Chapter 3 Control （Eden）
CONTROL (EDEN)
The mat smells of sweat, rubber, adrenaline. It’s barely seven, gold just starting to streak the city, and I’m already rolling with Lukas, one of the bigger guys at the gym. He’s six-three, two-twenty, breathing hard. I’m five-ten, one-fifty, and very much on top today.
He shoots for side control, throws his weight. I let him settle, trap the arm, angle my hips, lock my legs. Triangle choke. Tight. Clean. Done.
He taps. “Jesus, girl.”
I grin, swipe damp hair off my forehead. “That’s what you get for underestimating my quads.”
He flops to his back with a theatrical groan. “Remind me never to piss you off in a dark alley.”
I pop my mouthguard, chest humming with the post-roll high. This is my sanctuary, my safe place. No perfect posture, no sterile treatment tables, no egos to babysit. Just sweat, timing, and trust.
Lukas props on an elbow, smile creeping in. “Dinner Friday? Promise I won’t tap before dessert.”
“Still a no, lover boy.” I stretch out my hips, ankles cracking.
He clutches his heart. “You keep breakin’ me.”
“You’ll live.” I smirk. “Besides, we’d kill each other before appetizers.”
“Worth it,” he fires back, grinning.
He’s harmless—persistent, charming, unapologetic. Loves the chase more than the catch.
“One of these days, you’ll say yes.”
“Don’t hold your breath, Romeo.” I grab my bag. “Your girl’s out there. You’ll know when you see her.”
What I don’t add: I don’t date where I breathe. The mat is home. Here, I move without overthinking. Here the world goes quiet, and I get to be exactly who I am.
Most guys here aren’t it. They need to feel stronger to feel masculine, and the second they clock they’re not—in every lane—they don’t level up; they start sanding me down.
Shrink, shush, manage. They love strength until it pushes back, adore flexibility until it comes with a voice. When they can’t steer, they pout.
Last night’s date might be different. Bennett took my hand without asking. He was steady, assured. He knew how to lead. Maybe that carries to the rest of him. Maybe the spark is a slow burn. I should give it a minute.
Not that anything’s come close since Josh. “We broke up” is the polite version. He left me for someone else is the truth.
I don’t need a man who can “handle” me. I need someone who can take my current and feed it back. Match my charge without short-circuiting when it gets real.
The more time passes, the more I wonder if that man exists. Maybe Liz is right. Maybe I’m too much.
“Same time next week?” I call to Lukas as I sling my bag.
“Count on it, gorgeous,” he says, before chugging a protein shake.
Morning chill hits as I step outside. The city’s waking up—cabs, coffee carts, the sharp lift of espresso in the air. By nine, I’m in Midtown. The clinic’s glass doors glide open, swallowing me into cool white and chrome where my other life begins.
“Morning, Eden,” chirps Monica at the desk. She eyes my gym bag. “Let me guess, you tapped three guys before breakfast?”
“Only one,” I say, smiling as I scan my schedule. Full day. Two athletes, three execs, one hypermobile dancer running on egg whites, black coffee, and sheer will.
My first is already waiting, scrolling his phone. NBA shooting guard—long limbs, bigger ego. Six weeks post-ankle sprain, still walking like he’s on stilts.
“Carter,” I call, tossing a band. “You warm?”
He lifts a brow. “Don’t need to. I’m good.”
“Great,” I say sweetly. “Then I’ll supervise.”
Forty minutes later, he’s sweating through balance drills while I nudge his foot with mine. “You baby that ankle, it’ll never get back to game speed,” I tell him. “You want to play, you push.”
By the end, the attitude cracks just enough for a muttered, “Thanks, Doc.”
“Not a doctor,” I remind him, handing over his plan.
Next up: a fifty-something hedge-fund guy convinced his stiff shoulder is the end of days. He talks more than he listens until I guide his scapula and say, “Relax.”
He complains, “That hurts.”
I shoot back, “Good.”
Finally, he shuts up. His range of motion improves, his ego deflates. It’s a win-win.
I’m sanitizing the table when Melissa, my boss, leans in with a look I know. “Nice work on Carter,” she says. “You’ve got a gift.”
“What’s up?”
“New case. High-profile. One of the New York Defenders.”
My brows lift. That narrows it down to a few dozen faces splashed across billboards. “A player?”
“Yep. We’ll get the name after we sign the NDAs. They asked for you. You’re the best fit.”
My mouth smiles on autopilot. “When?”
“I left your NDA with Monica. My attorney reviewed it—standard. Sign today, you head up to Tarrytown first thing Monday morning.”
Tarrytown. My stomach tightens. I’ve never set foot in their facility. I know who plays there. I have zero interest in an accidental reunion.
Last night was already too close. Six rows up, Kiss-Cam glare; his mask tilted and went still. I could swear he saw me. Either way, I’m not unearthing what I buried. He’s gotten the memo. Fifty unanswered texts and calls should cover it.
“Got it,” I say lightly, snapping the sanitizer lid.
“We’ll reschedule your Monday morning clients. And Eden?” She tips her head toward room three. “Your dancer’s in. Try not to kill her.”
“No promises.” I grin, pretending my insides aren’t twisting and grab a fresh pair of gloves.
As I walk, a vanished notification tickles the back of my brain. It was a blink in the dark, gone before I could see it.
I tell myself it was nothing.
My pulse hums anyway.