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Chapter nine

Katarina

T hey say no news is good news. Personally? No Liam, is better news.

Today’s actually been tolerable. Three players down.

No one tried to call Red Bull a recovery strategy, or called intermittent fasting a “vibe.” Jake, our backup goalie, showed me his snack rotation spreadsheet this morning.

I’m talking full color-coding, macro breakdowns, even timed alerts.

Like he’s prepping to launch snacks into orbit.

I mean, great for him—makes my job easier—but Jesus.

I wasn’t ready for a PowerPoint presentation before coffee.

Sean attempted a TED Talk on carbs—bless his heart—and Aiden just stared at his protein bar like it cheated on him.

Honestly, A+ effort. not a bad showing. I almost let myself feel hopeful.

And then I see his name on my clipboard, and all that goodwill dies in a ditch.

Liam Steele

AKA: Captain of the Parking Lot Meltdown. The six-foot-something storm cloud who accused me of insurance fraud because I didn’t telepathically see him reversing his over bloated sports car like he was auditioning for Fast & Furious, Dumbass Edition.

And now he’s on my schedule.

Of course it’s him.

Because the universe clearly hates me.

I barely have time to slap together the mental equivalent of a hazmat suit before the door swings open like it’s got something to prove.

I don’t look up yet. I already know it’s him—I can feel the smug wafting in.

Then I hear it.

That voice. The one that called me reckless and dramatic like he wasn’t the one throwing a full-blown parking lot tantrum last month. Low. Confident. Just this side of arrogant.

“Doc?”

My eyes snap up.

He’s standing in the doorway, all broad shoulders, perfectly tousled hair, and a look on his face like I’m the surprise in this scenario.

He blinks.

I blink back.

And unfortunately, he’s still hot. I hate that about him. Like, actively resent it. His jawline should be illegal. His whole face should come with a warning label.

“Liam,” I manage, forcing my voice into something that sort of resembles professional. “Yeah. Just… take a seat.”

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out… Awesome. Great. Real smooth, Kat. Maybe next time lead with a scowl and throw in a clipboard for effect.

One eyebrow lifts—cocky, amused.

“Lets Get this done.”

“Right, did you bring your nutrition, log” I mumble, flipping through papers I don’t need just to avoid making eye contact again.

“Yup. Totally. That tracks.”

He drops into the chair across from me like he’s settling in for happy hour instead of a mandated session with the one person in the organization who remembers him cursing me out.

This is going to be fun.

Liam ignores the question like it’s beneath him, his energy takes up half the room His shoulders take up the rest.

“Sorry I’m late. Team stuff.”

He’s not sorry. His tone’s too casual. Like showing up late to a mandatory session with the team nutritionist is just an option.

“It’s fine,” I say, voice flat. No inflection. No smile. Let my silence do the heavy lifting.

“I’ve been meeting with the the other players this week and that’s one of the most important parts for me to keep your health on track. Make sense to you?Let’s get started.”

I don’t wait for a response.I dive into my clipboard like it’s a shield.

“I’ve reviewed your intake logs from your last team—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he cuts in, flippant. “Probably wasn’t eating clean enough. But I know what I’m doing. I’ve been doing this a while.”

I look up slowly. “You mean…being alive?”

He grins.

Thanks I don’t.

“I’m a pro athlete. I lift. I train. I eat.”

“You exist. Congrats.”

I lean in slightly, tone sharp enough to file nails with. “But I’m not here to applaud your metabolism. I’m here to make sure you don’t collapse on the ice because you think protein bars are a food group.”

He smirks, slow and self-satisfied. “So...you do think I’m strong.”

Oh for the love of—

“Strength means nothing if your blood sugar tanks mid-shift. You wanna be impressive? Try consistency.”

He leans back like this is entertaining. It’s not. For me.

“Consistency’s boring.”

“So is being benched for a cramp because you ‘forgot’ to eat lunch.”

He laughs, and it’s a whole thing. Rich, deep, easy. And suddenly my chest’s doing this fluttery thing I didn’t approve. I cross my arms tighter.

“Didn’t expect you to bite back.”

“I don’t bite. I correct.”

“Sure.” He cocks his head. “You’re feisty for someone who drives a Civic.”

“And you’re arrogant for someone who can’t remember to hydrate.” I snap.

He raises both hands. “Alright. I get it. You don’t do bullshit.”

“Glad that’s registering.”

A pause stretches, but he doesn’t fill it with more ego. Just watches me, more curious than cocky now. I don’t like it. It feels…personal.

“Okay,” he says, finally. “I’ll play along. What’s the plan?”

“You eat, like a real person. Not just shakes and shitakes. Track your meals honestly for seven days. Then we meet again.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you can explain to Coach why your performance nosedived after your diet became a science experiment.”

“You’d rat me out?”

“I’d report facts. Not my fault if the truth is inconvenient.”

He laughs again.

“You really don’t care if people like you, tank my entire career, huh?”

“Not part of the job description.”

“And what is part of the job?”

“Keeping you upright. Conscious. Ideally less of a jerk, but I’ll take what I can get.”

He stands, and somehow the room shrinks again, like he brought the tension with him and now it’s taking up all the oxygen.

At the door, he pauses. Doesn’t look back, just says, “For what it’s worth... I’m glad it’s you.”

Then he’s gone. What the fuck just happened?

Liam Steele was supposed to be exactly what he’s always been—an over-hyped headache with abs and an anger management problem. Griffin warned me.

“Watch your back with that one. He’s an explosion waiting to happen.” He’s not wrong… I survived the parking lot incident.

I’ve got the trauma—to prove it.

So no—he wasn’t supposed to walk in here, flash some almost-charm, and leave me blinking like I just got sideswiped by a grizzly bear in cologne.

But there he was, trying on decency like it fit. Like he hadn’t practically accused me of vehicular manslaughter because he couldn’t use his mirrors. And now I’m sitting here, staring at the door like it’s going to swing back open and give me answers.

It doesn’t.

My phone buzzes.

Griffin :

You meet that dirty fucker yet?

I don’t answer. Because the thing is… I did. And he didn’t growl. Or break something. Or accuse me of putting voodoo in his supplements. He said he was glad it was me.

Like it meant something…Like he wasn’t supposed to be the worst part of my day.

He was supposed to be a one-and-done annoyance. Not... whatever this was.

And I hate that it landed. Even for a second.

Shit.