2. Mallory
Mallory
Wednesday morning, Training Room Three, and I was already regretting my mascara.
Not because I didn’t want to look nice, because I did.
New job, fresh start, confidence boost—nothing wrong with swiping on a little extra length.
Because the third time, Jaymie Prescott pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, I had to fight the urge to fan myself and remember that this was a place of work , not the setting of my next daydream.
He was sitting on the treatment table when I walked in, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a cocky little grin already in place like he’d been waiting for the moment I entered the room just to use it on me.
“Are you sure this isn’t some elaborate hazing ritual?” he asked, flexing against the resistance band I’d looped around his ankle, his grimace only half-faked.
“Nope,” I said, crouching down to adjust his foot. “This is science. Welcome to the part where you re-learn how to move like a fully functional adult.”
“I liked it better when you were new, mysterious and pretty… not trying to kill me.”
I stood up slowly and shot him a mock glare. “I’m not trying to kill you. I’m trying to get you back on the ice before the season slips through your fingers.”
Jaymie leaned back on his elbows with a dramatic sigh, his dark curls flopping forward in defiance of gravity.
They were slightly damp, definitely unruly, and the exact kind of messy that didn’t seem intentional, just him.
His glasses had fogged slightly from the heat of the room, and when he pushed them up with one long finger, blinking through the smudge, I nearly dropped the clipboard in my hand.
His eyes, those warm, melted-brown, brown-sugar eyes, fixed on me with the kind of intensity that made my spine feel like jelly.
Cute. In a very frustrating, very confusing, “do not fall for your patient” sort of way.
“You always this mean to the injured ones?” he asked, blinking innocently, which was laughable coming from a man built like a linebacker, who looked like he could charm the laces off a figure skater.
“Only the ones who whine like toddlers,” I replied, flipping the clipboard in my hand as I jotted down notes. “And flirt like frat boys.”
“Hey,” he said, putting a hand to his chest in mock offense, “I’ll have you know I was very respectful in college. Mostly. Okay, not really. But I’m older now. Wiser. More... refined.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You just said you should’ve let them amputate your leg rather than go through six weeks of rehab.”
“Exactly. Pain builds character. I’m full of character.”
“Is that what you’re full of?”
His grin turned wicked. “Mallory Quince, was that sass?”
I bit back a smile, turning away before he could see the way it tried to spread across my face. He was too easy with it. Too shameless in the way he bantered. Like every word was just a setup for the next smile. And damn if it wasn’t starting to work on me.
I bent down to adjust the band tension again, focusing on his ankle. My fingers brushed the edge of his sock and I heard his breath hitch, just barely.
When I looked up, he was watching me.
Not in a creepy, overstepping way. Just… watching. Intently. Like I’d said something brilliant and he didn’t want to miss a second of how it looked coming out of my mouth.
And okay—he was cute. No, scratch that.
He was adorable .
Curly dark hair. Soft brown eyes. A scruffy jawline that he clearly didn’t bother maintaining with any regularity but somehow made work. That hoodie slouched off his shoulders like it was made for his shoulders, and the way he filled out those mid-thigh Hellblades shorts? Completely unfair.
He had this whole geeky hot-hockey-player vibe going on and it was messing with my professional head.
God help me, I thought, the cute, awkward, glasses-wearing hockey player is actually working on me.
“Jaymie,” I said, clearing my throat and not quite meeting his eyes, “you need to focus on your recovery. Not flirt your way through it.”
“Not flirting,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Just... being friendly. Warm. Encouraging. Classic patient-therapist rapport.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He pushed his glasses up again, as if on cue, and I turned away so he wouldn’t see the way I was grinning.
He was trouble.
And I might not hate it .
“Okay,” I said briskly, shaking it off. “Let’s do thirty reps, nice and slow. Engage your core,don’t let your hip compensate.”
He groaned but followed instructions. “You sound like one of those yoga instructors that doesn’t believe in joy.”
“I believe in progress,” I said, watching the muscle in his thigh contract under tension. “And joy is when you skate again without pulling something.”
“See,” he said between breaths, “I knew you had a soft side in there somewhere.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
We finished the first set and I handed him a small towel. He wiped his face and reached for his water bottle, arms flexing in a way that forced me to stare at the wall for a second just to get it together.
“I gotta ask,” he said, sipping his water. “What made you get into this line of work?”
I blinked. That wasn’t a throwaway question. It was real.
I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. “I’ve always been into sports. But I was also always the kid icing her ankle or getting taped up. When I realized I could combine anatomy and competition with helping people get back to doing what they love? That was it for me.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “That’s cool. Most of us on the team just want to hit things for a living.”
“You still do,” I said with a smirk.
“Yeah,” he laughed. “Guess I’m simple like that. ”
And yet… not.
There was something about Jaymie Prescott that didn’t quite match the surface. He was loud, yes. Flirty, sure. But under all that charm was something quieter, and almost awkward. Like he was always watching, always thinking. Like he carried a lot of pressure and covered it with jokes.
That made him dangerous. Because I liked the quiet ones.
“Okay,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Cool down stretch, and then you’re free to limp your way out of here.”
He groaned. “Do I at least get a sticker?”
“No. But you get a gold star in my notes for not pretending to cry this time.”
He grinned. “Progress.”
I watched him walk out of the room with a noticeable hitch in his gait, but his smile was still firmly in place. He turned at the doorway, gave me a small salute, and disappeared into the hall.
I leaned back against the counter, heart annoyingly warm in my chest.
Trouble, I thought again.
But maybe the kind I didn’t mind inviting back.