Page 21 of Offside for Christmas
At 5 PM, she locked up the training room and walked to her car, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical work.
Her phone buzzed just as she was pulling out of the parking lot.
Unknown number.
She pulled over and opened the message.
UNKNOWN:This is Hansen. I'll be there tomorrow. 6 AM. Don't ambush me again. I might not be wearing pants next time.
Ellie stared at her phone for a long moment.
Then, despite everything—despite the confrontation and the confusion and the fact that this was absolutely the worst idea she'd had in years—she smiled.
She saved his number and typed back:Then maybe answer your door faster.
The three dots appeared immediately.
Then:Touché.
Ellie set down her phone, pulled back onto the road, and tried to ignore the way her heart was beating just a little too fast.
Six weeks, she told herself. He'd be gone in six weeks. She just needed to keep it professional until then. Help him heal his shoulder. Do her job. Not get attached.
Simple.
So why doesn't it feel simple?
She turned up the Christmas music on the radio and drove home, trying very hard not to think about gray sweatpants and morning-rough voices and the way Cole Hansen looked at her like she was a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out.
Tomorrow. 6 AM. Two hours of physical therapy.
She could be professional for two hours.
Probably.
5
COLE
Cole arrived at the training facility at 5:55 AM, which was absurd for multiple reasons.
One: It was still dark outside. Fully dark. The sun wouldn't be up for another hour.
Two: He'd set an alarm. Three alarms, actually, because apparently his subconscious didn't trust him not to sleep through one.
Three: He was early. Five minutes early. Which meant he cared about being on time, which meant he cared about Ellie's opinion, which meant he was in serious trouble.
The facility was already lit up, warm light spilling from the windows into the pre-dawn darkness. Of course Ellie was already here. She probably slept here. Probably had a sleeping bag in the supply closet and survived on protein shakes and pure determination.
Cole let himself in through the main entrance—someone had left it unlocked for early arrivals—and made his way down the hallway to the training room.
The door was open. Inside, Ellie was setting up equipment with the kind of meticulous precision that suggested she'd beendoing this for years: resistance bands arranged by resistance level, foam rollers lined up like soldiers, the PT table already set with fresh paper, her tablet open to what was probably his treatment plan.
She was wearing black leggings and an Eagles quarter-zip, her hair in a high ponytail that somehow looked both professional and like she'd rolled out of bed twenty minutes ago. No makeup that he could see. Just freckles and focus.
She hadn't noticed him yet. Cole leaned against the doorframe and watched her work, fascinated despite himself by the economy of her movements, the way she seemed to know exactly where everything should be.
"You're early," Ellie said without turning around.
