“Are you now?” Her intelligent eyes flickered over me. “Well, pretty girl like you being down here might encourage them to cover their assets more often. Come on, I’ll take you to the base therapy room where you can get yourself sorted before the hoard arrives.” Turning again, she waved me forward.

I followed. “I don’t have the schedule yet. I emailed Connors last week but haven’t heard back.”

She gave me a side-eye squint and frowned for the first time since we’d met.

Quickly, I added, “I’m sure he’s very busy, so it’s obviously no big deal. I’m sure he’ll have it for me today.”

She grunted, continuing to squint at me, then said, “Well, if he doesn’t have it for you by the end of today, just ask Alice in administration for a press-kit, it’ll have the team’s practice schedules. In fact, ask her for one regardless.”

“Thanks. I will.” I made a mental note to introduce myself to Alice.

Jenna’s gaze swept over me again. “I don’t know if Connors has mentioned it, but you might want to go through the team’s injury sheets before you set to work. You should have been given a password to the charting system.

I nodded quickly, eager for every bit of information. “Thank you. I really appreciate the information.”

“Moore has a shoulder injury that’s been flaring up, Gallagher has been overdoing it with the free weights, Daly has been holding his lower back during practice, and Leech’s knee needs special attention.”

I stumbled at the name Leech, a familiar wave of both heat and frost traveling down my spine. Luckily, I caught myself against the wall before Jenna noticed.

Of course, I knew seeing Bryan, interacting with Bryan, touching Bryan was a real possibility when I accepted the position. But I would have been a fool to turn down the job. I needed the money and I needed the experience. Time with a professional team would be invaluable for my résumé.

I would be professional and, after the events of the party last week, I had every reason to believe Bryan would be as well.

Why wouldn’t he be? As far as he knows, he only just met me.

The reminder of his antipathy, of his not remembering, stung—it always did—so I allowed the soothing numbness of ice and resolve to wrap around my heart.

Stopping just in front of a gray door with the word Therapy in black letters, Jenna’s frown waned and became a small, soft smile as she gazed at my expression. “Don’t be nervous. And don’t hesitate to come to me if you have any questions. You seem like a nice girl, even if that cousin of yours eats more red meat than he should and acts like a posh arsehole most of the time.”

“He really is lovely,” I blurted, wanting to defend my cousin who’d saved my life.

And my son’s life.

“He’s a stuck-up snob, but—”

“You have to understand how we were raised. It’s a defense mechanism,” I rushed to explain. “He has the best heart, but he hides it because he has to. My family is very cold. Very spiteful and judgmental and . . .” I sucked in a breath, my heart twisting painfully at one particular memory where my mother had been both very cold and very spiteful. I shivered and once more rubbed my chest where it ached.

Jenna grunted again, not frowning, but not smiling either. “Well, tell him to lay off the red meat. He’s not twenty-five anymore.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked back to the stairway, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the closed door to the therapy room.

I took a bracing breath, placed my hand on the lever, and opened the door. What I saw filled me first with disbelief, then dismay seasoned with despair, then determination.

More or less, the room was unchanged from the last time I’d been in it. The three massage and assessment tables were still in the same position, several large cabinets full of supplies were against the far wall, and two work stations for charting and researching were in an alcove off to one side.

The main difference was that instead of a tidy and clean therapy room, this place was a disaster.

Old food containers littered the assessment tables and both desks of the alcove. Empty—at least, I hoped they were empty—beer cans and bottles were scattered around floor. Dirty towels lay everywhere. The supply cabinets were all open and mostly empty.

What the hell?

Before I could fully react, the door behind me opened and I turned to find Mr. Connors, his arms full with paper bags of food and a six-pack of beer.

He stopped short, apparently surprised by my presence, but then recovered quickly. “What are you doing here?”

The vague smell of cumin and greasy chips drifted into the room.

I straightened my spine and held out my hand. “Mr. Connors, I’m—”

“I know who you are, Freckles. I didn’t ask for your name, did I? Are you deaf? I asked what you are doing here.” He brushed past me and into the therapy room, kicking the garbage out of his way as he went.

I frowned at his back. “I work here.”

“Not here, you don’t.” He dumped the contents of his arms onto an assessment table and faced me. “You do your work in the locker room and gym. This is my space.”

Gaping at his sour expression, I crossed my arms over my chest. “That is not my understanding of the situation, Mr. Connors. This is the therapy room and, based on my reading of the health and management standard operating procedure, all non-emergent therapy assessments and sessions must take place here.”