4 #2
The door abruptly swung more open, with no knock, with aggression, slamming into the wall.
He kicked the door open with his foot, hands in his sweatpant pockets.
The next player standing there, with a neutral and almost judging expression, was Noah Wilson.
It startled Claire and her pulse picked up again, but this time with a different kind of anticipation.
Something told her this physical would be a far less playful affair.
Instantly Claire put her guard up as Noah stalked into the room, with a frown and a scowl.
He was tall, handsome in a rugged, manly way.
He is older than most of the other players.
Up close, it was his eyes that caught her completely off guard – hiding behind long dark lashes, brown, deep in character, light in color, like sunlight filtered through a forest, and for the first time she realized how intense they were.
He studied her with quiet precision, almost as if he were measuring her as carefully as she measured him.
Noah looked weary, as if he doesn’t trust this new doctor yet.
“Dr. Ashford,” he said, voice calm and exact.
“Noah,” Claire replied, keeping her tone professional. She motioned toward the exam table. “Let’s start with the usual. Vitals, medical history, joints, flexibility.”
He just stood there. Waiting.
She gestured to the table again. “Please sit on the exam table” she asked him, a little annoyed that she had to say something so obvious.
He complied with the same meticulous control that he showed on the pitch. Claire flipped open his file, the thick folder worn at the corners from years of updates. It wasn’t unusual for veteran players to have records this dense.
But Noah's was different.
Every line seemed to tell a story of endurance, of someone who’d refused to stop when his body practically begged him to.
“Stitches, more stitches, partial ACL tear - managed conservatively, somehow. More stitches. Concussion, stitches” Claire read out loud, “and yet, you’re still here, Captain”.
He sat there, not responding.
“It says, ‘Do not ask about sleep’ here in your file. Are you not sleeping?” Claire asks.
His eye twitched. Silence.
What struck her wasn’t just the injuries - it was the pattern.
The rehab notes were precise. He showed up early, completed every direction, and hit every target.
There was never any notation about bending the rules.
Not a single mention of self-reported fatigue.
Noah Wilson didn’t admit weakness even when his body did, and it seemed he did everything by the book.
Sitting still as she now checked his range of motion, noting every subtle shift in posture, every micro-tension in his muscles.
There is a scar on his shoulder. It is small, pale now, but unmistakeable.
Probably from one of the stitches. Evidence of what the game had taken, and evidence that he refused to give up.
As a doctor, she respected his grit. As a woman watching him push through pain that most would surrender to, she feared what it might cost him.
She tried to spark some conversation, easing into it. “So… how’s life outside rugby? Family? Hobbies?”
Noah’s jaw tightened slightly, but he allowed himself a small shrug. “Quiet. I have a family. Hobbies: Mostly reading, stuff, hiking. Keeps me off the field and active when I’m not here.” He offered no more than that, and Claire felt the walls around him – strong, unyielding, but not impervious.
Still, she noticed he didn’t break eye contact, even when she looked away. And she realized he seemed to watch her more than she’d expected. A twitch of awareness ran through her, subtle and electric.
“What books do you read?” She felt like it was pulling teeth trying to get him to talk. It was quite the opposite of the man that left just moments before.
He hesitated.
“Ones without pictures” he responded dryly.
She laughed a quiet huff. “Are you trying to make a joke?” she asked him.
He sat on the table, quiet.
When she guided him through a stretch, he leaned slightly into the movement, brushing her arm.
Then, as she stepped back to adjust his posture, he moved a fraction too close and too quickly.
She fell a little and his large hand captured the small of her back to keep her from stumbling.
The contact was brief, professional enough to be innocent, yet it sent a jolt through her, a flicker of tension that neither could ignore.
Claire cleared her throat, pretending to smooth the white coat loosely hanging over her scrubs. “All right, that’s the assessment. I am going to recommend you to a nutritionist and a physio.” She thought about also recommending him to a sports psychologist, but it might be premature for that.
Noah straightened, finally looking at the clock, still close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him, the subtle scent of sweat and cedar lingering in the air.
He nodded once, a silent acknowledgement, before turning to leave, she caught herself watching him go, causing her body to pulse a little faster than it should have been.
She watched him walk away with his broad shoulders and almost an air of pent-up energy that one day might explode.
Even professional, even controlled, there was a charge in that room that stayed after he left, a reminder that some personalities couldn’t be measured on charts alone.