Page 2 of The Assist
I grin. “You wound me.”
She doesn’t respond. Just keeps working, probing the joint, and testing the range of motion. Her face stays neutral, and focused, but her eyes flick to mine every so often. She’s not unaffected. I can tell. There’s a tension here, something electric, and not just the pain shooting down my arm.
“How bad?” I ask, quieter now. There’s concern etched on her face and I’m afraid she’ll bench me for longer than necessary.
“Rotator cuff’s angry. Maybe a partial tear. Can’t tell for sure until you stop being dramatic and let me finish.”
“Drama’s half the charm.” It’s a cheeky shot but a man’s gotta try.
“You’re a walking PR crisis. That’s your charm.”
I laugh. Or try to. It hurts.
She wraps my shoulder with precision, tight enough to restrict movement, loose enough to let me breathe. Her fingers are fast, and efficient. She’s done this a thousand times, no doubt. Just maybe not on someone like me.
“You’re not going back on the ice until I say so,” she says firmly.
And there it is. I’m benched for the foreseeable. “I figured as much.”
“And you’re not self-diagnosing on X again. That was embarrassing.” Mia fixes me with a stare, almost daring me to challenge her.
“Come on, it was one post.”
With a shake of her head, she responds, “You said you’d ‘rattled your rib meat.’ What the hell even is that?”
“I was concussed. Cut me some slack.”
She rolls her eyes, then grabs my ankle and I wince as she rotates it slowly. “Swelling already. You iced it?”
“Only with sarcasm and alcohol.” I can’t help but wink when she looks at me with disdain.
“You’re insufferable.”
“But charming.” I counter.
“Nope.”
“Sexy?”
“Like a wet sock.” She deadpans like a pro.
I grin again, even as she presses into the joint, and I grunt. “You do enjoy hurting me.”
“You think this is bad, try skipping rehab. I’ll make your life hell.”
I watch her work, jaw tight, focused entirely on the job. She’s not like the others. I’ve had physios wrap me up with smiles and flirty chatter, bat their lashes and ask for tickets for friends and family. Not Mia. She’s all business. She’s not impressed by goals or fame or the fact that half the city’s got my poster above their bed. That just makes me more determined.
I don’t do attachments. Not real ones. I’m great at the start with all the flirting, touching, and whispering things I don’t mean. But when it gets real, I’m already out the door. Call it damage control, or maybe instinct. Either way, Mia’s the kind of woman you don’t mess with unless you’re serious. And serious isn’t my brand.
She finishes taping my ankle, then stands back. “You’re officially broken,” she says. “Congratulations.”
“Still prettier than Murphy, though.” My ribs hurt when I try to quash the laughter that bubbles in my chest.
“Low bar.”
I look at her, and for a second, the banter drops. She’s got lines of tiredness around her eyes, tension in her shoulders like she’s holding up the world. I wonder how much she’s had to prove to get here. How many Diesel Winters she’s had to push back against.
“Thanks,” I say, softer this time.
