Page 23 of Pucking Secret

“How have you been?” he asks from his seat on the exam table. His tone is tight and uncertain, and I can tell he’s nervous.

Instead of answering, I look up and say, “I see you had a shoulder injury last season. Have you had any issues with it in the past three months?”

“I’m careful with it,” he replies, though I can sense he’s barely thinking about the question. “Listen, Stacey?—”

"Let’s go over your shoulder mobility," I say, cutting him off and reaching for his arm. My fingertips brush his skin, and for a split-second, the warmth catches me off guard. I ignore it, keeping my grip firm as I lift his arm and guide it through a series of movements, assessing his range. I notice he holds his breath a little each time I touch him, and it’s taking all my concentration not to pull my hand away and retreat.

"Any pain here?" I ask, rotating his arm carefully. He shakes his head, his gaze focused somewhere near my shoulder, but there’s an intensity in his expression that makes me feel trapped. Like he’s trying to read me, to pick up on any sign of what’s going on in my head.

“Good,” I say, clearing my throat and moving to check his other shoulder. I place my hand on his back, feeling the muscles tense under my palm. “Relax,” I tell him, and the word feels more like a command for me than for him. I’m guiding him through a stretch, my hand skimming over the lines of his arm, shoulder, and back. There’s nothing inappropriate in the touch—it’s clinical and practiced, but with him, everything feels loaded. Every movement, every accidental brush of his skin against mine, sends an all-too-familiar heat rushing through me.

It’s getting really hard to breathe… and hot. Damn, why is it so hot in this room? The last thing I want is for him to see me sweat.

Finally, I step back and refocus on his medical chart.

"Your mobility looks fine," I say, a little too briskly, scribbling a few notes.

He’s quiet, watching me closely.

"Thanks," he says, his voice low. I don’t look up, don’t let myself meet his gaze because if I do, I might lose the last shreds of composure I have left.

I grit my teeth, pretending to read over his records again. A tense silence falls between us, and I don’t know what to do now. Can I get out of this room without him trying to say anything else?

“I wanted to apologize,” he says, his voice low, almost hesitant. “For how I left. I know it wasn’t fair. It was… wrong.”

Shit, there’s no escape. My chest tightens, and I keep my gaze down. I can’t look at him. I just can’t. Of course, he wants to apologize now, years later, when it doesn’t matter. When it doesn’t change anything.

“I just wish I could have told you face-to-face,” he continues softly, a hint of regret in his tone. “I should’ve talked to you instead of sending that letter.”

My stomach twists at the mention of that damn letter. A small part of me appreciates that he’s at least willing to acknowledge the letter was a bad move, but it’s too little, too late. It was a cowardly way to break things off with me, but it was years ago. We were in high school, young, and stupid. Holding onto my anger and heartache isn’t going to be good for either of us, and I have to think of Millie. I have to protect her.

He hasn’t mentioned Millie, actually. That makes me nervous but I’m not going to be the one who brings her up.

“I appreciate your apology,” I say, finally forcing my gaze up to his. “We can put it behind us and move forward.”

The corners of his mouth twitch into a small smile, but I don’t share it. This seems to unsettle him. I don’t care. I can forgive him for how he handled things in the past, but I’m not about to let him get close enough to me to hurt me again. I worked so hard to put myself back together and build a life for myself and for Millie. No one will tear down everything I’ve made.

Clearing my throat, I tell him, “I should get back to work. You’re good to go. We’ll follow up in a few months, and if any issues come up with your shoulder, let me know right away.”

With that, I move to the door and hurry out of the exam room. It doesn’t surprise me when he follows after me. He was the same way in high school. Easygoing and oh-so-polite on the surface, but go a few layers down and you find the stubborn man underneath who dwells on everything and won’t let an issue go. By the time I’m in the reception area, he’s moved to block my path.

“Stacey, wait,” he says. “Please, tell me if there’s anything I can do to make up for what I did. I want us to be friends, if possible.”

I shrug and shake my head, aiming for nonchalance, even though my mind is swirling with panic.

“It’s fine. Really, don’t worry about… it was a long time ago.”

I slip past him and walk out of the PT area and into the hallway. I don’t know where I’m going, I just know I have to get away from him. However, I hear him chasing after me, his footsteps echoing off the concrete floor and walls of the stadium.

“Stacey, please…”

Ignoring him, I turn a corridor, deciding to head to the bathroom, and nearly run smack dab into Zander and Wilder.

“Whoa,” Wilder says, reaching out and laying his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “You okay, Stace?”

“Oh… hey guys,” I stammer. “I’m good. Was just heading to the bathroom.”

“Owen! Hey man,” Zander declares with a smile. I glance over my shoulder and see that Owen has come around the corner. I pray he doesn’t say anything in front of these guys, and I pray they don’t say anything in front of him.

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