Chapter Eighteen
MIRACULOUS RECOVERY
Tori
Grayson Reed’s hip injury is a medical marvel.
It flares up whenever I’m on shift and disappears completely when James covers for me—almost like it has access to my Google calendar.
Funny how that works.
This is the third “emergency treatment” he’s needed this week. The first time, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. The second time, I was suspicious. Now I’m just annoyed.
He’s also developed a habit of needing ice baths when I’m restocking the training room—ice baths that apparently require nothing but a pair of very snug black boxer briefs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
It’s a lot. And he always has “quick questions” that turn into fifteen minutes of him leaning against doorframes in a towel, smiling like he’s waiting for me to notice how charming he is.
I’ve noticed. I’m just not impressed.
“Right here,” he says, pointing vaguely at his hip flexor. “It’s been killing me.”
I palpate the area. No inflammation. No tightness. No strain beyond what any athlete carries. His hip is perfectly fine, and we both know it.
“Feels normal to me.” I step back from the table, frowning. “Ice if it bothers you, but honestly? There’s nothing there.”
“Maybe I just like the attention.” He sits up slowly, watching me. “You’ve got good hands, Wells.”
“It’s my job.”
“Still.” He swings his legs off the table and stands, positioning himself between me and the door now, which I’m sure is just a coincidence, even if it feels a little odd. “We should grab a drink sometime. Celebrate my miraculous recovery.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on.” He takes a step closer. “One drink. What’s the harm?”
“I don’t date players.” I keep my voice flat. Bored. “It’s not personal.”
“Everything’s personal.” Another step. He’s close enough now that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and aggressive, like he bathed in it. “I’ve seen the way you look at Bishop.”
My heart stutters, but I keep my face blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do.” His smile sharpens. “You’ve got a type. I’m just trying to figure out where I fit.”
“You don’t.”
The words come out harder than I intended. Good.
His expression fades. The charming mask slips, just for a second, revealing something uglier underneath. Entitlement. Irritation. The look of a man who’s not used to hearing no.
“That’s not very friendly,” he says softly.
“I’m not here to be friendly. I’m here to do my job.” I grab my tablet from the counter and move toward the door. Toward him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
He doesn’t move.
For a long, uncomfortable moment, we just stand there. Him blocking the exit. Me refusing to back down. The air between us thick.
“Reed.” I keep my voice steady. “Move.”
He holds my gaze for another beat. Then he steps aside, hands raised in mock surrender.
“Relax, Wells. I was just making conversation.”
I push past him without responding. My shoulder brushes his chest as I go, and I hate how much I want to shower after that brief contact.
“See you around,” he calls after me.
I don’t look back. But I feel his eyes on me all the way down the hall, and the expression I glimpsed before I turned away?
It said this isn’t over.
· · ·
I shouldn’t tell Zayden.
It’s not his problem. We’re not together—not really, not officially—and the last thing I need is him going full protective alpha and doing something stupid that gets him in trouble.
I can handle Grayson Reed. I’ve been handling guys like him my entire career.
But when I walk into the training room an hour later and find Zayden there—alone, stretching his shoulder, looking up at me with those dark eyes—it just spills out.
“Reed’s been... a lot,” I blurt out after our third round of stretches.
He goes still. Completely, unnaturally still, like a predator who’s just caught a scent. “What do you mean, a lot?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“That’s not what I asked.” His voice is low. Controlled.
I set my tablet down and lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “He asked me out. I said no. He didn’t take it well.”
“Didn’t take it well how?”
“Blocked the door. Got in my space.”
Zay’s nostrils flare. “What the fuck?”
“And he mentioned you,” I say finally. “Said something about how I’ve got a type.”
Zayden’s jaw tightens. A muscle tics near his temple. “What did you say?”
“It’s fine,” I add quickly. “I handled it. And he eventually backed off.”
“For now.”
“Zayden—”
“It’s not fine.” He stands, closing the distance between us in two steps. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, can see the tension coiled in every line of his body. “If he bothers you again—”
“You’ll what? Punch him? And end up suspended?” I raise an eyebrow. “How exactly does that help me?”
He exhales. A long, slow breath, like he’s physically forcing himself to calm down.
“It doesn’t,” he admits. “I know it doesn’t.”
“So don’t.”
“I’m trying.” His hands are clenched at his sides. “But when you tell me some asshole is cornering you, blocking doors, making you uncomfortable—”
“I didn’t say he made me uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t have to.”
We stare at each other. The air between us charged with everything we’re not saying.
“Tell Dana,” he says finally. “Document everything. Dates, times, what he said. Create a paper trail.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then we figure out the next step. Together.” He holds my gaze. “But if he touches you—if he puts his hands on you, even once—I don’t care about suspensions. I don’t care about headlines. Yeah?”
That soft “yeah” at the end. It shouldn’t make me feel safe, seen, and cared for. But it does.
“Yeah,” I whisper back.
He nods once. Then he reaches out and takes my hand—just holds it, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. The gesture is so simple, so steady, that it hits harder than any kiss would.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”
I do know that. That’s what terrifies me.
“I know.”
He drops his hand, steps back, and the loss of contact feels like a physical thing.
“Ice my shoulder?” he asks, and just like that, we’re back to professional. Back to the roles we’re supposed to be playing.
“Sit down,” I say. “And stop getting into fights you can’t win.”
“Who says I can’t win?”
“You’d win the fight and lose everything else. Suspension. Headlines. Who knows what else.” I grab the ice pack. “Not worth it.”
Zayden frowns, watching me with those dark eyes.
He’s impossible. Protective and stubborn and way too intense for his own good.
And somehow, despite every rule I’ve ever made for myself, I’m in deep. Way too deep. That’s the scariest part of all.