1. Jinx
CHAPTER ONE
Jinx
I carefully smooth the last piece of bright blue Kinesio tape over Brooks’s muscular thigh, pressing each edge down firmly with my fingers to ensure it adheres properly.
“There. That should help keep things stable, but you need to be doing your stretches every day, got it?” I emphasize, looking him in the eyes.
The guy nods, his eyes darting away, and I can already tell from the restless way he shifts in his seat that he’s going to conveniently forget half of what I just said.
Typical.
An exhale escapes through my nose, a stiff sigh of resignation, and I tilt my head toward the expansive window of my office. Beyond the glass, the rink unfolds, its ice glowing white under the overhead lights.
The smooth, glassy surface is gently marred by faint skate marks from earlier practice sessions. A few stragglers glide in lazy circles, their figures moving slowly as they wind down for the night.
It’s peaceful in a way that resonates with me. I’ve always loved the way the arena feels at this time: quiet, steady, holding its breath for the next big moment to unfold.
Rolling my shoulders, I feel the dull ache from hunching over players all day, the tension slowly easing.
“Alright, you’re good to go,” I say, giving his taped leg a reassuring, gentle pat before stepping back, allowing him to get up and leave.
He rises from the bench, flexing his knee carefully to test the freshly applied athletic tape. “Thanks, Jinx. You’re the best.”
My hand falls to my hip as I flash him a grin. “I know,” I reply, with a playful confidence.
He chuckles as he makes his way toward the door, but halts momentarily. “Hey, just to be sure—stretches before and after practice, right?”
“Yes,” I confirm, crossing my arms over my chest with a knowing look. “And if you skip them, I will know, and so will you.” There’s a hint of menacing tease in my tone.
He laughs heartily, giving me a friendly wave as he strolls down the brightly lit hallway, his footsteps echoing until they fade away.
I let my gaze drift to the wall clock, a wash of relief cascading over me.
That was my last client of the day, which means I can actually go home at a reasonable hour for once. I stretch my arms overhead, feeling the satisfying pull of muscles loosening, and let out a groan of relief as my spine gives a series of satisfying pops.
I can finally finish that true-crime series I’ve been binging and maybe get a good chunk of my scarf done.
I duck beneath the desk to retrieve my worn, navy blue backpack, unzipping it just enough to slip in the almost-finished crochet project. The scarf, a complex weave of black and red yarn, twists into an intricate pattern I began on a whim during a weekend of boredom.
The repetition and rhythm of working with my hands offer a tactile escape from the mindless scroll of my phone, especially when I should be winding down for the night.
Reaching into the bag again, I pull out my black headphones, the cushioned ear cups still warm from earlier use. I slide them over my head and tap play on my phone.
Instantly, heavy guitar riffs crash into my ears, the deep bass thrumming through my skull and drowning out the world. Just what I need.
I fall into my end-of-day routine, moving on autopilot as I wipe down the desk’s smooth surface, organize my scattered notes into neat piles, and ensure all my equipment is properly stowed away.
The sequence is ingrained in me, a series of actions I can perform while letting the driving beat of the music take over my thoughts.
Finally, I stand in the doorway of my office, taking in the familiar, meticulously organized environment. The bookshelves are crammed with textbooks and physical therapy manuals, their spines forming a tidy mosaic.
Meanwhile, punk rock posters featuring snarling bands and vibrant local artwork splatter the walls, injecting a delightful sense of chaos amidst the order.
I flick off the light and step into the hallway, the harsh overhead lights making my eyes squint. The soft click of the lock echoes behind me as I secure the office door, signaling the end of another day.
As I make my way toward the exit, the clang of my footsteps echoes in the empty corridor, and my thoughts drift back to the rink last night. I had stayed late, hunched over my desk, eyes straining as I completed the last of the reports.
Through the office window, I’d spotted a lone figure gliding across the ice. Even from a distance, I could discern the rhythmic grace of his movements. Each stride powerful yet effortless, his skates carving perfect arcs against the frozen surface.
He was undeniably attractive, with a chiseled jawline and a confident demeanor that matched his athletic prowess.
Not that it really narrows it down much—this whole team seems like a lineup of men sculpted by the gods.
I chuckle, shaking my head as I remind myself of the boundaries I’ve set. Work is work. Crossing that line with players is like lighting a match in a gas tank—it’s bound to explode and ruin everything I’ve worked for.
Still, I allow myself a fleeting moment of fantasy, imagining what it would be like to abandon my self-imposed rules, to feel a spark of excitement and passion once more. But just as quickly, I extinguish the thought, casting it into the shadows of my mind.
Memories of my past relationships flood in, reminders of the wild nights and chaotic days spent with guys who were just as adrift as I was during my partying years.
We were all caught in a whirlwind of bad decisions and temporary highs. I fought my way out of that cycle, but navigating the dating world as a sober person?
That feels like an entirely new challenge—one I’m not sure how to even begin to tackle.
As I stroll toward the lobby, I thumb through my phone, seeking a change in tempo: a song with a more laid-back vibe. The aggressive heavy metal gives way to the soothing, melodic strums of an alternative rock tune that has always resonated with me.
Just as I’m about to slip my phone back into my pocket, a notification flashes on the screen, catching my attention. I halt mid-step, my heart skipping a beat.
Oh, great.
It’s an email from one of the colleges I applied to, inquiring if I’m still interested in their accelerated sports medicine program. An uneasy knot forms in my stomach.
I should be thrilled, right? But a wave of conflict washes over me instead.
I release a slow breath through my nose, exiting the email and locking my phone with a decisive click. This decision has been a constant presence in my thoughts for months, swirling around in an endless loop, and still, clarity eludes me.
Do I truly want to leave the team? Do I even want to be a physical therapist anymore?
I don’t know. And that uncertainty gnaws at me, the most unsettling part of all.
Perhaps a new career isn’t the solution; perhaps I just need a fresh adventure. A new festival, a new experience—anything to shake things up.
I vividly recall the last music festival I attended, the way it electrified me. The lights throbbed in sync with the beat, casting vibrant colors across the crowd, while the music was a magnetic force pulling everyone into its orbit.
The throng of people swayed together, a single, immense entity, bodies shimmering with neon and glitter, completely absorbed in the rhythm.
It was a heady, intoxicating experience—and not a single drop of alcohol passed my lips.
Maybe that’s what I need once more.
I slide the phone into my pocket and navigate the bustling corridor toward the exit. Just as I round a corner, I nearly collide with a solid wall of muscle that is Rowan.
“Whoa there, Jinx,” he says with a steadying hand on my arm, his voice a low, warm tease that matches the glisten in his eyes. “Where’s the fire?”
Despite the grin I feel crossing my face, I step back to create some distance and cross my arms defensively. “Not heading your way, that’s for sure.”
He snickers, his smile as easy and confident as ever, a signature expression that never falters. “Ouch, that hurts.”
A snort escapes me. “You’ll survive.”
He leans in slightly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You sure you don’t want to grab a drink? Could be fun. You, me… maybe some darts? I bet I’d win.”
I scoff. “You’d lose terribly, and you know it.”
His smile widens, a challenge dancing in his eyes. “There’s only one way to find out.”
I shake my head, though I’m fighting to suppress a smile. “Keep dreaming, cowboy.”
He laughs and raises his hands in playful surrender. “Alright, alright. But one of these days, Jinx, you’ll say yes.”
I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
As I turn away from Rowan, I can feel his gaze like a gentle pressure on my back. I take a few steps down the hallway, before, on an impulse, I glance over my shoulder.
Seriously?
Rowan stands there, his eyes locked on my backside with no attempt at subtlety. I arch an eyebrow in response, but instead of calling him out, I just let a sly smile play on my lips.
He catches my eye, and rather than looking sheepish, he grins and throws me a casual wink.
I shake my head, letting a loose light laugh as I push through the heavy metal doors and head into the cool, autumn evening air outside.
When I finally arrive home, the familiar symphony of my pets’ anticipation greets me. The sound of my key turning in the lock is like a dinner bell for them.
Gremlin, my iguana, lifts his scaly head from the comfort of his heated rock, his eyes half-lidded with sleepy interest. The snakes in their enclosures begin to slither lazily, their bodies unwinding from their resting coils.
“Alright, alright,” I murmur, as I set my bag down with a small thud and make my way to the tanks.
I start with the turtles, watching as they paddle eagerly through the water to snap at the food I drop in. Then I move on to the frogs, who leap and gulp their meal with gusto, then Gremlin, before finally tending to the snakes, carefully placing their food in the terrarium.
With everyone fed and settling into their evening routine, I let out a deep, contented breath and lowered myself onto the floor beside Gremlin’s tank. I should probably head to bed, but the idea of sleep feels distant.
Instead, I pull out a blank canvas, unscrew a tube of paint, and squeeze a vibrant line onto my palette. With a steady hand, I let the brush dance across the canvas, the colors blending and swirling as my thoughts unwind with each stroke.
My hands work quickly, the form of a man and a woman’s body intertwined forming on the canvas before me. The outline of a woman’s hand across his back, her fingertips digging in, creating dents across his rippled flesh.
Vibrant purples, reds, and oranges flash across the canvas, creating the lights and shadows that bring the piece to life. I look at it for a moment, feeling my chest heaving with excitement as I take in my work.
I need to sleep.
I rinse my brushes in the sink, watching as the colors swirl together in a mesmerizing dance before turning a muddy, indistinct shade as they disappear down the drain.
The sharp, chemical scent of acrylic stubbornly clings to my hands as I scrub them vigorously, the cold water offering a soothing balm to my paint-stained fingers.
By the time I finally peel off my clothes and slip into the embrace of my bed, I expect exhaustion to swiftly pull me into a deep slumber.
But it doesn’t.
My mind becomes a restless adversary.
Thoughts of Rowan invade my consciousness: his strong build, the commanding way his presence fills a room, that undeniable magnetism.
Then, there’s Thomas. His effortless smile seems to light up any space, his hands always reaching, as if searching for something just beyond the horizon.
I bury my face in my pillow, a frustrated groan escaping my lips. Why am I consumed by thoughts of them now?
I picture Rowan pinning me against a wall, his hands possessively gripping my hips, an intoxicating mix of strength and desire.
I envision Thomas pressing his lips to my neck, whispering something suggestive and tantalizing in my ear. I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, my pulse racing beneath my skin like a runaway train.
Ugh, fuck me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to banish these vivid images, but they linger in the darkness, stirring a restless longing within me.
It takes over an hour for sleep to finally claim me.
But even then, I’m haunted by dreams of strong hands, warm mouths, and an unyielding heat that refuses to dissipate.