29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Twenty-Nine
POLICE, Pop-Ups + the Croix of it All
Aspen
After his lecture about walking around without crutches, Dr. Shoup’s face is a mask of professional disappointment as he winds a fresh compression wrap around Luca’s knee.
The home gym feels smaller with Luca’s massive frame taking up the massage table, his jaw clenched in a tight line of penance as he avoids the doctor’s gaze.
“You’re lucky, Luca,” Shoup says, pinning the bandage. “This type of MCL tear is a fickle beast. That fall could have easily turned a partial tear into a full rupture, and then we’d be talking about a surgery instead of the bed rest I’m about to put you on.”
Luca looks like he’s ready to argue, but Dr. Shoup holds up a hand, cutting him off before he can even start.
“No arguments, Luca. You are on strict, non-weight-bearing rest for the next seventy-two hours. Crutches are non-negotiable. I want you to follow the POLICE protocol.”
“The what, now?” Luca asks, his brow furrowing. “Are you calling the cops on my knee, doc?”
I step in, trying to make it sound a bit less like a punishment.
“It’s just an acronym to keep you on track,” I explain.
“Protection and Optimal Loading—which, in your case, is a fancy way of saying sit your ass down.
Then Ice, Compression, and Elevation. Basically, if you aren't sitting on the couch—”
“Or in bed?” He offers, winking.
I shake my head. “If you aren’t somewhere with your leg in the air, you’re doing it wrong.”
He winks again and smiles. “Legs in the air. Noted.”
Dr. Shoup nods in agreement, his expression grim. “And if I hear even a rumor of you putting weight on this leg before Thursday, I’m calling the front office and recommending a benching for the next few games of the season. Am I clear?”
I stand by the door, already mentally scrolling through my digital calendar.
Between my three home-visit patients tomorrow and a full afternoon at the clinic, my schedule is a wreck.
I’ll have to push the morning appointments and see which consultations I can pivot to telehealth.
If Luca is going to be immobile, he’s going to need a handler.
And I’m reminded, I’m the only one with the clearance and the sanity, to manage his brand of assholery.
After Dr. Shoup and me help Luca onto the sofa, the doctor turns to me with a lingering, professional look that suddenly shifts into something more personal.
“I ordinarily wouldn’t offer unsolicited advice to a nurse, but since you’re his wife, allow me to…” He pauses, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Allow me to offer a bit of wisdom from an old and happily married man. Sex is good for you.”
Luca lets out a nervous, strained giggle. “Oh, Doc. You really don’t have to—”
“It’s fine, son. I have a daughter your age. I know how it is with young couples. You’re far more active than my wife and me ever were.”
“Right,” I interject, trying to head off the incoming train wreck. “Dr. Shoup, I think what Luca’s trying to say is—”
But the old man is already in too deep. “Sex is perfectly fine, provided you aren't reckless. But I’m afraid, Aspen, you’ll have to do most of the heavy lifting for a while,” the good doctor says. I shake my head, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.
“Thank you, Dr. Shoup. Truly excellent advice,” Luca says. I can hear the arrogance vibrating in his voice.
“And masturbation works just fine, too, right, Doctor? Because last I checked, my husband’s hands weren't on the injured list.”
Dr. Shoup lets out a hearty laugh, missing the spike of tension between us. “Sure thing, Luca. Just handle yourself with care.”
I am not proud of how loudly I laugh.
As Dr. Shoup packs his bag and heads for the elevator, the doors slide open before he can even reach for the button. My heart stops.
It feels like a twisted case of déjà vu when I see someone stepping off that elevator just as Luca and I are finally about to settle in for the evening.
And I don't miss the slip of my own mind. The way I’m able to settle here. How I’ve started calling his place home.
I look down the hallway, half-expecting Croix to be there to bust us again, but it isn't him. Instead of a teammate’s scowl, I’m met with a sudden rush of artificial light and the mechanical buzz of a professional lens.
“Hey lovebirds!” She chirps.
Chelsea Raymond, the lead producer from SightUnseen, is at the door, looking all of five months pregnant.
“Surprise!” she sings, a camera crew spilling out behind her like a coordinated strike team. “We heard the Captain had a bit of a tumble at the park and the internet is losing its mind over the piggyback footage. We simply had to do a pop-up visit.”
Luca groans, leaning his head back against the sofa. “Chelsea, now isn't a great time.”
“It’s the best time, darling! Reality TV isn’t always red carpets and meetups.
Sometimes it’s back rubs and domestic bliss,” she says, signaling the cameraman to frame us in.
She turns to me, her eyes sharp. “Aspen, you’ve been a ghost to find on the web.
The fans are dying for more of you and all we can find online about you is an old Black Planet account.
Do you have any idea how much buzz your episode is getting?
Why don’t you have a current social media account, girl? ”
I stiffen, crossing my arms over my chest. “Because I have a job that requires privacy and a soul that requires peace. You will never find me posting my life for strangers. Not now, not ever.”
Chelsea pouts, but she’s savvy enough to pivot instantly. “Ugh! I hate that! But...what if Luca posts? It would actually be pretty cute to have the husband sharing glimpses of his wife, don’t you think?”
I look at Luca. He’s watching me, braced for the rejection, while I’m silently waiting for him to jump in and save me. But it appears I’m the only one in the room who isn't wearing a mask of wedded bliss.
I let out a defeated sigh. “If it keeps the vultures away from my mobile clinic, fine. Luca can post whatever he wants for the duration of the show. Just...keep my patients out of the background.”
“Yay!” Chelsea squeals, as she signals the cameras to roll.
“Sweetie,” Luca calls out, his voice dropping into that smooth, domestic rumble. “Remember that ice pack you were going to get for me?”
“Right! Of course.”
I turn to Chelsea, hesitant. “I was going to go change into something more comfortable and then get him an ice pack. Do you want to cut the cameras while I prep everything?”
She just laughs, waving me off. “Pretend I’m not even here. I’ll jump in when I see something I like or have a question.”
I drop the act of the defiant wife and slip into the role I know best—The good wife. Between my mother and my upbringing in the church, I was taught everything there is to know about being one. I just never had a reason to put it into practice.
Because I was also raised to never give “husband benefits” to a man who hadn't earned the title, and I’ve watched plenty of men walk away because I refused to use those skills as an audition for their harem.
But with Luca, it’s different. This “wife thing” feels surprisingly natural. Especially with how he watches me.
I move with a quiet, efficient grace that has nothing to do with the red light on the camera. After prepping the ice pack, I head back into the living room and get to work.
I guide Luca’s leg onto a stack of pillows, adjusting the height until the swelling is properly elevated. I retrieve his meds, checking the dosage twice before handing them over with a glass of water.
From the corner of my eye, I see Chelsea lean in to whisper to him. “Is she always like this? This attentive?”
Luca nods, his gaze heavy on me, but I don’t look up. “She is,” he says softly.
But this moment feels different. Even to me.
Something about the way the day unfolded—the way Croix looked at us as if the world were finally righting itself—has forced my heart to stop and see this situation for what it truly is.
While I am always this thorough with my patients, the care I’m giving my husband in this moment is stripped of professional distance.
It feels like the closing of one chapter with the quiet, certain beginning of something entirely new.
I test the temperature of the ice pack against my own skin before nestling it over the wrap, tucked precisely where I know the pain is hardest on him.
It isn’t just nursing. I’m taking care of my man.
It’s the quiet intimacy of the way I tuck a stray hair behind my ear while asking if the pressure is okay.
It’s the way my hand remains anchored to his shin a second longer than necessary, held there by a sentiment I’m finally tired of fighting.
Chelsea watches from behind the monitor, her usual bubbly persona softening into something like genuine intrigue. “That,” she whispers, mostly to herself. “That is exactly what the audience wants to see.”
My eyes snap to her, pulled abruptly from the moment. “What?”
“The way you look at him,” she beams, gesturing vaguely at the air between us. “And the way he looks like he wants to eat you alive. It’s magnetic.”
Neither of us denies the observation. Instead, we pivot, sitting beside one another and answering her remaining questions with the speed of two people rushing toward a finish line.
“And married life?” Chelsea asks, oblivious to the sudden shift in the room. “Is it what you both expected? During your interview in Vegas, you both mentioned this was your first marriage. Any surprises so far?”
Luca’s lips quirk into a smile. “I had to grow on her, certainly. But I think my wife likes me more than she lets on.”
I shake my head and laugh. “And he doesn’t snore as loudly as he let on,” I lie. Because the man sounds like a diesel engine when he sleeps.
Chelsea shifts her expression, sharpening her line of questioning. “And what about the team? It’s been hard to miss the rumors coming out of the locker room lately.”
I stiffen, hoping to avoid the subject of the fallout—the Croix of it all—entirely. But Luca’s response catches me off guard.
“The team is making headway,” he says easily. “As you saw today, Croix and I are on the mend, punctuated by the fact that he willingly carried me off the pitch.”
“Field,” I correct, smiling. I’ve been aggressively beefing up my soccer terminology since taking on my first sports client/husband.
But then the weight of his words actually registers, and I forget the cameras are even there. “So, really? You and Croix seriously patched things up?”
“Getting there,” is all he says, taking a sip of his water.
It’s a short answer, but it’s the most hopeful thing I’ve heard in weeks.
My heart lightens, not just for him, but for us.
If the ghost of their rivalry is finally being laid to rest, maybe there’s actually room for us to breathe. All of us.
When the crew finally packs up and the elevator bell dings their departure, Luca doesn't move. He just sits there, his gaze tracking me as I begin tidying up the discarded medical wrappers and water bottles left by the crew.
“Aspen,” he says, his voice low and vibrating with a sudden, dark intensity.
I look up. He’s shifted on the sofa, his eyes hooded and dark. He looks...inflamed. Not from the pain, but from the way he seems to be searing a hole through me.
“Yeah?”
“That was quite the performance for Chelsea,” he says, his gaze tracing the line of my throat.
He sounds breathless, his pulse visible in the hollow of his neck.
“The pillows, the water, the way you kept touching me...was all of that just for the cameras? It was to make sure we looked the part, right?”
I pause, his bottle of pain pills in my hand.
I think about the way my heart stuttered when I saw him being carried into the auditorium today.
I think about the way I’ve already cleared my schedule just to make sure he doesn't have to so much as reach for a remote the next few days. And the way he’s been quietly and infuriatingly giving me my space.
I shake my head slowly. “No, Luca. It wasn’t for the cameras.”
The look that crosses his face is predatory and unstoppable.
It’s the look of a man who is physically trapped on a couch, forbidden from moving, yet suddenly burning with the desire to do a thousand things that would definitely violate Dr. Shoup’s orders.
The arrogance is gone, replaced by a raw hunger that makes the air in my lungs feel too thin.
“Wife,” he breathes, the word vibrating deep in his chest. I never thought I’d be the kind of woman to enjoy a man being so possessive over me, but the sound of it sends a sudden, answering heat through my veins.
My pulse hammers against my throat, my feet rooted to the floor. “Yes?”
“Come here,” he commands, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl that leaves no room for negotiation. “Now.”