Page 18 of Citius

And I’d been on the highest allowable dose for almost three years.

Chemical warfare was necessary. I needed to be in control. Nothing could put my fellowship in jeopardy. I was less than a year away from success—from becoming a full-fledged sports medicine physician, from undeniable proof of recovery.

Something Cal Carling had no right to interfere with. And I would not pretend that he did.

“I’ll take it under advisement.” My clipped tone betrayed the distance between our points of view.

An uncomfortable smile twisted his expression, digging deep lines around his eyes. My fingers itched to smooth everything back out. But I wouldn’t.

“Morgan, I’m just–”

Whistles pierced the air as the Narwhals failed to advance on the third down. The coaching staff huddled for a brief, tense conversation before calling for a field goal.

A close-up of Landon Choi’s face filled the screens. Slim and composed, he brushed long, dark bangs away from his determined gaze, then pulled on his helmet. To think we’d almost benched him for this game—and now he might kick the winning field goal.

But could he do it?

The slight pressure of Cal’s hand against the small of my back caught me off-guard. I flinched in surprise—but didn’t resist—as he guided me to stand before him, ensuring I had a clear view of the video boards. His touch only lasted a few seconds, but the impression lingered, taunting me with its gentle warmth.

He touched me. Cal had never touched me before.

“Kid’s got good odds from this distance,” Cal said in a low voice, more disarming than a whisper. “He can do it.”

A fresh roar swept across the crowd as Landon took his place on the thirty-seven-yard line. The snap was solid. Landon’s form was perfect as his foot connected with the ball, which soared over the crossbar, dead center between the posts.

“It’s good!” the stadium announcer crowed. “Narwhals are ahead, seventeen to fourteen, with forty-three seconds left on the clock!”

Cal lowered his head, bringing his lips even to the top of my ear. “Youdid this.”

“It was the data.”

“No, it was you.”

His hand brushed my elbow as if to drive the point home. Again. Cal touched meagain.

“He wouldn’t have been on the field today if it wasn’t for you, Morgan.”

I gave a rough nod of acknowledgment but couldn’t bring myself to look at him. A fresh dose of his all-knowing designation science guru expression might set me off.

“You care so much about everyone else’s health.” Cal took half a step closer, his body almost flush against my back. “Can’t you spare some of the same concern for yourself?”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, careful to mask my insincerity.

After a long moment, Cal stepped back, the intimate cocoon of his thoughtfulness replaced with the harsh afternoon sun and thundering cries of victory.

The game was over. We won.

Time to get back to work.

***

Heaving a sigh of relief, I said goodbye to Dr. McEwen and gathered my things. Another win in the books—thankfully, without any significant injuries.

As I headed out of the stadium, I texted my younger brother, Rory.

Finished. Meet me at the narwhal statue in the staff lot.

He attended the game with some other first-year students and was waiting nearby to go home with me for the rest of the weekend. We hadn’t talked much since the start of the semester, and I was looking forward to hearing all about my baby brother’s college exploits.

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