CHAPTER 10 — JUST PHYSICAL #2
He looked away toward the high window, where rain streaked down in a gray line. The answer took a while, and that delay gave me a small, stupid hope that died the moment he spoke.
“I’m trying to remember it was just physical.”
The room went too quiet. I heard a door slam somewhere distant, a player laughing in the hallway, the zipper of a bag being closed.
Ordinary things, happening while his words opened a clean cut inside me.
Just physical. I could have accepted any less lazy version of the lie.
I could have tolerated fear, confusion, anger, even honest regret.
But this was Damon taking the entire night—the care, the consent, his vulnerability, mine—and shoving it all into a small drawer because it was easier to call desire a reaction than to face what had come with it.
“And is it working?” I asked.
He looked back at me. There was something in his eyes that didn’t match the answer he chose, but Damon had always been excellent at surviving against himself.
“It needs to work.”
I nodded slowly. Not because I agreed. Because if I spoke too fast, blood might come out instead of words.
I stepped back from the table, picked up the clipboard, and started recording data in handwriting stiffer than usual.
I felt his gaze on me. For the first time since he’d walked in, I didn’t return it.
“Great,” I said, keeping my voice professional. “Then let’s treat it as physical. Range of motion improved slightly, pain still above ideal, moderate stiffness, contact restriction maintained. You’re not cleared for full training.”
“Noah.”
“Bennett,” I corrected, raising my eyes. “If it’s going to be just physical, use my last name while we’re working. Makes it easier for everyone.”
His face shut down. It was quick, but I caught it.
A cruel part of me felt satisfied; another part ached right alongside it, which was proof enough that I was in too deep.
Damon climbed down from the table carefully, ignoring the shirt that had ridden up on one side during the evaluation.
I noticed the tape, the skin, the line of his abdomen.
I hated noticing. I hated even more remembering that hours ago, my mouth had known that path.
“You’re angry,” he said.
“I’m taking notes.”
“You get polite when you’re angry.”
“And you get cowardly when you feel too much.”
The words came out before I could gauge the impact. Damon went still. There was no explosion, no immediate response. His silence told me I’d hit somewhere unprotected. For half a second, I wanted to apologize. Then I remembered his words—just physical—and let the apology die before it was born.
“We're done for today,” I said, putting away the chart. “Come back early tomorrow. And don't train in secret.”
“Are you going to keep pretending it didn't happen?”
“You just told me you need to pretend,” I replied, finally looking at him. “I'm just being cooperative.”
He took a step toward me, and my body, traitor that it was, recognized the danger before my head did.
Damon was too close for a medical room, even though there was plenty of space for anyone to walk by.
His presence carried anger, half-formed regret, and desire that neither of us had managed to kill with a careless remark.
When he spoke, his voice was low, hard, almost cracking at the edges.
“Don't put words in my mouth.”
“Don't worry. I already have plenty of memories of your mouth without adding words to the list.”
The words hit us both at the same time. I saw desire flash across his face like a shadow he tried to erase too late.
My own body responded, and I hated it. The air grew heavy, charged with everything that couldn't happen there—the exam table, the unlocked door, the reports, the entire campus breathing on the other side of the wall.
Damon lowered his gaze to my mouth. I saw it.
He saw that I saw. And for a few dangerous seconds, his “just physical” seemed like the most fragile lie in the world.
A knock on the door broke the moment before it could turn into disaster.
I stepped back first, snatching up whatever papers were on the counter as if I were busy.
Damon turned toward the door, jaw clenched.
Valerie Cross appeared in the doorway, holding a small recorder, a credential hanging around her neck, and that look of someone who doesn't ask permission because she's already decided the question matters more than anyone's comfort.
“Am I interrupting?” she asked, her gaze moving from me to Damon with enough attention to notice the fresh distance between our bodies.
“Yes,” Damon answered.
“No,” I said at the same time, because rushing her out would only make her more interested. “The evaluation's finished. Need something, Valerie?”
She smiled as if my use of her name confirmed I had something to hide.
Valerie was short, but her presence had a persistence that filled the entire doorway.
I barely knew her—just from hallways and articles in the university paper—but I'd seen this type before: intelligent, ambitious, and convinced that every institution had a skeleton in some closet.
The problem was that, at Northaven, she was right.
“I'm writing about the restructuring of the hockey program,” she said, stepping just inside—enough to be invasive without seeming so. “New coach, injured captain, changes to the medical staff. And, of course, interesting returns to campus.”
Damon stayed beside me, but something in him shifted.
I felt it, even without looking. His body slipped into public mode, the captain's posture settling over his irritation like a clean uniform.
The professional part of me was grateful.
The part that still remembered his bed found it almost obscene to watch him become so distant in seconds.
“Send official questions to the athletic department,” Damon said. “They like approved answers.”
“I like them less,” Valerie replied, unfazed. “Noah Bennett, right? Coach Bennett's son. Sports physical therapy intern. You studied somewhere else for a few years before coming back to Northaven?”
My throat closed for an instant. The question seemed simple. That's what made it dangerous. Damon glanced at me—not obviously, but enough to track my response. I kept the clipboard in my hands and chose the most neutral tone I could manage.
“Yes. I transferred part of my training, then came back to complete the supervised internship here.”
“Curious timing, coming back now,” Valerie said, tilting her head slightly. “Northaven trying to clean up the program's old image, Henry Bennett taking over the team, Damon Blackwood leading an important season. Almost seems like things are coming full circle.”
“Sounds like an article looking for drama before finding facts,” I replied. “If you want to talk about sports rehabilitation, I can explain protocols. If you want to turn an org chart into a theory, you'll need another source.”
Her eyes gleamed. Damon stayed quiet, and that silence bothered me because I didn't know if it came from respect, suspicion, or calculation. Valerie opened the recorder in her hand but didn't turn it on yet. The gesture alone was enough to sharpen my focus.
“Did you know Damon before you came back?” she asked.
“Everyone at Northaven knows Damon Blackwood,” I replied, before the silence could give away more than it should. “He works pretty hard at that.”
Damon let out a short breath, almost a laugh, almost a warning. Valerie noticed the exchange, of course. She noticed everything. Her gaze moved between us and stopped on Damon's shoulder, then on the bandage visible under his shirt collar, then on my hand gripping the clipboard too tightly.
“And you were on campus at the time of the investigation involving the old program,” she continued, lower now. “The fall of the Blackwood name, the administrative changes, the complaints about injured athletes. Some people say a lot was buried too quickly.”
The entire room seemed to shrink. Damon's face didn't change openly, but I felt the impact on him as if the question had passed through my body too.
Julian. My father. Documents no one should have signed.
Players who were pressured to return too soon.
Me at eighteen, holding printed copies and believing that truth, because it was truth, would have its own power. Naive. Painful. Almost unforgivable.
“You should leave,” Damon said, and his voice now wasn't public or polite. It was low, dark, made to shut down a room.
Valerie looked at him without fear. “I'm just asking questions.”
“Ask them somewhere else.”
She didn't argue, which made me even more suspicious. People like Valerie knew when to retreat to seem reasonable and come back with something worse later. Before leaving, though, she looked at me and let one last question drop with too much care.
“If you remember anything that might help explain why certain documents disappeared four years ago, my email’s in the paper. Sometimes people come back to Northaven because they left something unfinished.”
She left before Damon could respond. The door stayed open for a few seconds, and the hallway seemed too loud.
I walked over and closed it firmly—not to create intimacy, but to stop the air from escaping where it didn’t belong.
When I turned around, Damon was looking at me in a way I knew and feared: not just with anger, but with new pieces shifting behind his eyes.
“What did she mean about missing documents?” he asked.