Chapter 7

Brianna

At the dean's sharp command, Peter rose reluctantly to his feet.

The expression on his face shifted—starting with anger, giving way to confusion, and finally settling into shock. Kate's face, by contrast, had gone utterly grim. But Peter's held something else entirely: joy.

He stammered as he looked at me, unable to get out a single word. He only gestured at his own leg, then pointed toward the field.

I understood him perfectly.

I gave a small shrug. "It's impossible for you to go back out there now." I paused. "But the next game, two days from now—that one you can play."

The words had barely left my mouth when Arise, the dean of the medical school, pulled me aside. His voice dropped, cold as ice.

"Brianna, I don't know what evidence you think you have to make such an arrogant claim. Take it back. Right now." He leaned in. "Do you have any idea what it means for someone to return to a sport this intense just two days after taking a hit that brutal?"

When I didn't answer, his face darkened further.

"It means you're lying. I know you're new here, that you're desperate to prove your worth as a team physician. But Brianna, this is not the way to do it. You treated Peter well just now. You've already done more than enough."

I caught his arm as he turned to leave.

"Dean, please—trust me. I'm certain of this, because what I just used on him was my own patented formula."

"What?"

It seemed Arise had no idea that the best-selling healing serum on the market was patented under my name. I produced the patent certificate—the one Cole had helped me review and update.

Arise held the paper, his fingers trembling. The look in his eyes began to change; the anger from before was gone. He grew calm and clapped me firmly on the shoulder. Then he pressed a card into my hand.

"My new medical project. I hope you'll join us."

With that, he walked away. As he left, I caught something in his eyes—something that looked like anticipation.

When I returned to the field, Peter was sitting on the bench. He stood up awkwardly and limped over to me.

"I'm sorry… the way I acted today—I shouldn't have."

I nodded and reached out to steady him. "It's all right. You didn't really know me, after all. It's perfectly natural you'd have misjudged me." I met his eyes. "But from now on, I think we could stand to trust each other a little more, Vice-Captain Peter."

My words drew a laugh out of him.

That laugh caught Cole's attention. Mid-sprint, he couldn't help turning his head—and took a foul elbow to the face from the opposing captain.

I saw it clearly: his helmet's face guard tore across his cheek. A gasp went up from the Ronaldode football fans in the stands. Blood welled fast along his jawline, staining half his collar red.

The referee blew for a timeout, and the other team's coach rushed over to apologize. Cole waved him off, signaling he was fine, his gaze cutting across the half-field to land squarely on me.

I grabbed the medical kit and hurried over. When my fingertips touched the wound, I could feel the warm blood still pulsing out. Keeping my face tight, I helped him remove the guard—and the moment I saw the gash clearly, I frowned.

"It's deep. It needs stitches immediately, or there's a risk of infection." I looked at him flatly. "Of course, if you'd like to ruin that face of yours, by all means, keep playing."

Cole acted as if he hadn't heard a word. He reached up and pressed his hand over my wrist, his thumb brushing the blood smeared across the web of my hand. His voice carried its usual trace of amusement.

"Only two minutes left, Brianna. Just stop the bleeding—I can make it through."

I bit my lip and didn't relent. From the sideline, Holden chimed in with the same plea.

"Cole, the score's this close. Anything could happen in two minutes!"

"I trust my physician." Cole didn't look at anyone else; his eyes stayed fixed on me, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You can handle this. Right?"

I sighed, pulled out the hemostatic gel, and pressed it quickly against the wound. Then I wound a sterile bandage twice around his head—snug enough to hold against the gash without blocking his vision.

"Two minutes, that's all you get. The second this ends, you come to the locker room with me. If it splits open again, that's on you."

Cole agreed with a grin, reached up to ruffle the top of my head, fit the guard back into place, and charged back onto the field.

Those last two minutes, the whole stadium went wild. Cole drove the team a brutal thirty yards downfield and scored the touchdown with a single second on the clock. When the whistle blew, the entire stand erupted in a deafening roar.

The players swarmed him, but he pushed through the crowd and came straight to me, tearing off the bandage and grinning. "See? I'm fine."

I looked at the wound—the bleeding had stopped—and shook my head, helpless and exasperated all at once, then took his arm and steered him toward the locker room.

"Come on, Captain. Now you're going to be a good boy and let your physician stitch you up."

The locker room was quiet, the faint sound of celebration drifting in from outside. I sat Cole down in a chair and turned to scrub in. When I looked back, he was reaching up toward the wound in the mirror—I quickly slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch it. Your hands are covered in bacteria. If it gets infected, don't come to me."

He obediently pulled his hand back, watching me thread the needle with practiced ease. There was a lazy amusement in his voice.

"Brianna, did your hand just shake? I saw you hesitate when you picked up the needle."

I swabbed the wound with iodine, pressing the cotton down a little harder than necessary—hard enough to make him hiss—before I answered. "You saw wrong. I've stitched up over a hundred wounds worse than this. My hand doesn't shake."

Once the wound was clean, I brought the needle close to his face. He was seated, I was standing, and suddenly the distance between us was almost nothing. I could clearly catch the clean scent of him—sweat mixed with the smell of athletic tape—and inexplicably, my breath caught for half a second.

"Something wrong, Doctor?" Cole looked up at me, one brow arching.

I'll admit it: right now, he was far too captivating.

I swallowed and waved a hand, pretending nothing was the matter.

The truth was, it wasn't only Cole's looks that had made me pause. It was that impossible healing of his. No normal person could possibly have a recovery ability that terrifying.

Just as the question was turning over in my mind, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out—an email. The sender was listed as Eamon, captain of the USC football team.

The message read:

I know what you're wondering about. I can tell you what you want to know.

At that moment, Cole stood and leaned in close.

"Who's messaging you?"