5. Mallory
Mallory
Friday morning came wrapped in grey skies, pouring rain, and the betrayal of my coffee maker – which decided to quit on life like a teenage drama queen.
I'd barely managed to slap on concealer and wrangle my hair into a passable ponytail before bolting out the door.
By the time I stepped into Training Room Three, I was craving caffeine and solitude.
Instead, I got Jaymie Prescott.
He was sprawled out on the mat like someone had peeled him off a couch and deposited him there against his will. Hoodie up, hoodstrings loose, earbuds in, and a sour expression that could curdle milk.
I raised a brow. “Rough night, princess?”
Jaymie pulled out one earbud and blinked up at me like I’d just interrupted something sacred. “Didn’t sleep. Hamstring’s a bitch today. Also, pretty sure someone was ballroom dancing directly above my apartment at two a.m.”
I walked past him to set my bag down. “You sure it wasn’t you pacing and muttering about my tragic stretching technique?”
He smirked. “Only in my nightmares.”
I grabbed a resistance band and returned to his side. “Let’s start with the warmup from Wednesday. And this time, actually engage your core instead of pretending to.”
“I did engage it,” he argued, dragging himself upright. “It was just... selective.”
“Selective engagement,” I repeated dryly. “Do you hear yourself?”
Jaymie rolled onto his side and into position, huffing like I was torturing him with medieval methods instead of light band resistance. “You just love bossing me around.”
“I do,” I agreed, crouching to loop the band around his ankle. “It’s a perk.”
His eyes were on me again. I could feel it. That slow, deliberate stare that wasn’t quite inappropriate but wasn’t exactly casual either .
“Prescott,” I warned without looking up, “eyes off the merchandise.”
“I’m just evaluating my surroundings,” he said, straight-faced.
I stood, crossed my arms, and leveled him with a look. “You’re the worst patient I’ve ever had.”
He grinned. “You say that, but you smile every time you insult me.”
“Because it’s the only way I get through your sessions.”
He lifted his leg, groaning as the band pulled. “You wound me.”
“Not yet. That comes next week when we introduce balance drills.”
His head dropped back with a theatrical sigh. “Why are you like this?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I said sweetly. “Why are you like this? All whiny and dramatic and weirdly obsessed with multitasking charm and resistance bands?”
He flexed against the band again, and I caught the way his arms tensed under the hoodie. “I’m just trying to keep things interesting.”
I rolled my eyes, jotting down his reps on the clipboard. “You’re not a podcast, Jaymie. You don’t need to perform during rehab.”
That clearly hit a mark.
“Do you have any siblings?”
The question surprised me. I glanced up, his face unreadable.
“Yeah,” I said, adjusting his foot placement. “One sister. Dakota. She’s twenty-three – the smarter, prettier one.”
“Impossible,” he muttered.
I paused. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, face red. “Go on.”
“She’s in med school. UVM. Lives in Vermont still.”
“Is she as scary as you?”
“Worse,” I said fondly. “But she pretends to be nice until she destroys your soul with logic.”
Jaymie chuckled, stretching again. “Sounds like someone I know.”
I shot him a look. “You?”
“No,” he said with a smirk. “You.”
I fought the urge to smile as I scribbled a note. “Okay, my turn. Any siblings, Prescott?”
He hesitated for half a second. “Yeah. One brother. Older. Married. Two kids.”
“Do you like him?”
“Most days. He lives in the suburbs, works in finance, and thinks I’m insane for choosing a job that requires losing teeth professionally.”
“Smart man.”
Jaymie flexed again, slower this time, like the motion gave him something to think about. “You always ask people this many questions during rehab? ”
I lifted a brow. “You started it.”
He grinned. “Fair. I’m just curious.”
I tilted my head. “About what?”
“You,” he said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Just wanna get to know you better. We could be friends, ya know?”
The sentence landed heavier than he probably meant it to.
And yet, it didn’t feel wrong.
It felt honest.
I looked away, busied myself with adjusting the band tension. “You don’t need to know me to recover from a pulled hamstring, you know.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “But it doesn’t hurt.”
He held my gaze just a beat too long, and for a second, the room felt warmer. Closer. Like the walls had pressed in to listen.
I broke eye contact first. “Alright, lover boy. Cool down and we’re done.”
“Lover boy?” he asked, voice pitching up. “Is that my new nickname?”
“If the shoe fits.”
“You’re relentless.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“You’re mean.”
“You like it. ”
He grinned, and for a second, he looked younger. Softer. Still a little tired, but less heavy somehow.
I watched him limp over to the foam rollers, one hand dragging through his hair, hoodie shifting just enough to show the line of a tattoo I hadn’t noticed before—some kind of script inked low on his ribs.
Interesting.
As he stretched, I jotted a few notes and tried not to watch the muscles in his back flex beneath the thin cotton.
Tried being the key word.
When he finally straightened and grabbed his water bottle, he walked past me and paused at the door.
“See you Monday?” he asked.
“Unless you ghost me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Because you like pain?”
“Because,” he said, tapping the doorframe with two fingers, “I like you bossing me around.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Leaving me standing in a room that suddenly felt too quiet and too charged, holding a clipboard I forgot how to read.
Trouble.
But maybe the good kind.