Chapter 2: Mila

“Here you go, love.” Mrs. Castor hands me a bag with the takeout I ordered. 

“Thanks, Mrs. C.” I slip a five-dollar bill into the tip jar. 

“Oh!” She swats at me but she’s smiling appreciatively. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Want to,” I say easily, knowing how tight things have been since Mr. C’s heart attack in February. 

“How are you doing, love?” Mrs. C’s tone is hesitant. 

At her words, the plastic smile I pull out for moments like these flashes across my face. “Fine.” I grin harder, my cheeks tight. My awareness jolts and I feel the eyes of every patron in the place zeroed in on my back. Their attention makes my heart rate spike, causes my stomach to knot. It’s been nine months…and everyone, even me, hasn’t fully moved on.

But there’s one key difference. While the town is still holding on to Avery Callaway and me as some former golden couple, I can’t get past the lies, the hurt, and the betrayal of my ex-boyfriend and my former friends, aka Avery’s football teammates. 

Mrs. C pats my hand. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. A girl like you, well, you deserve…” She trails off, unsure what to say. No one ever does. Sure, the town rallied around me when my boyfriend of six years publicly cheated on me, but shortly after, their support turned to pity. 

After all, I’m the orphan who lost the man of my dreams—an incredible catch—and no one like Avery will come around again. If losing him wasn’t bad enough, I also lost my friends, my support system, the band of guys who rallied around me as I buried my parents and tried to make sense of my new normal two years ago. 

Yep, for the entire town, Avery Callaway’s cheating spelled my downfall and catapulted him to fifteen minutes of fame as more than just a star quarterback. Funny how when an athlete cheats, more women throw themselves at him and more guys give him props. The town may have extended support to me, but no one could bring themselves to utter a bad word against Avery. 

Not when he tried to win me back through a series of grand gestures—like decorating my front lawn with flower sculptures and designing custom diamond earrings from Knoxville’s top jeweler. Not when he’s still single, occasionally referencing me and the relationship we had in interviews. Not when he’s the star QB for the Knoxville Coyotes, the pride and joy of Southern football. Basically, he’s a big fucking deal and I’m…collateral damage. 

But I’m not going there today. Nope. I’m choosing the high road. Choose to have a good day.

“Thank you,” I say politely, my grip on the takeout bag curling. “See you, Mrs. C.”

She waves goodbye. Dipping my head, I avoid eye contact with the pub patrons, familiar faces from my childhood and adolescent years, witnesses to the heartache that leveled me when my parents passed, then again, nine months ago and the gossip that has plagued me since. I beeline toward the door. 

My eyes are downcast which is why I don’t see the man who steps into my path. Instead, I collide with a wall of muscle and stumble backward, the bag with my dinner slipping from my arm and landing with a loud thud on the floor. 

I wave my arms frantically as I try to regain my balance, but I know it’s over. I’m going to fall on my ass in front of the town that already regards me with too much sorrow and sympathy. 

The impact doesn’t come. Instead, strong hands grip my forearms, keeping me upright and settling me back on my feet. The man drops down to collect my bag, swearing as some of the salsa leaked out of the little plastic container. 

My breathing comes out in stuttered breaths, my heart racing from my near fall, as I stare at the top of his blond head. I’m about to thank him when he stands and peers down at me. Oh my. His blue eyes are the bluest I’ve ever seen. He’s got a square jaw, coated with a delicious stubble, and a dimple in the center of his chin I have the strangest urge to trace with my finger. The handsome face staring at me belongs to Devon Hardt, hotshot player for the Thunderbolts, and my biggest professional challenge since Gage Gutierrez tore his ACL three years ago. Do I introduce myself? Tell him we’ll be working together? That I’ll see him bright and early tomorrow morning? 

My tongue feels too big for my mouth and my throat, parched dry. Words don’t come as I continue to stare, tongue-tied and awkward. I try to clear my throat and watch as his eyes flash, the curiosity ringing his irises disappearing as his annoyance grows. 

After two heartbeats of uncomfortable silence, he clears his throat and squeezes the back of his neck. “Look, I’m just here for dinner. Not really feeling pictures and Instagram filters tonight, okay?”

My mouth draws closed as I narrow my eyes. Damn, he thinks I’m…fangirling over him? My cheeks blaze and I tighten my hold on my dinner. 

“I’m, I—” Get it together, Mila!

“Have a good night,” he rushes to say before sidestepping me and beelining to the bar. 

I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. Not bothering to turn around, I bolt through the door and out into the sticky heat that hits me full-on. For once, it’s a relief because it signals the end of my embarrassing time in Pete’s Pub, where the town witnessed another distressing moment in my life. 

I amble back toward my house, my parents’ house, my hands shaking the entire way. Tomorrow, I start my new job. I’m supposed to be turning over a new leaf. I’m supposed to be diving into the next chapter, a chapter filled with stability and professionalism. A chapter without Avery and the Coyotes. 

I’m supposed to be choosing better. Choose to have a good day!

Instead, I nearly fell on my ass in front of my first client. A player who doesn’t know my name but thinks I’ve got the hots for him. The thought makes me laugh. I learned firsthand what happens when you fall in love with a player. You’re asked to leave your job.

When you play with fire, you get burned. It’s trite and a total cliché, but for me, it’s also true. I’ve been burned so damn badly, I’m charred from the inside out. So, Devon Hardt can think whatever the hell he wants. To me, he’s an athlete with a messed-up shoulder and a big ego. 

Been there, done that. Not looking for a repeat. 

* * *

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” my best friend Maisy says as I refill her glass of wine. 

“You didn’t see his face.” I pass her the glass. “He looked at me like I was embarrassing him, by…fangirling.” My lip curls as I say the word and Maisy smiles, her blue eyes sparkling. 

“I’m sure he’s just used to the attention. He’s coming from New York, right?”

“So?”

“So, he was a big deal there. He’s probably used to everyone knowing him and girls throwing themselves at him. Little does he know—” 

“This is a football town,” I declare, piling on my Southern accent. 

“A football state.” Maisy grins and holds up her glass. I clink mine against it and we both take a sip. “Are you excited for tomorrow?” she asks, her tone cautious. “I know it isn’t the same as being a physical therapist for the Coyotes, but the Bolts could turn around under the right leadership.” 

I arch an eyebrow. 

“What?” Maisy asks, feigning casual. “From what I hear, they’ve got a future.”

I grin, knowing how uninterested Maisy is in hockey. We were both brought up on Friday Night Lights and tailgates, the whirr of a football cutting through the air, and the rhythmic cadence of cheerleader chants. Saturdays are for football and cheering on the Coyotes; Sundays are for church. “Who’d you hear that from?” 

She rolls her eyes and gestures toward me with her empty hand. “Just something the guys at work were talking about.” At the mention of her work, her expression darkens.

Sighing, I ask, “How’s work?”

Maisy takes a large sip of her wine in response. “Still awful but we’re not talking about that tonight. We’re talking about you and your new job. Are you nervous?” 

I nod, leaning back in my chair. “A little. I mean, I really want tomorrow to go well. I want to prove that I’m good at my job, that I deserve the position. Noah Scotch could have hired anyone he wanted. He didn’t have to pick a hometown girl who would rather be unemployed than move away from her dead parents’ house.” I look around the well-loved kitchen from my childhood. I know people thought I was nuts for staying in my parents’ house after they died but the thought of selling it, of parting with something they worked hard to buy and maintain, felt like a blow I couldn’t handle. Not then and maybe not ever. 

“He hired you because you are good at your job,” my best friend pep talks me. “And you have solid experience. Didn’t the Coyotes give you a glowing recommendation?”

“Yeah,” I scoff, even though I’m relieved that after asking me to resign, amid the pressure of Avery’s cheating scandal, the Coyotes management provided a recommendation that helped me land the job with the Thunderbolts. “I just want to make a good impression, that’s all. And I feel like I already mucked it up by making heart eyes at Devon Hardt.”

Maisy chuckles. “It’s not as bad as you think. Tomorrow, when you meet with him, just be professional. Focus on his treatment, on his therapy. You’re not there to make friends, Mila. You’re there to do your job.”

“Exactly,” I agree, Maisy’s words fortifying some of the doubt swimming in my veins. I hold up my glass for another cheers. “To new beginnings,” I resolve.

“May they bring new joys,” Maisy says, draining her wine. 

* * *

I glance in the rearview mirror at my house only once before I force myself to pull out of the driveway. The warmth of my bed, the sturdiness of Mom’s kitchen table, the comfy couch in the living room where I’ve taken up residence for the past four months while job searching, call me back while encouraging me forward. Get out of here; choose to have a good day!

Ugh. I’m losing it. 

I turn onto the main road and point my car in the direction of the hockey arena, The Honeycomb. Nervous jitters bounce in my stomach, twisting it into knots. My fingers tap out an apprehensive staccato on the steering wheel. 

At a red light, one of three in town, I turn up the volume and try to lose myself in a country song I like. The light turns green. 

I blow out a deep breath. Today is a good day. It’s going to be fine; I’ve got this. I used to live for days like today. Days where I got to wake up, perform a job I love, and prove that women have as much of a place in the professional sports world as men. Being a female physical therapist for a men’s football team used to fill me with excitement, pride, and the knowledge that I was paving a small path forward for other girls who love sports as much as me. 

Today, I get to do that again. I get to find my footing, blaze a path with the Thunderbolts, and reclaim a part of myself, of my career, that’s been missing. The last few months have left me shaky, on edge, and insecure. But today is a new day, a fresh start. 

Choose to have a good day! Mom’s voice, her expression, radiant, positive, and optimistic, flares to life in my mind. I grin, my nervousness dissipating. Mom sang the words every morning as I left for school, whispered them in my ear when I stressed about exams or cried after an argument with Avery, announced them like a declaration when I had something good to celebrate. I guess she was wise beyond her years because she truly lived her life knowing that perspective mattered, and that time was finite. 

Choose to have a good day. 

My smile widens. Today, is the first day of my new job. Today, I work for the NHL team, Tennessee Thunderbolts. Today, I refuse to let what Avery did define me. 

I pull into the parking lot and flip down the sun visor to double-check that I look professional and put together. I’ve pulled my long, brown hair into a low ponytail. My bright blue eyes are framed with two coats of mascara and the blush I applied makes my cheeks look rosy. I’m sporting a tan from laying out with Maisy over the weekend, so I didn’t add much makeup. I take a fortifying breath, swipe on some neutral lip gloss, and tell myself, “Today’s going to be great. You’re choosing it.” 

Then, I turn off my car, gather my bag, and walk into The Honeycomb like I belong there. 

“Yoo hoo!” The voice calls out as I enter the main office. 

I turn and smile at the woman waving me over. She appears to be in her late sixties and wears a genuine smile. It’s devoid of pity and for that, I’m grateful. “Hi.” I hold out a hand. “I’m Mila Lewis.”

“Oh,” she says, shaking my hand. “I know who you are, dear. I’m Betty.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I reply, scanning her face to try to place her. Where have we met? Although, to be fair, when I dated Avery, I met a lot of people. When I worked for the Coyotes, meeting and greeting new faces felt like an extension of my job, physical therapist turned team ambassador. 

Betty leans forward and lowers her voice to a whisper. “We met two years ago, at a Coyotes game.”

“Oh, okay, thanks,” I whisper back, feeling my cheeks pinken. 

“You’re better off without him, doll. Avery Callaway can do one hell of a three step drop but that doesn’t make the man untouchable. Not even in Tennessee.” 

I smile, feeling the familiar rush of heat behind my eyelids at the mention of Avery. His grand gestures may have fooled our town, portraying him as a heartbroken sop who made a mistake. But I know better. Because when I wavered, when I considered giving him a second chance, I learned that he was dating one of the women he cheated on me with. 

His new relationship status went public two weeks after I returned the diamond earrings. His new girlfriend publicly painted Avery as a man trying to move on, and her as the woman to help him overcome heartache. Granted, the relationship fizzled halfway through the season but God, it hurt. It made me question everything. Did he try to win me back to save his own image? Was I—his high school sweetheart—playing a role? Was my purpose just to make him look good? To give him the homegrown, Southern gentleman persona he desired? Avery’s actions broke me, fueling my anger, and injecting me with a bitterness I detest. 

Betty recognizing the truth, the real truth, means more than she’ll know. It soothes some of the hurt and makes me feel like I’ve made a friend on my first day with the Bolts. 

She gives my arm a little squeeze before pulling back and picking up a folder on her desk. “Coaches Scotch and Merrick are looking forward to sitting down with you. Until y’all have the chance to meet, I know they’re keen for you to assess each of the players, get a baseline understanding of any previous injuries and new flare-ups. The player you’ll be working with the most this summer is Devon Hardt. His shoulder injury—” 

“Was nasty,” I murmur, recalling the awful hit Hardt took in the third period of a playoff game two seasons ago. Since his injury, he’s had two surgeries and a plethora of PT, but still, his range of motion isn’t where it should be. He’s going to be my most challenging client and the one I’m looking forward to working with, mainly because his case will keep my mind engaged. Too busy to dwell on loss and hurt. 

Betty clucks her tongue in agreement. “He’s your first appointment today. At ten. After Hardt, there’s a list of players in the folder who will pop by for an introduction and assessment. Come on, let me show you around and then I’ll let you settle in your office.”

“Thanks, Betty,” I say, meaning it. I wasn’t sure what today would look like, especially with the Bolts new ownership and the onboarding of employees, entire new departments, but Betty is smoothing out the process.  

When the ownership of the Bolts changed hands, the team was nearly bankrupt. The new owners, two of whom are also the coaches, had to inject a lot of money, time, and energy to get the Bolts up and running. A new roster, new management and staff, not to mention the coordination of bringing everyone in six weeks before training camp, couldn’t have been easy to pull off. But, as I fall in step beside Betty, I can’t help but note that there’s a positivity in the air. A hopeful understanding that we’re all here to build something new, to start something great. It’s almost like the energy Mom effortlessly exuded and I breathe it in, wondering if she’s here with me. The thought makes me smile and I follow Betty with a newfound energy.

“Let’s start down here.” Betty gestures toward a hallway. “These are the executive offices.” I absorb all the information and new faces she introduces me to until she leaves me outside my workspace. “Anything you need, Mila, just give a shout,” she says, hurrying back to her desk as the phone rings. 

I give a little wave in thanks and push into my new office with the attached treatment room. I pause in the doorway, appreciating the cleanliness of the space. The walls were recently painted a fresh white, the desk in the corner looks new and sturdy, the bookcase empty but clean. It’s not as lavish as my office with the Coyotes and yet, I like it more. Because it’s mine. A space that holds no attachment to Avery Callaway. 

Smiling, I step inside, unpack a few personal items from my bag, and fire up the laptop in the center of the desk. I check out the treatment room, note the equipment provided, and write down the supplies I’ll need moving forward. At ten to ten, I run to the bathroom and fill up my water bottle, determined to be ready for my first session with Devon Hardt. After the way I ran into him last night, I need to bring my professionalism in spades if I’m going to set the tone of our working relationship. 

I sense him the moment his large frame shadows the door. A rap of knuckles against the doorframe causes me to swivel in my chair. Coming face to face with one of the greatest hockey players of his time momentarily leaves me starstruck. Again.

Not because Devon Hardt is a looker, which he undoubtedly is, but because he is a ferocious, fearless, formidable competitor. He’s the Avery Callaway of the hockey circuit. I wince as Avery moves through my mind. Not because I miss him, but because I miss my life, the me I was when we were together. I used to be confident, sure of my path, certain of my future. Losing my parents crushed me but losing Avery made me feel like I’d never find stable ground again. It made me question my judgement—how did I not realize he was cheating? How did I miss so many red flags? Was it willful ignorance or was I truly that out of touch with reality?

But I’m not thinking of him today; I’m not bringing him and his negative bullshit into my new space. I shut off my thoughts and stand, holding out a hand as I meet Devon in the doorway. 

“Hi, I’m Mila. It’s good to officially meet you when I’m not faceplanting and dropping salsa.” I shoot him a grin. “I’m looking forward to working together to heal that shoulder.”

He stares at me for a beat too long before his gaze darts to my hand. Then, he turns his eyes over my shoulder, slowly scanning the space behind me, looking for—what? A fancy degree on the wall? 

I graduated summa cum laude from the University of Pittsburgh. 

Devon’s jawline tightens and slowly, so slowly it’s awkward, he shakes my hand. “Devon Hardt.”

“Right.” I can’t keep the edge of sarcasm from my tone. Is he going to pretend our awkward first encounter never happened? I turn and gesture toward the treatment room and table. “Let’s get started.” 

I hear him follow and am acutely aware of his gaze on my back. It causes me to stand up straighter, my shoulder blades pinching together. Oh, I hope he’s not checking out my ass. I blush at the thought. Stop thinking, Mila. Just do your job. 

When we’re in the treatment room, Devon perches on the low table, his height allowing for his feet to remain flat on the floor. He gives me an impatient, almost bored look and my throat dries. His eyes, a deep, royal blue, flash from whatever they read in mine, and the dimple in his chin grows more pronounced as his jaw tightens. 

I clear my throat, my palms beginning to sweat. “Why don’t you tell me about your injury?”

He scoffs. “Really?”

I wince. How am I already fumbling this? The Coyotes never should have asked me to resign just because Avery couldn’t keep it in his pants. Screw this; I’m great at what I do.

Gathering my wits, I sit on a stool and arch an eyebrow. “Really. I don’t need you to walk me through the hit; I need you to walk me through the pain, the points that still cause pain, the surgeries and the recoveries.” I pause to grab a pen and open a pad of paper. “You can begin whenever you’re ready.”

Devon sighs. “It’s mostly the rotator cuff. I don’t have the same range of motion or strength, which have made my shots weaker. The pain tends to bundle here”—he digs three of his fingers into the space where his shoulder connects to his chest—“especially after an intense workout.”

I nod, making some notes as he continues to rattle off ailments with his shoulder. When I’m satisfied with my notes, I place my notepad down and stand. “May I?” I ask, stepping next to him. 

He nods, his lips rolling together, as I feel along his shoulder. When I press into a problematic area, his expression tightens, but he doesn’t make a sound. I continue to probe his shoulder and the surrounding muscle, keeping an eye trained on his expressions, to get a feel for the main issues. 

“How are you finding Knoxville?” I ask. 

“Fine.” 

“Well, I’m from the area if you need help navigating the city or…” I trail off, worried he’ll interpret my friendliness for flirtation.

“I wouldn’t call this a city,” he sighs.

Right. So, not much of a friendly small-talker. More of an arrogant douchebag. Got it.

“Did you settle in okay?” I try again, finding a safer topic. 

He shrugs. “I’m off Rattlesnake Road.”

“Oh, there’s a great BBQ spot near you. On the corner of Rattlesnake and Pointe. Their ribs are fantastic.”

He grunts. Grunts.

“Can we try moving your arm like this?” I step back to demonstrate a windmill with my arm. 

He nods and begins to move his arm. As he does, I press along his shoulder and around his armpit. He gasps, a swear word coloring the air. 

“Breathe,” I say softly, wanting to coach him through it, wanting to gain a sliver of his trust. “You’re doing great.”

His arm jerks under my touch, his lips thinning into a straight line. He glares at me, his gaze hard and unreadable. 

My stomach sinks. Working with Devon is going to be a greater challenge than I thought.