week flies by at an unnaturally fast pace. Before I know it, it’s Thursday morning and we’re due to report for the first day of our internship with Christina at ten-thirty a.m. But first, our entire cohort attends a special Athletic Training Professional Practice Seminar where we are treated to a lengthy lecture from Professor Rempel that does nothing to assuage my fears.
She prattles on about internship rules, protocols, and expectations while I nod and smile, having a silent meltdown at my desk. Gnawing my bottom lip, I weigh whether to request a reassignment. If I do, I risk ruining my reputation within the entire department. Being unable to set personal issues aside could reflect poorly on me. Not to mention, this is the first year they’ve allowed undergraduate female athletic trainers to work with the men’s hockey team. Do I really want to hand them a reason to never do it again? Maybe I’m experiencing some delusions of grandeur, but I feel like I would be singlehandedly setting back the feminist cause.
Professor Rempel wraps up her speech, raising her voice to emphasize her last point. “. . . and as I’m sure you’re already aware, internships are a professional environment, and you will be expected to adhere to departmental standards of behavior. Amorous or sexual relationships are strictly prohibited between student trainers and their athletes.”
A sliver of hope creeps in. Technically, Nash and I aren’t involved in either of those. We’re practically strangers now. It’s almost like we never happened. Or at least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself.
After our seminar wraps up, Julianna and I walk one building over to LSU’s sprawling, state-of-the-art hockey facility. It’s a veritable shrine to the sport, sleek and modern, finished in monochromatic shades of gray with stainless steel accents. An oversized Griswold the Grizzly statue sits in the center of the vaulted atrium, backed by a massive glass wall filled with framed championship photos and gleaming trophies from past seasons.
We reach the tiled corridor that leads to the Hockey Conditioning Center, dodging idle students milling about, and a queasy feeling floods the pit of my stomach. What if Nash has a girlfriend? It’s a given that he’s moved on—I have, too. But knowing that and seeing it are two very different things. I’ve spent the last two years intentionally avoiding that very kind of information. What if I have to see Nash with someone else at their games all semester?
My steps slow to a crawl, verging on immobile. I know I need to keep moving forward, but my feet don’t want to cooperate. Under different circumstances, I would be excited; in this case, it feels more like marching to my own execution. It’ll be the death of my sanity, at the very least.
Worst part is, I bet Nash won’t even blink.
Julianna touches my arm, bringing my thought spiral to a screeching halt. “Nervous?”
“First-day jitters, you know how it is.” I take another sip of my vanilla latte, even though a stimulant is the last thing I need. Between the caffeine and my nerves, I’m vibrating.
Our destination comes into view, and I toss my half-full coffee cup in the trash before I follow Julianna into the training room. I’m greeted by fluorescent lighting, the rubber smell of gym flooring, and an entire team’s worth of hockey players scattered haphazardly around the room. A dream come true for many sports fans and puck bunnies alike, but my worst nightmare.
Our friend and classmate, Preston, is already standing at the front of the room, evidently far more prepared than I am for what’s about to transpire. He looks like a textbook athletic trainer with his sandy blond hair neatly styled, dark gray athletic pants, and a black Grizzlies zip-up jacket that he must have recently picked up from the campus store. He nods at us, and I follow Julianna to join him.
When Preston’s gaze settles on me, his mouth pulls into a concerned frown. “You look a little pale. Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” The rasp in my voice says otherwise.
“Right,” he says, unconvinced. “Now that we’ve got that lie out of the way, how are you actually doing?”
“A little nervous,” I admit.
His eyes linger on me for another beat and it’s clear he’s about to push the issue. Before he can, Julianna strikes up a conversation with him about a biomechanics quiz next week. Mental note to buy her drinks tonight as a thank you for rescuing me from that line of questioning.
Trying to appear relaxed, I clasp my hands to stop myself from fidgeting and scan the room, spotting a handful of semi-familiar faces. Between the roster that Christina sent out, the players I was acquainted with through Nash, and the various promotional campaigns around campus, I can identify over half of the team.
Then my eyes land on Nash in the middle of the crowd, and the air in my lungs turns to cement.
He’s sitting next to his best friend, Vaughn, with his long legs sprawled out in front of him and a bored expression on his handsome face. His sun-kissed brown hair is trimmed shorter on the sides, his jawline is sharper, and his broad frame boasts significantly more muscle, but it’s him. Heartbreak in human form, sitting right in front of me.
Of course, in the way life tends to mess with you, he’s hotter than ever. A lingering summer glow warms his skin, and charcoal athletic shorts display his powerful calves and thighs. A new—or perhaps not-so-new, just new to me—sleeve of dark tattoos adorns the entire length of his right arm, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his black athletic shirt. My focus lingers on him while I fight to draw in a breath, obstructed by invisible chains wrapping around my ribcage.
Nash’s attention swivels over to me, and my heart slams into my chest.
I’ve spent twenty-eight months convincing myself it was better this way, rationalizing my way out of feeling things for him. Logic over emotion. Brain over heart. Convincing myself what we had was never real.
And the moment our eyes lock, all those lies I’ve told myself shatter at my feet.
His expression remains impassive as he holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer than casual eye contact should entail. Somehow, looking at him makes two years feel like yesterday and decades ago all at once. My pulse accelerates with every passing moment until he breaks away and returns his attention to his teammate sitting on the other side of him, leaning in to say something.
I don’t recognize his other teammate; while seated, he appears almost as tall as Nash, but his frame is lankier, and he has dark blond hair with movie-star white teeth. He’s hot, objectively speaking, but Nash is downright mesmerizing. I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from him.
A wolf-whistle yanks me back to reality and the brightly lit training room. My focus shifts to Christina, standing at the front of the classroom clad in black dress pants and a fitted gray LSU athletics polo. Behind her, Coach Ward leans against the wall, wearing similar LSU training gear. Soon, it’ll be my uniform, too.
“Okay, team. I’m going to read off a list of athletes for each trainer.” Christina raises her voice to be heard over the handful of players still chattering, holding up her black clipboard.
Coach Ward wields a reproachful look at the group, making a “settle down” motion with his hands, and a hush immediately falls over everyone. He’s a silver fox with the athletic body of someone half his age, broad shoulders and toned torso evident beneath his shirt. He’s also incredibly intimidating in a quiet way—the kind of person who silently commands a room. Though rumor has it, on the rare occasion that he does ream out the players, his yells echo throughout the entire first floor of the building.
Christina continues, “Athletes, this will be your assistant student trainer for the semester. Today, they’re going to run each of you through an individual assessment while I train the rest of the group. We’ll go in order, so if your name is called first, please see your trainer as soon as this is finished. Everyone else can gather in the main gym.”
As she begins to list off names, my heart rate—already double what it should be, according to my Apple Watch—skyrockets to an all-time high. Preston’s group is first, and Nash isn’t in it. I fiddle with the sleeve of my jacket while I wait, barely able to breathe. The odds are fifty-fifty now, which is far too close for comfort. But with any luck, Nash will be with Julianna instead of me.
“Violet”—Christina gestures to me with her clipboard and glances down at her list—“James Anderson, Ryder Smith, Brent Benson, Nash Richards, Connor Haas, and Spencer Davidson.”
My chest tightens at the fourth name, vision starting to tunnel. I can’t hear what Christina says next because I’m too focused on keeping the blueberry bagel I ate for breakfast from making an appearance on the training room floor.
Christina finishes reading out the rest of the names in Julianna’s group, directing us to break into our respective trainer-athlete pairings while the remainder head to the gymnasium to warm up. Everyone proceeds to disperse around the room, moving purposefully to their next destination. Nash strolls through the gymnasium doors without looking back.
Once he’s out of sight, I manage to regain some semblance of normal functionality, and my first intake runs smoothly. My athlete is polite and cooperative, well-versed in evaluations like the one I’m conducting. It helps that all the players were already assessed by the training and medical team; this is purely for my own experience, to replicate real-life practice.
Before I know it, I’m finishing my third assessment with Brent Benson, a junior defenseman who struggles with chronic Femoroacetabular Impingement in his hip. I can already tell I’m going to learn an immense amount over the course of the semester. Hands-on, immersive education provides a million times more learning opportunities than a lecture ever could.
This would be the perfect internship if not for the whole, “working-with-the-ex-who-pulverized-my-heart” factor.
Brent hops off the table, raking a hand through his unruly copper curls. “Want me to send the next guy in? Who is it?” He reaches over to grab his light gray LSU hockey sweatshirt off the chair next to him.
“Nash,” I tell him, realizing only too late that being on a first-name basis with him makes us sound overly familiar. “Uh, Nash Richards.”
He nods, pulling on his hoodie overhead. “I’ll let him know.”
“Thanks.”
Brent’s tall figure disappears into the gym, leaving me alone in my assessment area. Filaments of memories with Nash whirl through my brain, haunting and intrusive. Our first kiss, first time, first fight. He was my first everything. First heartbreak, too. I grit my teeth, shoving down the thoughts.
A split second later, Nash crosses the threshold dividing the rooms. My pulse goes haywire, and I have the most ridiculous urge to hide behind the assessment table. Or leave. Leaving sounds like a pretty solid plan. Who needs to graduate? Degrees are overrated.
He dawdles over to my corner at an impossibly slow pace, stone-faced like he’s heading to a goddamn funeral. I’m not happy, either, but I like to think I’m hiding it better than him.
When he comes to stand next to me, he looms, more than a full foot taller than me. Larger than life, especially this up close. I’d forgotten how gigantic he is—he’s easily the biggest one on the team this year. And of course, they stuck him with me, the smallest athletic trainer. Probably as some kind of test. If only they knew what a test it was going to be.
With a deep breath and a prayer, I try to steady my voice. “Hi.”
It’s the first thing I’ve said to Nash in over two years.
“Hey.” His voice is flat, expression to match. He seems wholly unimpressed with being stuck together; wholly unimpressed with me in general, like I have zero effect on him whatsoever.
Wish I could say the same about his effect on me.
When I fail to say anything further, he heaves a weary sigh, scanning the curtained area. “Where do we start?”
“Um . . .” Even though I just performed three intakes, I have no idea what I’m doing. The moment Nash started to head in my direction, everything I learned in school and clinical placements flew out the window. As far as my mind is concerned, it might as well be the first day of freshman year.
I steal a glance at Julianna, who’s talking to her athlete while recording notes on the assessment form, and my brain sputters like a rusty engine kicking into gear. “Have a seat so I can ask you the preliminary questions.”
Nash sinks onto the gray vinyl therapy table and places his elbows on his muscular thighs, watching me with a blank expression. It’s impossible to tell what’s going on in his head. Shutting people out is his superpower, and right now, he’s harnessing that to its fullest.
The intricately inked designs along his right forearm catch my attention, dark swirling patterns encasing his corded muscles. Then my gaze slides lower, to his hands. They’re twice the size of my own, his fingers still visibly rough and callused like before. A tiny shiver runs through me. Those hands have been on my body. Those fingers have been inside me. Other parts of his body have been inside me, too.
Focus, Violet.
I grab my clipboard and pen, perching on the black pleather stool across from him. My hands are trembling, and I clutch the clipboard tightly to hide it. It’s painfully awkward as we run through the items on the athletic training intake form, verifying personal information like his full name and date of birth. While the intake questionnaire buys me some time before I have to touch Nash, it’s unnerving in its own way because I already know a majority of the answers other than a few minor developments over the past two years.
Scanning the list, I move on to the next item. “Do you have any concerns, injuries, or other issues that are bothering you?” My pen hovers above the page, ready to record his response.
“No.”
Liar. Every high-level competitive athlete has at least one chronic issue, and I am confident Nash has more than that.
“You sure about that?” I arch a brow, glancing up at him. Now that we’re closer, faint blue circles line his eyes. He looks tired; weary in a way that sleep won’t fix.
Nash meets my gaze evenly. “Positive.”
Clearly, I’m not going to get anywhere with him stonewalling me, so I let it go. The physical assessment will reveal more than the intake interview, anyway.
“Any history of concussion?”
He nods. “Last year. December.”
Worry ghosts through my mind, even though he’s not mine to worry about anymore.
“On the ice?” This isn’t even on the form; I just want to know.
“Yeah, when we were playing against the Vipers.” His mouth tugs into a frown and he shifts his weight, like recalling the event is physically uncomfortable. “Hit gone wrong. Slammed into the boards at full speed.”
My stomach lurches at the visual but I just nod, keeping my eyes fixed on the form while I take notes. “Loss of consciousness?”
“No. Mild dizziness. A little disoriented.”
“How long did your symptoms persist?”
When I look up again, something flashes across his face. “About two weeks.”
In other words, he was playing again after two weeks, but I’d bet anything his symptoms weren’t gone. Dammit, Nash. He’ll never admit it, so I bob my head in acknowledgment and continue to record his answers.
“Any lingering symptoms from the concussion?” I ask. “Vision issues, dizziness, headaches?”
“No.” Now he’s being honest with me again.
The rest of the intake questions follow in kind, with Nash telling me what he thinks I want to hear, alternating with the truth as it suits him. I’m pretty sure he’s generously padding how much he sleeps and underestimating his alcohol intake by a wide margin, but I don’t bother calling him out on it. Things are strained enough between us as it is.
We reach the end of the questionnaire, and I set down the clipboard, forcing a smile that feels woefully like a grimace. “Okay. Let’s check you out.”
Everything else around us fades, and my heart roars in my ears. In theory, the first step is standing up, but my butt is frozen to the seat of my stool.
This is the hardest part yet.
I swallow. “I’m going to have to . . . um, touch you.”
“I know.” Nash shrugs a broad shoulder, seemingly indifferent to the idea. “I’m used to being poked and prodded.”
And I’m used to poking and prodding—just not poking and prodding him.
His steely gaze follows me as I approach him, strong jaw tense and brow lowered slightly. There’s something heavy between us, and I’m not sure if it’s tension or chemistry. Maybe it’s both. My heart clenches, and a wave of sadness hits me from out of nowhere. How did we end up strangers? Sometimes I still don’t know.
Then I remind myself where we are and what I’m supposed to be doing.
I come to a halt an arm’s length away, still unable to bring myself to touch him. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Great.”
He’s so full of shit. I know firsthand that his right shoulder has bothered him since freshman year. His chart indicates it caught up to him last year when he experienced an acromioclavicular joint injury and missed the second half of the season, which must have been devastating for him. It’s not the type of issue that magically goes away, especially with repetitive use and lack of rest.
“Let me take a look.” I take a step toward his left.
Nash inclines his head to the other side. “It’s the right, Vi.”
Like I could ever forget.
“I know. I want to check them both.” With any luck, starting on his good side will help him let his guard down a little.
My fingers land on his deltoid, and something twists in my gut. His skin is warm and smooth beneath my hands, muscles fuller and more defined than the last time I touched him. He still wears the same cologne, too. Familiar undertones of citrus and spice evoke another wave of bittersweet memories, some of which I wish I could forget and others I still cherish, even though they hurt.
Nash keeps looking straight ahead, barely acknowledging me. The ache within me intensifies in response to his non-response, seeping into the cracks in my heart. Why does he have such a strong effect on me after all these years? What the hell is wrong with me?
Across the room, laughter erupts from one of the other stations. Julianna and Preston are smiling and making small talk with each of their respective players, the way we’re taught to in order to build rapport with an athlete. The other guys appear to be making an effort to be friendly in return like my previous three assessment subjects did.
My current athlete is sullen and silent.
Christina strolls by, poking her head into my assessment area, and Nash stiffens slightly. She’s been doing rounds through the room the entire time but naturally, she’s shown up to check on me at the worst possible time.
“How are we doing over here?” She gives us a bright smile, eyes traveling back and forth between us.
“Great,” I lie. “He’s a model athlete.”
“Perfect. Let me know if you need any help with your findings.”
Christina disappears to check in with Preston while I try to assess Nash’s range of motion in his right shoulder. He sucks in a sharp inhale and the joint locks up. I make another attempt, but he actively resists me.
“Would you chill out?” I hiss. Obviously, it isn’t professional to snap at your athlete, but most athletes don’t actively fight you, either. And most aren’t your ex-boyfriend. I’m going to give myself a pass on this one. Not like he’s going to file a complaint.
His gaze cuts over to me. “What?”
“You couldn’t be more tense if you tried.”
“I’m sore from dryland yesterday.”
“You’re practically fighting me.” It’s a bit of both, though. I can tell he has some pain points, but he’s also resisting my attempts to do much of anything with his body. Given that he’s a giant, force isn’t really a viable option, not that it would make for an effective evaluation anyway.
“I need to check your external rotation.” My fingers brace his elbow, making another attempt to assess his range of motion with little success. Frustration surges within me and I snap at him before I can stop myself. “Stop resisting.”
“Maybe you’re being rough,” he says through gritted teeth.
“I’m half your size, and you’re trying to say I’m beating on you?” Drawing in a deep breath, I hold it and count to five, channeling my patience. I’m sorely tempted to jab him in a pressure point, but I refrain. Barely. I lower my voice before speaking again. “You’re sore because you have several injuries and you’re compensating for them, but you already know that since they’ve clearly been around for a while.”
Nash grunts but says nothing. He’s always ignored his injuries and clearly, still does. His pain tolerance must be through the roof. I’m not sure I’d have caught the full extent of it if I couldn’t read him so well. He might have been able to pull one over on Preston or Julianna.
“Look,” I tell him. “We don’t have to be BFFs, but the least you can do is cooperate with me. I still have to do my job.”
“Fine.” He lets out a heavy exhale, and the tension he’s holding diminishes a fraction.
For the last few minutes, I complete the rest of his biomechanical assessment while we speak only as much as is absolutely necessary. As time passes, Nash gradually relaxes more, whereas I grow more and more apprehensive with each new finding. His right shoulder and left knee both have issues that warrant further investigation, and neither has been flagged on his file.
“How long has your left knee been giving you trouble?” I release his left foot, lifting my chin to peer up at him.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “It doesn’t.”
Right.
“Are you playing this weekend?”
“Of course.” Nash sounds borderline annoyed, like it’s a stupid question. “Why?”
My eyes dart around the room for onlookers, but we’re in the clear. Everyone else is occupied. “How did you pass your preseason screening?” I whisper.
Nash doesn’t look at me. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a mess.” I don’t know how he faked it with the rest of the training team. Maybe they caught him on a good day. Or maybe they’re choosing to look the other way because the team needs him. While Coach Ward and Christina are both highly respected, and I’d like to think they’re both above doing that, it happens more than it should in elite college sports.
“I’m fine, Vi.”
Worry starts to swirl in my gut, working into a cyclone of panic. I have no idea how to fill out my assessment chart for him. If I’m honest, there’s a good chance Nash won’t be playing for a long time. I don’t want to be the reason one of the best players on the team gets put on the injury list. Especially when our head trainer missed—or chose to miss—whatever is going on.
“You’re lucky you got assigned to me,” I murmur, reaching down and taking hold of his right ankle. Even his feet are enormous. His white Nikes must be a size thirteen, at least.
“Why’s that?”
“Because anyone else would tell Christina and Coach Ward to bench you.”
