Chapter 4
AUSTIN
Iwoke at precisely five a.m. just as I had every morning since I was sixteen. No alarm needed—my body knew the drill. The morning routine was sacred: protein shake, stretching, meditation, shower. Each step carefully calibrated for optimal performance.
What wasn’t calibrated was finding someone already in my kitchen.
Kate Ellis, microbiologist and apparent early riser, was perched on one of my bar stools, surrounded by a hurricane of papers.
She wore pajamas covered in what looked like cartoon germs, her auburn hair piled in a messy bun that defied gravity.
She was petite—the top of her head would barely reach my shoulder—with bright green eyes that sparkled with intelligence.
The pajamas hugged curves I was trying very hard not to notice.
“Morning!” she chirped, far too enthusiastically for five a.m. “I hope you don’t mind.
I couldn’t sleep because of the time zone difference.
My circadian rhythm is completely disrupted. ”
“Coffee,” I grunted, limping toward the kitchen.
“Oh! I made some already.” She gestured toward my precision coffee maker. “I hope that’s okay. I figured out your machine.”
I stared at her, then at my coffee maker.
She slid a mug toward me. “Black, right? You don’t seem like a cream and sugar guy. Too many empty calories for an athlete.”
I took the mug, silencing her with a look that had made rookie players tremble. Kate merely blinked at me, those bright green eyes unnervingly direct.
“Right. Minimal talking before coffee. Rule six. I remember.” She pantomimed zipping her lips, then immediately unzipped them.
“Got it. Silent as a bacterium.”
I bit back a sarcastic comment, knowing it would only encourage more conversation from her. I moved to the refrigerator, hyperaware of her presence as I gathered ingredients for my protein shake. The routine felt off, performing it while being watched by someone wearing microbe pajamas.
“What are you working on?” I asked despite myself, the coffee finally kickstarting my social functions.
“Basically,” she continued, misinterpreting my nod as encouragement, “I’m tracking how superbugs share their resistance abilities with other bacteria.
Think of it like a dangerous skill that gets passed around.
It’s like if Thor could give Captain America his lightning powers just by standing next to him. ”
“You’re comparing deadly bacteria to the Avengers?”
Her smile was disarmingly genuine. “Makes it more accessible, right? My best friend Angel says I need to work on translating ‘science speak’ into ‘human speak.’”
The microbe pajamas suddenly made a lot more sense.
“Look,” I said, pouring my shake into a travel container, “I have PT in an hour. The guest bathroom is yours, but—”
“Don’t touch anything in the main bathroom. Rule four. I remember all the rules, promise.” She held up her hand in what looked like a Scout’s honor. “And today I’ll probably head over to campus to check out the lab, get my bearings—you know, nerd stuff. Either way, you’ll barely know I’m here.”
The chaos of papers, the coffee mug with lipstick on the rim, and the cartoon microbes dancing across her pajamas suggested otherwise. I had a feeling my carefully ordered life had just been infected with something I couldn’t control.
“Also,” she added as I turned to leave, “you might want to ice that knee after your PT. The way you’re favoring it suggests inflammation beyond normal recovery progression.”
“I have professionals managing my recovery,” I said stiffly.
“Of course! I just—” She bit her lip. “I’ve been reading up on knee injuries. Since I’m staying here. With you. Who has a knee injury.” She winced at her own awkwardness. “Not because I’m stalking you or anything. That would be weird. And possibly illegal.”
Despite everything, I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. There was something almost endearing about her complete inability to filter herself.
Almost.
“I’ll see you later,” I said, heading for the door.
“Have a productive physical therapy session!” she called after me.
I closed the door, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.
“Your focus is off today,” Jen said, adjusting the resistance on my leg press. “Five more reps. And this time, actually pay attention to your form.”
I gritted my teeth, pushing through the burning sensation in my knee. That brutal collision with Thompson from Dallas as I turned to block his shot. The sickening pop, the immediate agony, the world going silent as I crumpled to the ice. Just like that, my season was over.
Three months since the surgery to reconstruct my ACL, and I was still nowhere near ready to return.
My mind drifted back to my apartment, wondering what Hurricane Kate was doing to my carefully ordered space.
“You’re distracted,” Jen observed, her clinical gaze missing nothing. “That’s not like you, Stone. Usually I can’t get you to think about anything except recovery metrics.”
“I’m focused,” I insisted, completing another rep with less than perfect form.
“Right. And I’m the Queen of England.” She crossed her arms. “What’s going on? You’ve been checking your phone every five minutes.”
I had been, though not for the reason she probably thought. No new texts from Desert Survivor. I’d caught myself wondering what she was doing, if she’d found housing yet.
“Nothing’s going on. Just...team stuff.”
Jen raised an eyebrow. “The same team stuff that has you grimacing at your phone instead of concentrating on not re-tearing your ACL?”
I really should get Kate’s number, I realized.
We were living together temporarily, and it was weird that we hadn’t exchanged contact information.
But then again, we’d barely established ground rules before I’d left for PT this morning.
The chaos of the sudden roommate situation had left basic practicalities overlooked.
“I have a roommate,” I admitted finally, the words feeling strange in my mouth. “Temporary. Very temporary.”
Her eyes widened. “You? Mr. ‘I-Need-My-Space’ Callahan has a roommate? This I have to hear.”
“There’s nothing to hear. She needed a place to stay. Dennis set it up without asking me.”
“She?” Jen’s surprise morphed into a knowing smirk. “Now things are getting interesting.”
“It’s not like that,” I said quickly. Too quickly, judging by Jen’s expression. “She’s some scientist. Spilled coffee all over my floor within five minutes of meeting me.”
“Sounds like she’s making quite the impression.” Jen adjusted my leg position. “Ten more. And this time, keep your knee aligned.”
I focused on the exercise, forcing thoughts of cartoon microbes and messy buns out of my mind.
After finishing PT, I limped into Coach Martinez’s office, already knowing what this meeting would involve. He sat behind his desk, game footage playing on the monitor behind him.
“Stone,” he greeted me with a nod. “Take a seat. How’s the knee?”
“Getting stronger every day,” I said automatically.
He studied me, his experienced eyes likely seeing through the lie. “Team needs you back. Defense is falling apart without you.”
“I’m working on it, Coach.”
“Working on it isn’t enough anymore. Management’s breathing down my neck. Media’s asking questions. Fans are getting restless.” He leaned forward. “We’re in a playoff position now, but another few losses and we’re on the bubble.”
The pressure settled on my shoulders like a physical weight. “The doctors said—”
“I know what the doctors said,” he interrupted. “But you and I both know that recovery timelines are just guidelines. Players push through pain all the time.”
“It’s not about pain,” I argued. “It’s about function. If I can’t pivot properly, I’m useless on the ice.”
Coach sighed, running a hand over his face. “Look, I’m not asking you to do anything that would jeopardize your career. But I need you to understand what’s at stake here. This team was built around your defensive capabilities.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not doing everything possible to get back?”
“I think you’re playing it too safe,” he said bluntly. “The Stone Callahan I know would be fighting to get back on the ice, not hiding behind doctor’s orders.”
The accusation stung precisely because part of me feared it was true. Was I hiding? Was I letting fear of re-injury keep me sidelined longer than necessary?
“I’ll talk to the doctors about accelerating the timeline,” I conceded, though everything in me screamed it was a bad idea.
Coach nodded, satisfied. “That’s what I want to hear. Now, the PR team wants to schedule that comeback feature. They’re thinking next Wednesday.”
“Fine.” I stood, eager to end this conversation. “Anything else?”
“Yeah.” His expression softened slightly. “Don’t push too hard too fast. We need you at one hundred percent, not limping through games at sixty percent.
The contradiction wasn’t lost on me. Push harder, but not too hard. Come back sooner, but be fully healed.
“Got it, Coach.”
I left his office feeling the weight of expectations—the team’s, the fans’, my own—pressing down on me. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and for a moment, I hoped it was Desert Survivor. Instead it was my friend, Dennis.
Dennis
So how’s the roommate situation? She cute? You’re welcome, by the way.
I ignored it, shoving the phone back in my pocket. The last thing I needed was Dennis’s particular brand of help with my life.
By the time I returned to my apartment, I’d convinced myself that maybe having Kate as a temporary roommate wouldn’t be so bad. She’d be at her lab all day. I’d be at PT or the training facility. Our paths would barely cross.
That delusion lasted approximately three seconds after opening my refrigerator.