My fingers stay calm, even as I catch the outline of his dick pressed thick against his shorts. Loose and big and obvious.

He lays back on the bed. Arms behind his head. Watching me.

I press lightly at his hip. “Pain here?”

“No.”

I move lower, into the groin attachment. His cock is an inch away under the fabric.

“Nothing?”

“No.”

I check the iliac crest, the abductor, the IT band.

Nothing.

He just watches me.

“Castellano,” I say, finally meeting his gaze. “You want to play silent, that’s fine. But I can’t fix what you won’t tell me.”

“You’re good with your hands,” he says. “Figure it out.”

My jaw tics. I press harder. The muscle jumps under my palm, and his thigh flexes.

Still, he doesn’t flinch.

But his pulse at his neck—yeah, it jumps.

I shift the leg into a stretch, ankle on my shoulder, both hands around his thigh.

His breath hitches just slightly.

“You need to be honest,” I murmur. “Or this is pointless.”

He holds my gaze. “What makes you think I want to be fixed?”

His eyes are still locked on mine, and the tension in the room thickens until it feels like the walls shift around it. But I keep my voice even.

“Pain is a motivator. I get it.” I check the angle of his hip again, thumb pressing lightly into a tight band of tissue. “But it’s also a warning system. Keep ignoring it and your body will burn out. You’ll compensate. One wrong hit and you’ll be done. It’s basic biomechanics.”

“Pain keeps me going,” he says. Flat. No apology in it.

I let go of his leg and take a step back.

“Then I’m done here.”

His jaw shifts, just barely.

“I’ll tell Riley you canceled. That I never came.”

He exhales hard through his nose but says nothing.

I reach down for my case.

“Try again,” he says.

It’s not a request.

I stare at him for a second before setting the case down. He leans back again, arms sprawled, that same unreadable mask back on his face. Like he doesn’t care if I touch him or walk out the door.

I lift his leg again.

“Tell me when you feel anything. Anything at all.”

The muscle is tighter now, coiled with tension.

When I push into the flexion, he finally says, “There.”

I adjust. Rotate his hip slightly outward, test the lateral range.

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

I keep my face composed. My fingers press gently around the joint, taking in the resistance, the way it wants to guard.

“You’re showing signs of a hip impingement,” I say calmly. “Could be labral irritation. It needs daily work. Consistency. You might recover with time—or you could need surgery. I’m not a walking MRI, so I can’t determine that, but we can lessen the pain as much as possible. Okay?”

He scoffs. “I’m not going to lay limp on some table while you tell me to do clamshells and baby stretches.”

“That’s my professional opinion,” I say. “You can take it or leave it.”

I set his leg down, start gathering my tools. No more time to waste. I need to get the hell out of here.

But when I turn toward the door, I feel his hand close around mine.

Firm. Not hard. But immovable.

My gut clenches.

Shit.

I try to pull free, but he uses that moment to tug—sharp and fast—pulling me between his legs. The bed creaks beneath him.

His gaze pins me. “What’s your problem?”

My heart knocks in my chest at the proximity, but I keep my tone cool.

“My problem is that I had to come here for something that would take five minutes at work. Coming here was a bad idea.”

A flicker crosses his face, too quick to read.

“But you came anyway?” he says. Voice low, cruel.

I snatch my hand back and square my shoulders. “I’m here because Riley was going to come in my place.”

He smirks. “Bullshit.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I seethe.

He leans in with a cocky expression. “Don’t need to.”

I pause, narrowing my eyes. “Then stop acting like you do.”

There’s a beat. His expression shifts, darkens—not with anger, exactly, but something heavier.

I swallow down the adrenaline tightening my throat. The pinch of my nerves. The memory of Tyler and Marcus’s hands on me, making me bite out a reaction. “Let go of whatever the hell you think this is and let me do my job… Or don’t. I don’t care anymore.”

He doesn’t stop me when I back away this time.

But his stare follows me all the way to the door.

Like he’s already decided that this game is far from over.