002

Rain had eased to a drizzle by the time Mila Torres pulled into the Frost City Titans facility the next morning. The storm had calmed, but her mind was anything but still. Yesterday had been a whirlwind—a blur of introductions, routines, and unspoken dynamics that clung to her.

She rested her hand on the steering wheel for a moment, breathing deeply. Each inhale filled her with the scent of distant coffee shops, each exhale releasing a fraction of the tension that tightened her chest. The note under her door the previous night—“Don’t trust everyone”—had settled there. Who had left it? And more importantly, why?

The Titans facility loomed ahead. She parked slowly, taking in the banners fluttering faintly in the morning breeze, the polished floors visible through massive windows. She forced down the lump in her throat and adjusted the strap of her bag, stepping out into the cool air.

Inside, Mila’s footsteps echoed against the pristine tiles as she made her way to the reception. The receptionist looked up, eyes polite but watchful, and Mila offered a nod in return. The place radiated order, efficiency, and tension. It was a world that demanded excellence, and mistakes were not forgiven lightly.

The team manager appeared, brisk as always. “Ms. Torres,” she said, her tone clipped, “Dr. Carson will be joining today. He prefers to observe new therapists firsthand. You’ll work with him in the medical bay first. Be prepared.”

Mila nodded. “Understood.” Her pulse ticked faster. Carson was a legend in athlete care—sharp, meticulous, and notoriously difficult to impress. The thought of him evaluating her every move made her stomach tighten.

The medical bay was a cathedral of efficiency. White walls gleamed under the lights, instruments reflected sharp streaks of light, and every surface looked as though it had been sterilized an hour ago. Mila stepped in carefully, noting the alignment of towels, the exact placement of ice packs. It was intimidating—and perfect.

And then she saw him; Dr. Carson.

Tall, sharp-featured, eyes like steel that seemed to cut through any pretense. His crisp white coat clung to him as though it had been tailored to exude authority. He regarded her coolly, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You must be Mila Torres,” he said, voice calm but carrying an undertone that suggested he wasn't feeling her. “I have heard…some things. Hopefully accurate.”

Mila straightened, gripping her clipboard tighter. “I’ll do my best, Dr. Carson.” Her voice was calm, even if her heart raced.

He gave her a once-over, then turned to the treatment tables, gesturing for her to follow. “We’ll start with warm-ups, recovery protocols, and muscle manipulation. I’ll observe.”

Ryder Knox leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed, watching silently. He smirked faintly. “Friendly guy, huh?” His voice carried amusement, but there was an unspoken warning beneath it. Mila caught it, grateful for the protection he offered.

As she moved from player to player, Mila felt Carson’s gaze like a physical weight. Every adjustment, every touch, every word was under scrutiny. He made small comments, each one designed to test her—pressure on the quadriceps, wrist alignment during stretches, even the angle at which she handed a towel.

“You’re pressing too hard,” he said sharply, nodding toward Ryder, who had casually twisted his ankle for the sake of the demonstration. “Athletes respond to accuracy, not force. Don’t mix them up.”

Mila adjusted immediately, lowering her hands, focusing on control over strength. Ryder’s smirk softened warmly. He leaned back slightly, arms braced behind him, radiating a quiet, protective energy. Mila felt it like a shield against Carson’s sharp edges.

From the corner, Luka Valek observed silently. There was an intensity to him that made Mila’s skin prickle. She gathered herself to focus on the work, letting his observation sharpen her instincts rather than shake her.

The morning passed in a blur of stretches, manipulations, and corrections. Carson’s critiques were subtle but relentless, designed to make her anticipate issues before they happened. A misaligned towel, a hesitant instruction, a distracted glance—he noted everything, letting her recover from minor errors only to test her with a more difficult adjustment immediately afterward.

At one point, Ryder feigned a tweak, a deliberate act to test her vigilance. Mila knelt instinctively, adjusting his ankle, muscles tense with awareness. “Just a minor tweak,” she said confidently. “Nothing serious, but we’ll treat it properly to avoid complications.”

Carson’s eyebrow arched ever so slightly—a near nod of acknowledgment. Mila allowed herself the tiniest flicker of victory. Ryder’s grin widened, eyes glinting with both admiration and amusement. “See?” he said quietly. “Not bad, rookie.” The protective energy lingered around her like an invisible cocoon, and she realized she appreciated it more than she expected.

During a brief break, Mila sat in the lounge, tea warming her hands. Ryder slid into the chair across from her without asking. “You handled him well,” he said, nodding toward the medical bay. “Most rookies crack under Carson. You didn’t.”

“Thanks,” Mila murmured, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks.

“Just…remember,” Ryder continued, leaning back, eyes flicking toward the bay and back at her, “not everyone here wants you to succeed. Some of us are testing you. Some of us are curious. And a few…well, a few have other motives.”

Mila’s stomach tightened at the ambiguity. She knew immediately he wasn’t referring to Carson alone. The Titans world was layered, and dangerous in ways that went beyond ice and muscle.

Afternoon drills intensified. Mila moved constantly, assessing player form, adjusting stances, keeping muscles warm, and preventing injuries before they happened. The rhythm of skates on ice, sticks clashing, shouts echoing—each sound heightened her senses. Carson remained a constant presence at the edge, offering sharp critiques, corrections, and challenges that tested her on every level.

Luka approached briefly. “Your technique is solid,” he said, eyes locking with hers for a fleeting moment. “Don’t let him intimidate you. Strength isn’t just hands-on—it is control, confidence, presence. Don’t lose yours.”

Her pulse quickened at the intensity in his gaze. There was respect in his words, a quiet acknowledgment of her competence that didn’t need applause. His eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary, then he retreated back into the shadows of observation.

By the end of the day, Mila was physically drained but mentally exhilarated. Carson departed without fanfare, leaving a sense of judgment that made her chest tighten in a familiar way. Ryder walked her to the door casually, ensuring no surprises trailed her. Luka lingered in the hall, arms crossed, gaze following her with a focus that was as unsettling as it was magnetic.

Outside, the drizzle had vanished completely. Mila paused, taking a deep breath, feeling the sting of fatigue, the pull of attraction, and the thrill of surviving her first true day in the Titans world.

A folded note lay beneath her windshield wiper. Hands trembling slightly, she picked it up. Four words;

“Trust your instincts.”

Her breath hitched. She knew the Titans world was complex, intoxicating, and dangerous in ways she hadn’t yet fully comprehended. Rivalries, protection, silent scrutiny, and attraction were all woven into every movement.