Younger than Danny had expected—young enough to understand Danny’s world—but experienced enough to help Danny sort through the mess in his head.

Closing his laptop after it was done, he exhaled. He already felt a little lighter, not so many snarled threads in his brain. It was far from game over, but it had been the right call to do this while the wound was fresh; he could see the path ahead now. At least on this point.

As for his rugby career…

Jaw tight and a burn in his gut, he put aside the laptop and got up. He didn’t want to think about the sword hanging over his head—it had been hanging there for the entire season, and he knew it was going to fall one of these days and cut out his fucking heart.

And the same media who’d hyped him up when he made the national squad at nineteen would exhibit glee at calling him a washout at twenty-five.

Unable to even think about it, he spent the time till dinner doing another bout of training, this time focusing on weights. He was just finishing up when he heard clattering in the kitchen.

Alarmed, he ran out to find Catie pulling out a pot; the remaining fresh vegetables from the fridge sat alongside a package of chicken breasts. “What horrible death are you planning for those innocent food items?” he asked, slinging his towel around his neck.

Catie gave his bare upper body a dismissive look, then went to wash her hands. “Shut up. I’m not that bad. I feed myself fresh, healthy stuff.”

Danny forced himself to stay in place. Catie was a passable cook—if he gave passable a generous interpretation. “Have you learned how to use garlic and ginger and herbs yet?”

“I’m holding a knife, hotshot.” She chopped down hard on the green beans she’d just washed, then made searing eye contact… and chopped again.

“Fine, fine.” Holding up his hands, he backed away. “But I’m going to supervise.”

“You’re really making me feel stabby,” she said in a calm tone. “And you don’t need ginger for a stir-fry.”

“Oh dear Lord in heaven, please save me.” Leaving her for a bare couple of minutes to throw on a tee—sexy half-naked cooking pics might be the thing in some circles, but he did not want hot oil splashed on his stomach—he returned to the kitchen.

“You want me to show you?” he asked, a bit wary because this was Catie after all. Annoy her too much and the woman might decide to dose his food with a cup of salt.

She smirked. “I should make you crazy by ordering you to sit and watch… but you did make the muffins and the cookies, so okay, fine.”