003

The sun had barely risen, when Mila Torres drove to the Titans facility for her third day. Her mind replayed yesterday’s events in sharp, vivid loops… Carson’s critiques, Ryder’s quiet protection, Luka’s unblinking gaze, and the words on the folded note that had now become her morning mantra; “Trust your instincts.”

Rain had returned overnight. Mila adjusted the rearview mirror, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and exhaled slowly. Today was going to be different. She could feel it.

The second she stepped inside, the receptionist offered a polite nod, but her eyes flicked to the door behind Mila as if expecting trouble before it arrived. Mila smiled faintly, letting it pass over her. She had learned not to read too much into glances—yet.

The team manager was waiting near the elevator, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable. “Dr. Carson has requested that you begin with pre-practice assessments. He is also…expecting a demonstration of your new recovery techniques.”

Mila nodded. “Understood.” She had anticipated challenges, but she wasn’t sure she was ready for how personal they would feel.

The medical bay smelled faintly of antiseptic. Mila stepped inside, eyes immediately scanning the room. Carson was already there, standing rigidly near the treatment tables, arms crossed, observing as if the air itself could be weighed and judged.

“You are early,” he said without looking up. “Good. Punctuality is the first test of competence.”

Mila’s stomach tightened. She had expected his words to sting, but the truth of them hit sharper in person. “Yes, Dr. Carson,” she replied evenly, forcing her nerves into posture.

He finally raised his gaze, eyes locking onto hers. “I trust you are prepared to demonstrate the proper recovery sequence. Not the way your textbooks describe it. Not the way a rookie might perform it under pressure. The way an actual professional would.”

Mila’s jaw tightened. “Of course,” she said, setting down her bag and reaching for her clipboard.

Ryder leaned against the doorway, a faint smirk on his lips. “Friendly as ever,” he muttered, loud enough for her to hear. His eyes flicked to Carson, then back at her. Mila felt a flush rise to her cheeks but kept her gaze steady.

The first few drills passed in tense silence. Carson’s gaze followed movement, and adjustment Mila made, every word she spoke to the players. His comments were layered with subtle criticism.

“Your wrist placement on the hockey stick isn’t correct—muscle alignment matters.”

“You’re overcompensating on the glutes—don’t do the work for them.”

“Explain your method, Torres, or I’ll assume you’re guessing.”

Each correction felt like a test of nerve as much as skill. Mila’s hands didn’t falter; she adjusted, demonstrated, explained, and repeated without hesitation. But Carson wasn’t satisfied. His critiques challenged her at every turn.

Then, during a particularly complicated stretch, Ryder’s frustration surfaced. He had been quietly watching Carson and Mila interact, a low tension knot forming in his posture. Carson leaned in close, instructing Mila on an adjustment she had already made several times. “Too much pressure. Less force. Accuracy, Torres. Athletes aren’t furniture.”

Ryder’s protective instincts ignited. He stepped forward, blocking Carson’s approach slightly. “Back off.”

Mila froze, heart jumping. Carson’s eyebrow arched, and he paused, evaluating Ryder with a detached gaze. “Excuse me?”

Ryder’s jaw tightened, eyes blazing. “I said, back off. You are pushing her too far. Step back before you push too hard.”

The room fell into a stunned silence. Carson’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Interesting,” he murmured. “It seems you have a defender already. That is…unexpected.”

Mila felt a rush of gratitude toward Ryder but kept her composure. She stepped lightly between them, hands raised in a calming gesture. “Ryder, I’ve got this. Thank you, but I can handle it.”

Ryder’s eyes softened slightly but remained intense. “Just…don’t let him push you into something you’re not ready for.”

Carson tilted his head, studying her, then Ryder. “You seem…emotionally invested in your players well-being. That is admirable,” he said slowly. “Potentially distracting.” His tone was equal parts appraisal and challenge.

Mila’s hands clenched briefly around her clipboard. The tension in the room was a mix of professional pressure and the undercurrent of personal stakes she hadn’t expected. She had faced criticism before—but never with someone as authoritative as Carson, while a player simultaneously declared protective ownership over her.

The morning passed in a blur of drills and adjustments, Carson’s critiques layered like a relentless wave against Mila’s defenses. Ryder remained near, occasionally interjecting if he saw her being pushed too far. Luka, as always, observed quietly from the sidelines, eyes tracking every detail with his usual intensity.

During a brief break, Mila retreated to the lounge. Her hands trembled slightly as she poured water over her wrist. Ryder appeared without knocking, sitting opposite her. His expression was serious now, lacking the teasing edge from earlier.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low. “Because I don’t want to see you getting run over in there.”

Mila offered a small smile. “I’m fine. He’s…challenging. But I can handle it.”

Ryder’s eyes softened slightly but didn’t lose their edge. “It’s not just about handling it. It’s about protecting yourself. Not everyone in that facility plays fair.” His gaze lingered on her, and Mila felt the familiar pull in her chest.

Returning to the medical bay, the afternoon drills intensified. Carson remained a constant presence, leaning in during adjustments, issuing corrections, criticisms, and silent challenges that tested both skill and patience. Mila moved fluidly, correcting stances, preventing injuries, and explaining recovery techniques, all while sensing Ryder’s protective energy behind her.

At one point, Carson made a particularly sharp comment about her technique on Luka’s stretches. Mila adjusted immediately, but Ryder’s temper flared again. “I said enough,” he muttered under his breath. Mila could feel the heat of his warning without seeing it—it radiated in his posture, his eyes, the way he moved closer without touching.

She fought to maintain her composure, taking a deep breath. Trust your instincts, she reminded herself. She had the skill, the knowledge, and the ability to navigate both professional critique and personal interference. But the tension left her mind buzzing.

At the end of the day, Mila was exhausted but exhilarated. Carson had left without any comment. Ryder walked her to the door, ensuring no one interfered or sneered as she left.

Sliding into her car, she noticed a small note tucked beneath her windshield wiper again. Hands trembling slightly, she picked it up. Three words, crisp and urgent, just like yesterday.

“Keep your guard.”

Mila’s breath hitched. All of these were pushing her to the limits of her skill, her patience, and her heart.