‘You don’t owe me,’ I tell him, pulling my roll of medical tape from my bag. I focus on picking at the torn end where it sticks to the rest of the roll. ‘What happened to you was terrible. I’m not leaving you out to dry after that.’

‘For the record, May …’ He sits down beside me on the bleachers. Jordan raises an eyebrow my way, but doesn’t say anything. That girl. We’re going to have a chat about this later over margaritas, I’m sure, but I mentally thank her for staying quiet. ‘I’m sorry it happened to you.’

I’ve had ups and downs in this sport. Twice I have suffered momentarily coming off my game. But I’ve never had to bench myself because I completely forgot how to play. I always bounced back. I had good people around me, a sounding board when I needed one, and other times, a cushion to fall back on.

I watch Colt, and something twists in my gut when I think about the fact that now he picks up a stick and doesn’t know what to do with it. This is the same kid who picked up a stick for the first time and immediately knew what to do with it. As athletes under stress all the damn time, crashes in our mental health are nothing if not common, and what Colt is facing is the worst kind of crash.

I keep picking at the stupid tape. The end doesn’t lift. Colt, for his part, holds out an open palm, expectant gaze meeting mine from beneath long lashes. He brushes a wave of hair back, and the muscles in his forearm do that flex thing that I hate to admit is unfairly attractive. ‘May I?’

His dumb forearm muscles have all my attention. I surrender the pink tape to him, and he unrolls it easily. Nice one, May. I stick my hand out. ‘It’s the wrist.’

Colt makes an affirmative humming sound, and his head dips in concentration, that same piece of hair falling over his forehead as he carefully wraps my joint, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, the pad of his index finger smoothing the end that he tears off, tucking it in neatly. ‘That good?’

Is that good? Is that good?

‘Sure,’ I say.

May. You diabolical liar.

‘Get out there.’ He pats my hand; a tame little gesture, but I accept it.

Maybe it’s the closeness of the moment we just shared, or maybe it’s the entire front row of bleachers craning their necks to watch us. Or maybe it’s both. Either way, Colt catches on quickly. He leans down and brushes a gentle kiss across my cheek. The tiny wink that follows sends my pulse thudding away so hard I hope he can’t feel it in my fingers. ‘Grab a red card or two, while you’re at it.’