Chapter 3 — A Combative First Meeting
Third Person
Elias Navarro sat in the private rehabilitation suite of Solis Sports Medicine Center, his knee encased in the cold grip of a compression brace. The sleek, state-of-the-art machines surrounded him like silent sentinels, their polished surfaces reflecting his distorted image back at him. The faint antiseptic scent lingered in the sterile air, a sharp reminder of how far he was from the roar of a stadium crowd. His fingers twisted his El Sol Pendant absently, the worn leather cord cutting faint grooves into his palm. The motion steadied him, though it did little to quiet the storm inside his head.
The door creaked open, and Elias didn’t bother looking up. The off-key whistling echoing through the hall was unmistakable.
“Still brooding?” Marco Ruiz asked as he stepped inside, his tone light and teasing, though the concern in his warm brown eyes betrayed him.
Elias flicked the pendant back under his hoodie and glanced up. “Brooding? Nah, just soaking in the luxury,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the room with a sarcastic grin. “Five-star rehab suite, all-inclusive ice packs and existential dread. You should book a stay.”
Marco snorted, dropping into one of the chairs against the wall. His Guardians jersey was damp from practice, faint streaks of turf clinging to his cleats. “You know, some people would kill for an excuse to sit down and do nothing for a while. You’ve been going ninety miles an hour since we were kids.”
“Yeah, well, some people didn’t have their whole career ripped out from under them,” Elias bit back, sharper than intended. He winced slightly at his own tone but didn’t apologize.
Marco raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, no lectures. I’m just saying, maybe this is your chance to—”
“Don’t,” Elias interrupted, his jaw tightening. “Don’t give me the ‘everything happens for a reason’ speech. I’ve had enough of that crap to last a lifetime.”
Marco’s grin faltered but didn’t fade entirely. “Fine. No speeches. But you’re stuck with me anyway, so deal with it.” His tone was casual, but the way his gaze lingered on Elias’s stiff posture hinted at the quiet observation beneath the humor.
Before Elias could respond, the door opened again, and the atmosphere shifted. Sharp, deliberate footsteps echoed against the polished floor, each one a quiet declaration of purpose.
Elias straightened instinctively, his fidgeting stilling as his eyes flicked toward the source of the sound. She was petite but carried herself with an authority that filled the space. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and a tailored blazer offset the clinical tablet she held in one hand. Black eyes, sharp and assessing, swept the room before landing squarely on him.
“You must be Mr. Navarro,” she said, her tone cool and professional.
“Elias,” he corrected, leaning back in his chair, the shift deliberately casual despite the tension in his shoulders. His hazel eyes sparked with curiosity, though his expression remained carefully guarded. “And you must be the newest addition to the Solis dream team. What should I call you, Doc?”
“Dr. Cruz,” she replied without hesitation, stepping closer. “I’ll be managing your rehabilitation program.”
Elias arched a brow, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “So you’re the one they brought in to fix me? No pressure.”
“Pressure doesn’t bother me,” she said simply, her movements precise as she set her tablet on the counter. “But wasting time does. Let’s begin.”
Her clipped tone caught him off-guard, though he kept the amusement on his face. “You always this warm and fuzzy, or am I just special?”
“Only with the charming ones,” she shot back without missing a beat.
Marco let out a low whistle from his spot in the corner. “Oh, I like her already,” he said, grinning widely.
“Marco,” Elias said through gritted teeth, his tone warning, “don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“Not really,” Marco replied, leaning back in his chair. “This is way more entertaining than practice.”
Dr. Cruz barely acknowledged the exchange before turning back to Elias. “We’ll start with a range-of-motion assessment. I need to evaluate how much flexibility you’ve retained post-surgery.”
“Sounds like a blast,” Elias muttered, extending his leg as instructed.
As she crouched beside him, Elias caught the faint trace of her perfume—something crisp and understated. Her small hands moved with firm precision, guiding his knee through measured stretches. Despite their size, her grip was unyielding, and every movement was deliberate, purposeful. The subtle ache in his quadriceps grew with each rotation, a hollow reminder of his weakness.
“Let me know if you feel any pain,” she said, her voice steady, her focus unwavering.
“Define pain,” he replied, his sarcasm firmly intact.
Her gaze flicked up to meet his, sharp and assessing. For a moment, he thought he saw something flicker in her expression—not quite annoyance, but a steely determination. “Discomfort is fine. Shooting or sharp pain isn’t. I trust you know the difference.”
He smirked. “Trust is a big word for someone who just met me.”
“Trust is earned,” she said evenly, returning her attention to his knee.
Marco chuckled softly under his breath. “She really does have your number, man.”
Elias shot him a glare but stayed silent. There was something different about her—something he couldn’t quite pin down. Most people who walked into this room either tiptoed around him or tried too hard to prove they understood what he was going through. She did neither. She didn’t seem intimidated by his reputation or his foul mood.
The session continued in tense silence, broken only by Natalia’s calm instructions and the faint hum of the equipment around them. Each stretch and rotation of his knee chipped away at his patience, the ache in his muscles amplifying the frustration humming in his chest. His jaw clenched tighter with every motion, the mounting tension making it harder to breathe.
When she finally stepped back, she made a few quick notes on her tablet before meeting his gaze. “Your flexibility is better than I anticipated, but there’s significant weakness in your quadriceps. We’ll focus on rebuilding strength over the next few weeks.”
“And how long is that going to take?” he snapped, the impatience in his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
“That depends on your effort,” she replied matter-of-factly. Her tone was calm, almost detached, but there was no mistaking the edge of challenge in her words. “But it won’t happen overnight. Recovery is a process, not a sprint.”
The words struck him harder than he expected, triggering a surge of irritation. “Great. Another person here to remind me how broken I am,” he muttered bitterly, his hands gripping the edge of the chair.
Her gaze remained steady, her expression unflinching. “You’re not broken, Mr. Navarro. But if you keep thinking that way, you’ll sabotage your own recovery.”
The bluntness of her words startled him, though he refused to let it show. Instead, he leaned back, forcing the smirk to return to his lips. “Let’s hope you’re as good as you think you are, Doc.”
She closed her tablet with a soft click, meeting his gaze one last time. Her expression remained calm, but there was a quiet intensity in her eyes. “I’m good at my job, Mr. Navarro. But I’m not a miracle worker. If you want to get back on the field, you’ll need to meet me halfway.”
For a moment, all he could do was hold her gaze, searching for a crack in her composure. But there was nothing—just quiet confidence and an infuriating steadiness that unnerved him more than he cared to admit.
As she turned to leave, Marco gestured toward the door. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be charming, you’re doing a terrible job.”
“Shut up, Marco,” Elias muttered, though the sharpness in his tone had softened.
Left alone, Elias leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling. The sterile light above seemed colder now, the clinical hum of the machines louder. Yet somewhere beneath the noise and the ache, there was the faintest glimmer of something else.
It wasn’t hope—not yet. But it was close.
