Page 7 of Chasing The Goal
“See,” he said between breaths, “I knew you had a soft side in there somewhere.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
We finished the first set and I handed him a small towel. He wiped his face and reached for his water bottle, arms flexing in a way that forced me to stare at the wall for a second just to get it together.
“I gotta ask,” he said, sipping his water. “What made you get into this line of work?”
I blinked. That wasn’t a throwaway question. It was real.
I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. “I’ve always been into sports. But I was also always the kid icing her ankle or getting taped up. When I realized I could combine anatomy and competition with helping people get back to doing what they love? That was it for me.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “That’s cool. Most of us on the team just want to hit things for a living.”
“You still do,” I said with a smirk.
“Yeah,” he laughed. “Guess I’m simple like that.”
And yet… not.
There was something about Jaymie Prescott that didn’t quite match the surface. He was loud, yes. Flirty, sure. But under all that charm was something quieter, and almost awkward. Like he was always watching, always thinking. Like he carried a lot of pressure and covered it with jokes.
That made him dangerous. Because I liked the quiet ones.
“Okay,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Cool down stretch, and then you’re free to limp your way out of here.”
He groaned. “Do I at least get a sticker?”
“No. But you get a gold star in my notes fornotpretending to cry this time.”
He grinned. “Progress.”
I watched him walk out of the room with a noticeable hitch in his gait, but his smile was still firmly in place. He turned at the doorway, gave me a small salute, and disappeared into the hall.
I leaned back against the counter, heart annoyingly warm in my chest.
Trouble,I thought again.
But maybe the kind I didn’t mind inviting back.
Mallory
By the time Imade it into the main lobby of my apartment building six hours later, my shoulders were aching, my sneakers felt like they were made of lead, and my sports bra had been cutting into my ribs for approximately four hours too long. I just wanted to get upstairs, put on sweatpants, and eat something that came from a box that didn’t require effort. I hit the numbered button for my floor, one hand already rummaging in my bag for my keys when someone called out “Hold the elevator!”
I reached out automatically, wedging my arm between the closing doors and pressing the button to hold themopen. The door slowly revealing a familiar figure precariously, bounding in her direction – juggling three oversized grocery bags in his hands and an oversized duffle on his back. How he managed that on crutches, the world may never know.
Low and behold, Jaymie Prescott.
Of course.
“Wow,” I said, eyeing the bags of grocerys, as he clumsily maneuvered into the elevator, “are you hosting a dinner party for ten or feeding a small village?”
He blew out a breath, shifting the bags to one side with the finesse of someone who clearly did not carry groceries often. “Stopped at my mom’s. She saw me hobbling and went into immediate action. This is her subtle way of saying I’m incapable of basic survival.”
I glanced down at the bags. “This is subtle?”
“You should’ve seen what she packed the last time I had a sinus infection.”
A laugh bubbled up from my chest before I could stop it. “You’ve got, what—lasagna, meatballs, salad, deli meat, a loaf of bread the size of my arm… is that a pie?”
