Page 38 of The Risk Taker

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

I jump, my heart lurching in my stomach. I glance over my shoulder, seeing Logan standing just outside the stall.

I face forward again. “Jesus. Have you ever heard of personal space?”

“You’ve been limping since practice ended.”

“I haven’t,” I lie, trying to wash off as quickly as possible.

“You have,” he says. “And now you’re standing like someone jammed a hockey stick up your ass.”

I glare at him over my shoulder. He’s standing there with his brows slightly raised, mouth tipped like he knows he’s right. He always thinks he’s right.

“Did you pull something?” he asks.

“No.”

He scoffs, clearly not believing me. “You suck at lying, you know that?”

“Just drop it, Logan.”

The sound of water fills the silence between us for a few seconds before I reach for the handle and twist it off.

I grab my towel and wrap it around my waist. Pushing past Logan, I head toward the benches, noticing the locker room is completely empty now.

I limp with every step. Try not to, but I do. And of course… Logan notices.

“Nathan.” His voice sounds tighter now, less teasing.

I blow out a breath through my nose. “It’s nothing,” I say, keeping my back to him. “I’m just… tight.”

He lets out a huff behind me. “Well, that’s a sentence.”

I roll my eyes, towel off quickly and pull on my boxers, biting back a wince as the muscle in my thigh tugs again.

“You don’t want your dad to know,” he says, making me pause, gripping my t-shirt in my hands.

I glance back at him, seeing his brows knitted together.

I open my mouth to tell him he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but I can’t, because… he’s right. And I hate that he’s right.

Because Idon’twant my dad to know. I don’t want him to figure out how long this pain’s been there, how many practices I’ve pushed through just to keep him proud. How sometimes I wish it would just snap, so I’d have a reason to stop. To walk away from all of it.

I drag in a breath and look down again, the cotton bunching between my fingers.

Logan’s still watching me like he can see right through every layer of bullshit I’ve spent years building. And I can’t fucking stand it.

I swallow hard and sit down on the bench and tug on my socks. “Not sure that’s any of your business.”

“Which leg?” he asks, taking a step closer.

I don’t answer, hoping he’ll take the hint and let it go. But of fucking course he doesn’t.

“Let me see it,” he says.

“No.”

“Come on,” he says quietly, crouching down slightly. “Just for a second.”