I drop out of the stance and roll my shoulder before pressing two fingers against my wrist. It still aches. Even with the extra rest from our bye week and all the icing I’ve been doing, the pain hasn’t gone away. Deep down, I know I’ll probably have to tell someone eventually. Just not yet. Not until we’ve stacked a few more wins first.
“Do you want to come down for some lunch?” One of the assistants asks as she wraps a white, fluffy robe around me.
Finally, I don’t feel like every inch of my body is on display.
“Yeah.”
She guides me down the clock tower stairs toward the catering tent, where everyone’s crowded around heaters and trays of food.
I grab a plate and check my phone out of instinct, half-expecting to see something from Honey or Olivia by now, but there’s nothing.
She’s probably too busy actually enjoying herself to think about me sitting here waiting for literally anything from her.
I do have a text from Dax, though.
Dax:So.... how are things going? Some blurry pictures have made the tabloids of you and Whit. They're already calling you sport’s newest couple.
I start typing out a response, but a sharp pain shoots through my wrist.
“Fuck.”
I flex my hand once before stopping immediately when the ache intensifies.
“You keep doing that,” a voice from behind says. I look up to see Whit Marlow near the equipment table, lounging in a folding chair. She’s wearing the same robe as me, and her bare legs are stretched out while she lazily munches on an apple.
“Doing what?” I ask, taking her in. “Checking my phone?”
She swallows her bite and nods at my wrist. “No. That. Your hand. Is there something wrong with it?”
Well, shit. I thought I’d been doing a pretty good job at hiding it. Clearly not. We’ve only been on set a couple of hours, and she’s noticed.
I drop my hand, flexing my fingers. “It's just a reflex.”
“Mhm.” She takes another bite of her apple, still watching me. “Is that what you tell your coach when he asks about it too?”
“I don't—”
She raises her hand, cutting me off. “It's not a criticism. I get it. If you tell them, it becomes the story, and then you become the liability. The all-star rookie who was supposed to save the franchise, but he can't, because he's too fragile. No one wants to be that storyline.”
“I'm not that storyline,” I say firmly.
“Mhm.” Her brow rises, and the look she gives me tells me she doesn't believe a damn word I'm saying. Then she takes another bite of her apple, still sizing me up. “Have you been playing on it?”
“Yeah.” There's no point denying it. I’ve seen her play. She’s relentless and will keep asking until I give her a reasonable answer.
“Just be careful. It could knock you out for longer and put your contract in jeopardy.”
“You sound awfully concerned for me considering we just met this morning,” I say with mild amusement. I tuck my phone into my robe pocket and reach over for some food.
“My dad's a sports fan. When he's not gushing over the Carolina Catfish, he's watching the Raptors, so I have a vested interest in caring.”
“You're one dutiful daughter.”
“Yeah, but I also know how being stupid and playing on an injury can take you out for longer than expected.”
I tilt my head, looking at her.
“Knee,” she says, by way of explanation, pushing her robe a little so she can tap her left leg. That’s when I realize she’s in the same Ascent gear as me, albeit she looks a lot more comfortable than I do. “Screwed it up when I was playing in the college championship for Rome U. Would've been able to go pro sooner if I wasn't nursing that injury.”
