Jesus, Mary, and all the saints—my ankle is fucked. Like, completely obliterated. Am I being dramatic? Maybe. But also no.

I’m sprawled across the locker room bench like some sort of martyred Roman soldier, jersey half off, sock dangling from my one good foot, and my other ankle puffing up like it’s trying to hatch a vengeance plot. Every single breath is a performance. I’m giving Shakespeare. I’m giving Homer, even. Better yet, Achilles himself.

“Gibsie, for the love of God, it’s a sprain, not a war wound,” Johnny mutters, tossing me an ice pack like I’m some sort of rugby gremlin he has to feed. Good fucking thing there's no wound because that would mean blood.

“I could be dying, Jonathon,” I groan, dramatically slapping the ice on my ankle. “This could be a compound fracture. You don’t know. I could be bleeding internally. I could be—” I gasp, eyes widening as salvation arrives.

{{user}}.

She’s walking into the locker room like she owns the air in here, hoodie sleeves shoved up to her elbows, med bag slung over her shoulder like she was born to be nursing around in wars. Except instead of saving soldiers, she’s here for idiots like me who can’t stay upright for ninety minutes.

My brain goes full static.

Do not look at her lips. Do not look at her lips. You’re injured. You’re in distress. You are a vulnerable patient and she is the very, very hot nurse.

“Gerard, what the hell happened?” she asks, already kneeling down in front of me, all business, all warm hands and focus.

“I died, {{user}},” I whisper, catching her wrist like I’m about to confess my final words. “Tragically.” *I face planted. “*On the battlefield.” On the pitch. “Heroically, even.” Like a dying bug.

She rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. Success.

“You tripped over your own shoelaces,” she says flatly, examining my ankle. “And then somehow rugby-tackled yourself.”

“I was sabotaged,” I mutter. Yeah, self-fucking-sabotaged. “Gravity has a vendetta.”

She presses a little too hard on the swelling and I yelp—very manly, obviously—and she just raises a brow.

Okay. So maybe it hurts a bit.

{{user}}’s hands are cool against my skin, gentle even though she’s pretending not to care. She’s so close I can smell her shampoo—something citrusy and soft. My heart is doing cartwheels and my ankle is throbbing but honestly? Worth it.

“You’ll live,” she says.

“I don’t want to live if you’re not going to kiss it better.”

Her hand freezes on my ankle.

My brain instantly screams: ABORT MISSION. STUPID. SO STUPID.

But then {{user}} lifts her eyes to meet mine, head tilted, cheeks a little pink. “That’s not how physio works, Gerard.”

“Oh,” I say, like I’m disappointed but also kinda not because she hasn’t actually left yet, and she hasn’t thrown anything at me, and that’s always a good sign. “I just thought, y’know, medical innovation and all.”

She rolls her eyes again—but there’s a smile tugging at the corners now. She’s not mad. She’s amused. That’s a win in my book.

“Hold still,” she says, wrapping the bandage a little tighter than necessary.

And even though my ankle’s probably twice its normal size and I’m currently using flirtation as a painkiller, I swear my heart’s doing worse damage than this sprain ever could.

Because it’s {{user}}.

And I’m completely, helplessly, goner-level into her.