Page 9 of Arrogant Puck

Back in his office, I settle in with the charts.

Henderson catches my attention first—recurring shoulder issues, probably from taking too many hits along the boards. Morrison’s dealing with an ankle strain that keeps flaring up. But there’s nothing about a hip in here.

These aren’t just statistics on a page. They’re puzzle pieces I need to fit together to help these athletes perform at their best.

When Henderson arrives for his pre-practice session, he’s exactly what I expected—broad shoulders, easy grin, the kind of confidence that comes from being good at something your whole life.

“You must be the new PT,” he says, settling onto the treatment table. “Riley said you’re from California?”

“PTA.But yes, that’s right,” I say, keeping my voice professional. “You may take a seat.” I begin working on his shoulder, feeling for tension points and areas of inflammation. “How’s this feeling today?”

“Not bad. Little tight after yesterday’s scrimmage.”

I guide him through a series of stretches, watching how his body responds, noting where he winces or pulls back. His shoulder blade moves differently than it should—subtle compensation patterns that could lead to bigger problems if we don’t address them.

“You know what you’re doing,” he says after I finish working on his arm with deep tissue massage. “That feels pretty damn good now. Thanks.”

The compliment warms me more than it should. This is what I’m good at. What I trained for. What makes me feel useful instead of broken.

The rest of my shift passes in a blur of player evaluations and treatment planning. Riley checks in periodically, offering guidance and answering questions, but mostly he lets me work. By the time I clock out, my feet ache and my hands smelllike massage oil, but I feel more like myself than I have since everything fell apart in California.

“Good first day,” Riley says as I gather my things. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yes! I will be here.”

Walking to my car in the employee parking lot, I pull out my phone. No missed calls. No threatening messages. Just a normal Monday evening after a normal first day at a job I actually earned.

I did this. Packed up my entire life, drove three thousand miles, found a place to live and a job that challenges me, all in the span of a week. A week ago, I was hiding in a motel bathroom, too scared to even look at my phone.

Now I’m standing in a parking lot in a new state, financially independent and professionally valued.

Maybe I really can build something new here, something that belongs only to me.

The thought carries me all the way home.

Chapter 4

Two girls.

One on my lap, grinding my dick like she’s got something to prove. Then she plops off while the other on her knees works her mouth on me like it’s a job.

They’re taking turns.

Pussy. Mouth.

Mouth. Pussy.

I don’t know their names. Didn’t ask. Don’t care.

They showed up with a bottle of something expensive and the right kind of hungry.

Shit.

They’re moaning like they’re the lucky ones.

The one riding me leans in and whispers something in my ear. I don’t hear it. I just don’t give a shit. I’ve already got one handfisted in the other girl’s hair, guiding her rhythm, keeping it slow.

Control’s the only thing I’ve got left that still makes sense.

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