Spring Tide (Coastal University Book 1)

I was wrong. So dreadfully wrong.

My knee didn’t magically heal itself over the course of a week. In fact, the pain is now excruciating. Intolerable. By the end of each day, I’m so stiff that I can barely flex the joint even a fraction of an inch. Yet somehow, my knee also feels . . . loose. Disjointed. As if one misstep might result in complete dislocation.

I need a skilled eye to take a closer look. But I still can’t allow this shit to appear on my medical record, not if I want to keep it from Coach.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, rereading through this email for the third time.

From: [email protected]

To: Undisclosed Recipients

Subject: Student Interns

Ospreys,

Please welcome your new team interns, Eden Levine ([email protected]) and Grant Fletcher ([email protected]). Eden and Grant are seniors in the sports medicine program, working under my close supervision. You may notice them on the sidelines at today’s practice. Please feel free to introduce yourselves. For the duration of this term, consider them your first official line of contact for athletic training.

Jaqui Nerrie

Senior Associate Athletic Trainer

Coastal University

My eyes trail over her correspondence, a dark thought manifesting inside my brain. Perhaps I could convince one of them to secretly evaluate me. Maybe they’d take a vow of silence, some sort of bribe to keep their fucking mouths shut.

But I suppose that would be far-fetched, wouldn’t it? I’d be asking them to jeopardize their academic status—their future careers—just to save my skin. Besides, I have virtually nothing to offer them in return. It wouldn’t be a fair exchange.

I’ll need to continue wrapping the joint myself, icing after practice, and taking it day by day. I could always research some exercises to help the healing process. Isn’t that what sports medicine is, anyway? Just a bunch of shit you can google in a few minutes?

I’m not trying to discredit the profession as a whole, but WebMD exists for a reason. And I’ve already properly diagnosed myself. I’m sure of it. I’ve finally come to the conclusion that it’s not just a bruise. Actually, I’m fairly certain I’ve torn my medial collateral ligament.

But it’s likely a minor tear. A Grade I or maybe even II, at the most. Something totally treatable without surgical intervention.

Definitely.

I know we’re technically supposed to warm up our joints and muscles prior to training, but I’m on my second ice bath of the day. It’s the only thing I’ve found that effectively numbs the pain, just enough for me to make it through two hours of practice drills. They’re effective, but they still fucking suck.

It’s mostly the shriveled dick part that bothers me.

A displeased groan escapes from the back of my throat as I settle into the tub. Like clockwork, the ice-cold water constricts my veins, blood slowly draining from my shaft. It’s a mild form of self-inflicted torture, but I guess it’s worth it in the long run. It’s not as though I even have time to beat off anyway. Instead, my dick is constantly deflated and neglected these days.

That’s just the way it is.

After nine minutes of full submersion, my hand reaches for the grab bar as I hoist myself out of the tub. My body’s shivering but sated. My injured knee’s completely numb.

Well, goddamn, that must mean it’s officially go time.

The field is packed today. First and second stringers are gathered together, running warm-ups and taking turns introducing themselves to the sports med students. The male intern seems pretty tight with a few of my teammates already. His female counterpart, however, has devolved into a blushing, fumbling mess.

Unfortunately, it’s only spurring my teammates on. They’re floundering over a pretty new face, and it’s starting to piss me off. She’s not here to flirt—she’s here to work. And this is all a needless distraction, considering our first away game is this Saturday.

As defensive captain, it’s my job to take control of the situation. So I march up to the group of safeties, determined to wipe the smirks off their arrogant faces.

“Defense,” I bite out, “focus on your shit, and stop flirting with the interns.”

I fold my arms across my chest, impatiently waiting while they turn on their heels. As they retreat, I hear one of them mutter, “You’re in charge, Ötzi.”

And there it is, that fucking nickname again. Iceman Ötzi. Yeah, my teammates nicknamed me after a fucking glacier mummy. I wouldn’t normally give two shits, but that’s the kind of lighthearted joke you’d make between friends. And we’re not fucking friends.

A puff of heated air slips from between my pursed lips. My fists clench, unclench, and eventually relax against my thighs. I turn to face the female intern. “I’d appreciate you keeping professional boundaries with my team,” I mutter in lieu of a greeting.

The dark-haired girl parts her lips on a gasp. Her cheeks flush pink, thick eyelashes fluttering as she blinks.

“Wow.” A stunned silence precedes her next words. “They approached me, just so you know. And that’s no way to greet a new member of your team staff.”

I reel back for a moment, contemplating the truth behind her words. “You’re right. I’m Luca Reynolds, MIKE linebacker.” My hand is outstretched now. “Defensive captain.”

She grasps my palm, delicate fingers curling around mine. We shake twice while she presses tightly in what I assume is her version of a vise grip.

“Eden Levine, student intern. Highly professional member of the sports medicine program.” She rolls her eyes, nudging the male intern with her elbow. “This is Fletcher. Same deal or whatever.”

Fletcher takes an even step forward, a wicked grin twisting his features. “I’ve heard a lot about you, man. Although”—his harsh gaze cuts back to Eden—“I’m surprised this is the first time you’ve met my girl here.”

“I’m not his girl, just to clarify,” Eden cuts in, eyes narrowed. “Please ignore him.”

My brow lifts. “Okay.”Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

“It’s just,” Fletcher continues, arrogance seeping from his tone, “Eden’s great friends with Harper. Figured you all would have spent some time together by now.”

Harper? As in, Amber Isle Harper? The same Harper who introduced herself to me at the pier last week after three silent years of working just a stone’s throw away.

“Harper St. James?” I clarify.

Eden’s nod is practically frantic. “Yes, your girlfriend,” she spits out. “We’ve been friends since freshman year, remember? She probably mentioned me a time or two. You know, the quirky, overly talkative girl from her major.” She gives me a pleading look. “Well, that’s me.”

I ponder her nonsensical words for a long moment. Harper St. James—my girlfriend? Since when do I have a fucking girlfriend? And I had no clue Harper’s major was sports medicine, nor would I ever have a reason to.

“Harper,” I repeat, bewildered. “Sports medicine.”

“That’s right,” Eden prompts, a sense of relief washing over her expression. “She’s such a star student, our girl Harper. Ratted herself out to Professor Gill immediately.”

“She told you what happened, didn’t she?” Fletcher cuts in, his amused gaze darting between the two of us. “Harper had our professor switch her placement from football to baseball. She wanted to ensure professionalism since you two are together now. Don’t worry, man. I stuck up for you. I told her it was a pretty careless move.”

“It’s not careless, Fletch,” Eden bites out, shaking her head. “Apparently, Luca’s all about professionalism too. Isn’t that right?”

“I, uh.” What in the fuck is happening? “Yes?”

“Right answer.” Eden smiles, reaching up to pat me on the shoulder. “That’s part of what makes you and Harper such a perfect match.”

My mind is scrambling, searching for some hidden secret message behind her words. These two dipshits seem to be speaking a foreign language now. “We . . . I don’t—”

“Harper wants you to message her after practice today.” Eden gives me a reassuring nod, brows waggling. “She has some important news to share with you if you catch my drift.”

I give both of them one last disparaging look, the tips of my ears burning with a mixture of confusion and embarrassment. “Okay, this conversation is officially a waste of valuable practice time. Just leave me out of . . . whatever this is.”

Fletcher’s smile is smug. “You got it, Ötzi.”

I stifle a flinch, eyes pinched shut for a quick moment. “Reynolds is fine.” I toss the heated words over my shoulder, pacing away from the odd pair.

What. The. Fuck?

Is this some sort of weird, twisted game they have going on between them? Some kind of impractical joke they decided to play on the team loner? Or did Harper truly insinuate that the two of us are dating?

There’s no fucking way. Harper St. James is definitely not, nor will she ever be, my girlfriend. The two of us make no sense together. And it’s not only because we’re opposites, like oil and water or fire and ice. No, it’s more than that.

Harper and I, shit, the spaces between us are like the ocean at spring tide. The highest highs and the lowest lows; that’s what separates the two of us.

I’m fairly certain that girl’s spirit is filled with sunshine and rainbows and fucking butterflies. And then there’s . . . well, there’s me. I am who I am. And she’s just—

No, you know what? I barely know one real thing about her, other than the fact that we’d probably find each other insufferable. If she’s actually spreading some ridiculous rumor that we’re together, then she must be desperate, even more so than I am.

Fortunately for me, desperate people are willing to do desperate things.

If this girl is truly using me—for some unknown, confusing, and undoubtedly nefarious reason—then hell, she owes me a thing or two. An eye for an eye. Her secret for mine. Now that would be a fair exchange.