Chapter One
PRESENT
Presley
The training room in the Titans’ facility is a cathedral of high-tech machinery and sterile white surfaces, and there’s a faint scent of eucalyptus disinfectant in the air.
It’s a space designed for elite performance, for building human bodies that are worth millions.
Usually, there’s a clatter of banging weights and three-hundred-pound men groaning under the strain of their own expectations.
However, at six a.m. on a Tuesday in the offseason, it’s a ghost town. The lights are dim, and the only sound is the rhythmic thump on an AlterG treadmill.
It’s just Saint today. And me.
He was drafted by my dad’s team in the first round eight years ago and has been with the team ever since. And now I’m here, too, for the long haul.
Once my fellowship was completed, I came to work as the team’s physician, just as our previous doctor was retiring.
I knew I would be here in some capacity, but Eddie was ready to head South to the sunshine, and it was really on his request that I take over for him.
So, with a season under my belt, here we are.
“If you groan one more time, I’m doubling the resistance,” I say, leaning against the squat rack with my arms crossed over my chest.
Saint is dripping with sweat and looks like a Greek god carved out of marble. He lets out a sound that’s pretty close to a growl. “I’m not groaning. I’m exhaling with intent, Doc. Big difference.”
“Whatever you say.” I smirk, then check the readout on his digital knee brace. “Let’s do five more minutes. I want you to lower the elevation and reduce the speed. If that repair pops, my father will have my head on a silver platter. And I kinda need my head to do my job.”
Once he finishes on the treadmill, he steps off and wipes his face with his towel. “What’s next?”
“Let’s do some box squats—lower weight than your usual. Take it slow on increasing until we meet with your surgeon next week.”
“I’m feeling good though. I don’t think I need the bench.”
“I hear you, but I’m not taking any chances. We need you ready to go by camp.” I tap the bar and watch as he sets the weights.
Once he’s finished, he gets in position.
“Do three sets of five and see how you feel.”
He begins, and I watch him grit his teeth, the muscles in his thighs bunching as he descends into the squat.
Watching Saint work out is a hazardous occupation for a woman with a pulse.
Eight years have turned the college kid I knew into a force of nature.
He’s much broader now, his shoulders ripple with hard-earned muscle, and his jawline is sharp enough to draw blood.
He’s the star defensive tackle of the Titans, a key player in the franchise my family has built.
And he’s also my most frustrating patient.
Mostly because he likes to give me a hard time by challenging me, but also … every time he looks at me, I feel like I’m twenty-two again, feeling his lips press against mine. It’s a memory that was seared in my brain for a lifetime, even though nothing has happened between us since.
I turned thirty in May. I don’t make a big deal of my birthday, and I forbid my family from doing anything for me at the office.
But Saint took me out to dinner at one of my favorite spots in the city.
It was nice and easy. For a moment during that dinner, I thought about the pact we had made that night of our kiss in college.
Neither of us had talked about it after that night, even in all these years we’d spent time together, but I wondered if he still had the paper we’d each signed, tucked away in his safe, like he’d said he would.
I never asked because, well, we had just been kids, and Saint had had his fair share of girlfriends since that time. So, I stacked it up to be a joke.
Besides, my dad drilled it into my sister and me that ballers were only interested in a few things—money, women, partying, and football. He told us not to get mixed up with a man whose entire future depended on keeping his life uncomplicated.
So, that’s where Saint and I have kept our relationship—as best friends.
I drift back to the present, and I can’t deny that he is captivating to watch. I move around him, checking his form.
I see the way his green eyes track my every movement as he rises from the squat. I have a feeling he knows I like what I see. And I also have a feeling he’s just as attracted to me. But I’ll never ask.
“Done.” He blows out a breath, dropping the bar with a heavy clank that echoes through the gym.
Shit, I lost count.
He stands and walks over to me, heat radiating off his skin. He grabs his towel and wipes off his face, his chest still heaving under his compression shirt. “You satisfied? Or do you want me to do some more lunges so you can watch my form?” He smirks.
I clear my throat, as if it might clear my mind. “Your form is fine, Saint. But your attitude could use some work,” I say, smirking. Then I look down at my clipboard to hide the fact that I was definitely noticing the way his shirt clung to every ripple of his abs.
“Maybe my attitude is because I’m being babied,” he says, stepping into my personal space.
He smells like sweat and that citrus soap he’s used since college. It’s a sensory attack.
“I’m cleared for full contact in three weeks, so why are we still doing the slow-motion version?”
“Because,” I say, looking up at him, refusing to yield an inch of ground, “I’m your doctor. And because your ACL doesn’t care about your timeline. It needs stability in order for you to perform at the level that is required of you.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “Stability? I’ve played for the same team my entire pro career. I’ve lived in the same house for five years. I’m the definition of stable.”
Saint really is one of the most stable and reliable men I know.
He’s my best friend, and we’ve stayed in touch, like we promised.
See each other when we can and talk on the phone just about every day.
But there’s always been a heat simmering beneath the surface that neither of us has acted on since that night eight years ago.
It was easier to ignore before I officially started working for the team because our time together was limited.
And lately, with his injury, we’ve been spending even more time together.
And I feel like all this togetherness, being in each other’s space again, is shifting our dynamic.
We grab coffee on Tuesday mornings. He comes over to my place, and we argue over why the last superhero reboot was trash. He’s the person I called when my sister found out she was pregnant from a one-night stand. And I’m the person he calls when he’s stuck in his own head after a loss.
But we never talk about the past or the pact. Because we’re experts at playing the friend role, even when the tension grows thick and it’s a wonder we can both be in the same room.
Instead of responding to him, I change the subject, like I usually do. “Let’s get you in an ice bath. Then if you’re a good boy, I’ll buy you breakfast since you didn’t puke on me today.”
“Hmm. Breakfast?” He scratches his chin. “Is this a date, Doc?” he teases, wicked glint in his eyes.
I huff with fake annoyance. “You wish. It’s a clinical observation of your caloric intake. Don’t make it weird.”
He barks out a laugh. “But what if I want to make it weird?”
“Saint.”
“We’ve always been weird.” He leans in as he walks by me toward the locker room.
I roll my eyes and shake my head, turning to wipe down the machine he was just on when I feel a sting on my butt.
“Ouch!” I look over my shoulder and see Saint with his towel in his hand, broad smile on his face.
Then. He. Winks.
Once he’s out of sight, I exhale the breath I was holding because a sweaty, flirty Saint … is fucking sexy.
An hour later, we’re tucked into a corner booth at our favorite hole-in-the-wall diner five miles from the facility. It’s the kind of place where servers and patrons don’t care about NFL superstars or daughters of billionaires. They just want to know if you want hash browns or home fries.
Saint’s working his way through a pound of chocolate chip pancakes while I pick at a fruit bowl and try to pretend I’m not hyperaware of the way his bare knee—the good one—is inches from mine under the table.
“You’re doing it again,” he says, pointing his fork at me.
I lean back. “What am I doing?”
“The face. You’re overthinking something. Is it my knee?”
I shake my head. “The knee is fine. You’re actually ahead of schedule.
Your flexion is nearly perfect.” I hesitate for a minute, the fruit in my bowl suddenly looking unappealing.
“You’re doing so well that I’m thinking of handing off your final phase to one of the assistant trainers so they can get some experience with this type of injury recovery. ”
The air at the table shifts. The lightheartedness evaporates, replaced by heavy silence. Saint pauses, his fork steady in his hand. But his gaze sharpens, and I feel like I’m being dissected.
“Experience with injury recovery?” he asks, voice flat. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“Saint, I have an entire department to run. I have three guys with hamstring issues, not to mention evaluating Pitz.” I look away. “And because … you distract me,” I admit, trying to keep my tone teasing and light.
Distraction. Ha! That’s putting it mildly.
Every time I touch him, my pulse jumps. Every time he laughs, I melt.
And even though I’ve never taken our pact seriously, I can’t help but think about the single and miserable part.
I’m not miserable, but I’m tired of hookups, flings, and men my mother tries to set me up with.
Males I’ve grown up with, who are now just man-babies with mommy issues.
Rich, spoiled, and completely unappealing to me.
I don’t need their money. I need a partner, not a project that I don’t have time for.
But the truth is, I’m not getting any younger.