Chapter 1
POV Raden
The sky was mocking me.
Gray, heavy, and swollen — the kind of gray that doesn’t just swallow the sun, but every attempt to feel good about yourself. It was the color of bad mornings, the kind that reek of omen. And no matter how much I tried to psych myself up, I couldn’t summon the excitement that used to burn through me like fire.
It had been a year since I last set foot on campus, but one step was enough for everything to smell exactly the same: wet grass, old sweat, and arrogance. That bitter blend of effort and vanity that clung to the halls and the field, as if success itself had a scent.
Eyes followed me from the parking lot to the sports complex. I didn’t need to hear the whispers to know what they were saying — but I heard them anyway.
“That’s Anderson… the one with the fracture.”
“He was going to go pro.”
“Such a shame. He had a future.”
People always find a polite way to bury you without digging a grave.
I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt. My headphones weren’t playing anything, and my leg still ached whenever someone said my name. I didn’t want to be here. But my father had made it painfully clear:
“If you don’t get rehabilitated, forget about football… and forget about me.”
As if that last part were supposed to hurt.
The university clinic greeted me with the sterile chill of disinfectant and rubber. Everything smelled like plastic and lost hope. The rhythmic hum of the machines dragged me back to the day of the injury — that sharp, dry crack that still haunted my sleep.
They led me into an evaluation room. Spacious, maybe, but the walls felt closer with every breath. Motivational posters promised things like“Come back stronger”and“Find your strength again.”Laminated lies pretending to be comfort.
And thenhewalked in.
Liam Baker.
Dark navy scrubs. White coat. Calm expression. Tousled dark hair and eyes that were too light to be brown — sharp enough to notice more than they should.
He smiled, polite and professional. But something about him rubbed me the wrong way instantly. Maybe it was his patience. Maybe it was confidence. Either way, it pissed me off.
“Raden Anderson, right?”
“Depends.” I didn’t look at him. “You here to ask for an autograph or tell me how to move my leg?”
He didn’t flinch.
“Just the second one. I’m your assigned physiotherapist.”
I glanced up. Young. Too young. But the clinic and the professor had insisted he was the best fit for my case. I’d heard his name tossed around enough on my way here, though I hadn’t cared enough to listen. After months of doctors and half-hearted therapy, I could already picture how this would go.
In the end, Baker was just another desperate attempt.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
I frowned. Perfect. A kid fixing another kid. Just what I needed. My comeback was sounding more ridiculous by the minute.
“Fantastic,” I muttered.
Liam said nothing. His silence only made it worse. He picked up a tablet, scrolling through my file with the calm of someone reading a menu, nodding slightly to himself.
The only sound was the clock ticking — and that infuriating sense of control radiating from him.
“Are you going to check my leg,” I said, “or just keep reading your perfect little notes?”
He looked up, unshaken.
“I’m reviewing your medical history,” he said evenly. “It’s important. And in your case… interesting.”
“What, are you about to tell me it’s all in my head?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he replied, eyes flicking back to my leg. “But I can tell the tension isn’t just in your muscles.”
There it was. The kind of comment that set every nerve on fire.
“Great. Another philosopher.”
He exhaled softly, almost like a sigh. Then he set the tablet aside and stepped closer. His presence filled the space — not with size, but with quiet certainty. He grabbed a measuring tape, rested a hand on my leg, and traced a slow path up to the scar.
His touch was firm, clinical… yet it still sent a shiver down my spine. Not from pain — from the rawness of being exposed again. After a year of building walls, one touch was enough to crack them.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Only if you keep touching,” I muttered.
He met my eyes. No mockery. No pity. Just that maddening calm.
“I’m going to touch, Anderson,” he warned. “If you want to play again, you’ll have to deal with it.”
I couldn’t tell if he was challenging me or advising me. Maybe both. His tone was so calm it cut deeper than anger.
“Fine,” I said reluctantly, lifting my leg. “Do what you have to. Just don’t expect me to thank you.”
“I don’t expect gratitude,” he said simply. “Just results.”
The words hung between us like a blade.
The rest of the session passed in silence. His hands were steady, deliberate — as if he knew exactly how far to push before my body would resist. And I, stubborn as ever, refused to give him the satisfaction. Every stretch was a war between my pain and his patience.
When it was over, Liam typed something on his tablet without looking at me and stood.
“See you tomorrow. Same time.”
“No promises.”
I was drained.
I grabbed my headphones — still with no music — and pulled the hood back over my head.
“I won’t promise to wait either,” he said calmly, cutting and composed.
Different. So different from all the older professionals who kissed my father’s ass and tolerated everything to keep me as a client.
Without another word, he walked out — didn’t even glance back.
I stayed there, leg throbbing, pride in ruins. His voice still echoed in my mind, along with the look in his eyes. There was something about him — something unbearable in his stillness, in the way he seemed to hold it all together while I could barely hold myself.
I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I felt the warmth of his hand on my scar again.
Like a new curse.
After months of running from pain, someone had touched it without permission.
And I hated him for it.
For reminding me I could still feel.
