Chapter 4 #2
His thighs were massive, like tree trunks corded with muscle. His torso was a landscape of scars and definition. But my eyes kept being drawn to his left knee. It was swollen, a puffy red angry welt against his skin.
I stood by the counter, organizing the ice packs. It gave me something to do with my hands.
"It's a meniscus flare-up," he said quietly, breaking the silence. He was leaning back on his hands, staring at the ceiling. "Happens when I overtrain. Usually goes down in twenty-four hours."
"Usually," I echoed. "But you're pushing it. I watched you. You're trying to break yourself."
He didn't answer.
I walked over with a large ice pack wrapped in a towel.
"Lift," I instructed.
He looked at me, hesitant. Then, he lifted his leg out of the water.
I placed the ice pack on his knee. He hissed, his hands gripping the edge of the tub.
"Sorry," I murmured. I used the plastic wrap to secure the ice in place. My fingers grazed his skin—hot, rough, dusted with dark hair. The contrast with my manicured, soft hands was jarring.
I finished wrapping it and stepped back, leaning against the tile wall.
"So," I said. "You're broke."
He shot me a glare. " blunt much?"
"I don't have time for polite," I said. "And neither do you. You need three hundred dollars by tomorrow. And you need to pass your classes. And you need to keep your knee a secret from the trainer so you don't get benched."
"I'm handling it," he muttered.
"You're failing," I corrected. "I checked the team academic roster. It's part of my job. You're pulling a D in 'Ethics of Sports Management.' Which is ironic, considering you're the most ethical person I've ever met to a fault."
He groaned, covering his eyes with his forearm. "It's a paper. I have a ten-page paper due on Friday about 'The Commodification of the Athlete.' I haven't started. I work at the shop until midnight every night."
"The commodification of the athlete," I mused. "That's literally what I do. Branding. Marketing. Selling the image."
He moved his arm, looking at me with one eye. "So?"
"So," I said, pushing off the wall. "I can help you."
He laughed. "You're going to write my paper?"
"No, that would be cheating," I said. "But I can outline it for you. I can edit it. I can organize your research so it takes you two hours to write instead of ten. I can structure your study schedule so you're not cramming at 4 AM."
He looked skeptical. "And the money?"
"I can't give you money," I said. "My dad froze my accounts. Remember?"
"Right," he said, a flicker of shared misery crossing his face. "The billionaire pauper."
"But," I continued, "I have clothes. I have bags. I have things sitting in my closet that are worth more than your truck. There's a consignment shop in Burlington. If I give you a bag, you sell it. You keep the cash."
He sat up straighter, wincing as the ice pack shifted. "You want me to sell your purse? Sofia, I'm not taking your money."
"It's not charity," I said firmly. "It's a trade. Because I need something from you."
"What?" he asked. "What could I possibly give you?"
"Legitimacy," I said.
I walked closer to him, entering the V of his spread legs. It was a dangerous place to be. The heat coming off him was intoxicating.
"I need to keep this job, Liam. I need to prove to my father that I'm not just a spoiled brat. But no one in that locker room respects me. They look at me and see a pair of boobs and a checkbook. Jaxson jokes, but the rest of them? They think I'm a joke."
"You kind of are," he said, but there was no bite in it. It was almost affectionate.
"I know," I admitted. "But I can't be. Not anymore. I need you to... validate me. If The Wall respects me, the team respects me. If you stop rolling your eyes when I ask for inventory counts, they will too. If you treat me like a manager, they'll treat me like a manager."
He studied my face. He was looking for the lie. He was looking for the angle.
"So," he said slowly. "You help me pass my class and give me... contraband designer goods to fence for cash. And in exchange, I treat you like a human being?"
"Basically," I said. "We're allies. Reluctant, mutually annoyed allies."
He looked down at his knee, then back up at me. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the hydro jets.
"Why?" he asked softly. "Why help me? You could have just blackmailed me into helping you."
"Because," I whispered, the truth slipping out before I could stop it. "Because I saw your face when your sister called. And because... I know what it feels like to have a parent who makes you feel like you're drowning."
His expression softened. The hard lines around his mouth relaxed. For the first time since I met him, he looked young.
He reached out. His hand, large and rough, wrapped around my wrist. He didn't pull me closer, but he anchored me there.
"Okay," he said. His thumb brushed over the pulse point on my inner wrist. "Okay, Princess. It's a deal."
"Don't call me Princess," I said, but my voice lacked any heat.
"Fine," he murmured. "Partner."
The word hung in the air, heavy and promising.
"Partner," I agreed.
He didn't let go of my wrist. I didn't pull away. We stayed like that for a long moment, the pact sealed not in ink, but in the quiet, humid air of the training room.
"You should get that paper outline started," he said, his voice husky. "I have work in an hour."
"I will," I said. "And you should keep that ice on for another ten minutes."
"Yes, ma'am."
He smirked. It was a small, crooked thing, but it transformed his face. It was the most dangerous thing I had seen all morning.
I stepped back, my wrist tingling where he had touched me.
"I'll see you at practice," I said, turning toward the door.
"Sofia?"
I paused, hand on the handle. "Yeah?"
"Thanks."
He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at his knee, tracing the edge of the ice pack.
"Don't mention it," I said. "Literally. Don't."
I walked out into the hallway, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
We had a deal. I was going to save his grades. He was going to save my reputation.
But as I leaned against the cool cinderblock wall, closing my eyes, I knew the truth.
We were both already in way over our heads. Because when he touched my wrist, I didn't think about business. I didn't think about grades.
I thought about what those rough, desperate hands would feel like everywhere else.
And that was a problem no amount of marketing strategy could fix.