And then I see it.
Nova’s still in the hallway packing up her bag. Callum is next to her—twenty-two, no filter, thinks everything is an opening.
He says something.
She smiles.
Not the professional one.
The real one.
Something in my chest goes quiet.
I have no claim on that smile.
I keep walking.
I don’t look back.
I look back.
Chapter four
Jax
Davetextsmeatone.
Out sick. The physio team is sending someone.
Sorry man.
It’s Fine. I honestly don’t care who shows up. Just need the shoulder fixed before Thursday.
I drop my gear bag. Strip down completely — Dave’s seen everything, replacement will too, doesn’t matter. Grab the sheet off the counter, lay it across my hips and get on the table.
Thursday’s game runs on a loop. Their top line. Shooting patterns. Where the puck goes when the left side breaks down.
By minute eight I’m in a bad mood on principle.
I hear the door handle.
Fucking finally.
I don’t look up.
“Lotion’s on the counter behind you,” I say. “Left shoulder. Two pumps.”
Footsteps stop.
“It’s right there,” I say. “Green bottle.”
“I see the bottle.”
I turn my head.
Fuck.
Nova Shaw is standing just inside the door in leggings that have absolutely no business being in this room. Charcoal gray. Painted on. The kind that know a woman’s body so well they stopped asking permission.
