Page 32 of Arrogant Puck

I check the iliac crest, the abductor, the IT band.

Nothing.

He just watches me.

“Castellano,” I say, finally meeting his gaze. “You want to play silent, that’s fine. But I can’t fix what you won’t tell me.”

“You’re good with your hands,” he says. “Figure it out.”

My jaw tics. I press harder. The muscle jumps under my palm, and his thigh flexes.

Still, he doesn’t flinch.

But his pulse at his neck—yeah, it jumps.

I shift the leg into a stretch, ankle on my shoulder, both hands around his thigh.

His breath hitches just slightly.

“You need to be honest,” I murmur. “Or this is pointless.”

He holds my gaze. “What makes you think I want to be fixed?”

His eyes are still locked on mine, and the tension in the room thickens until it feels like the walls shift around it. But I keep my voice even.

“Pain is a motivator. I get it.” I check the angle of his hip again, thumb pressing lightly into a tight band of tissue. “But it’s also a warning system. Keep ignoring it and your body will burn out. You’ll compensate. One wrong hit and you’ll be done. It’s basic biomechanics.”

“Pain keeps me going,” he says. Flat. No apology in it.

I let go of his leg and take a step back.

“Then I’m done here.”

His jaw shifts, just barely.

“I’ll tell Riley you canceled. That I never came.”

He exhales hard through his nose but says nothing.

I reach down for my case.

“Try again,” he says.

It’s not a request.

I stare at him for a second before setting the case down. He leans back again, arms sprawled, that same unreadable mask back on his face. Like he doesn’t care if I touch him or walk out the door.

I lift his leg again.

“Tell me when you feel anything. Anything at all.”

The muscle is tighter now, coiled with tension.

When I push into the flexion, he finally says, “There.”

I adjust. Rotate his hip slightly outward, test the lateral range.

“Now?”

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