Eight years. It feels like a lifetime. But I know, without a doubt, that I’d wait eighteen if I had to. Because she’s worth it and I have faith that we’ll make our way back to each other.
Because a saint never gives up on a miracle.
CHAPTER ONE
PRESENT
Presley
The training room in the Titans’ facility is a cathedral of high-tech machinery and sterile white surfaces, and there’s a faint scent of eucalyptus disinfectant in the air. It’s a space designed for elite performance, for building human bodies that are worth millions. Usually, there’s a clatter of banging weights and three-hundred-pound men groaning under the strain of their own expectations.
However, at six a.m. on a Tuesday in the offseason, it’s a ghost town. The lights are dim, and the only sound is the rhythmic thump on an AlterG treadmill.
It’s just Saint today. And me.
He was drafted by my dad’s team in the first round eight years ago and has been with the team ever since. And now I’m here, too, for the long haul.
Once my fellowship was completed, I came to work as the team’s physician, just as our previous doctor was retiring. I knew I would be here in some capacity, but Eddie was ready to head South to the sunshine, and it was really on his request that I take over for him. So, with a season under my belt, here we are.
“If you groan one more time, I’m doubling the resistance,” I say, leaning against the squat rack with my arms crossed over my chest.
Saint is dripping with sweat and looks like a Greek god carved out of marble. He lets out a sound that’s pretty close to a growl. “I’m not groaning. I’m exhaling with intent, Doc. Big difference.”
“Whatever you say.” I smirk, then check the readout on his digital knee brace. “Let’s do five more minutes. I want you to lower the elevation and reduce the speed. If that repair pops, my father will have my head on a silver platter. And I kinda need my head to do my job.”
Once he finishes on the treadmill, he steps off and wipes his face with his towel. “What’s next?”
“Let’s do some box squats—lower weight than your usual. Take it slow on increasing until we meet with your surgeon next week.”
“I’m feeling good though. I don’t think I need the bench.”
“I hear you, but I’m not taking any chances. We need you ready to go by camp.” I tap the bar and watch as he sets the weights.
Once he’s finished, he gets in position.
“Do three sets of five and see how you feel.”
He begins, and I watch him grit his teeth, the muscles in his thighs bunching as he descends into the squat. Watching Saint work out is a hazardous occupation for a woman with a pulse. Eight years have turned the college kid I knew into a force of nature. He’s much broader now, his shoulders ripple with hard-earned muscle, and his jawline is sharp enough to draw blood.
He’s the star defensive tackle of the Titans, a key player in the franchise my family has built.
And he’s also my most frustrating patient.
Mostly because he likes to give me a hard time by challenging me, but also … every time he looks at me, I feel like I’m twenty-two again, feeling his lips press against mine. It’s a memory that was seared in my brain for a lifetime, even though nothing has happened between us since.
I turned thirty in May. I don’t make a big deal of my birthday, and I forbid my family from doing anything for me at the office. But Saint took me out to dinner at one of my favorite spots in the city. It was nice and easy. For a moment during that dinner, I thought about the pact we had made that night of our kiss in college. Neither of us had talked about it after that night, even in all these years we’d spent time together, but I wondered if he still had the paper we’d each signed, tucked away in his safe, like he’d said he would. I never asked because, well, we had just been kids, and Saint had had his fair share of girlfriends since that time. So, I stacked it up to be a joke.
Besides, my dad drilled it into my sister and me that ballers were only interested in a few things—money, women, partying, and football. He told us not to get mixed up with a man whose entire future depended on keeping his life uncomplicated.
So, that’s where Saint and I have kept our relationship—as best friends.
I drift back to the present, and I can’t deny that he is captivating to watch. I move around him, checking his form.
I see the way his green eyes track my every movement as he rises from the squat. I have a feeling he knows I like what I see. And I also have a feeling he’s just as attracted to me. But I’ll never ask.
“Done.” He blows out a breath, dropping the bar with a heavy clank that echoes through the gym.
Shit, I lost count.
