Page 173 of Top Shelf

“Usually.”

Five minutes later, Rhys is standing near a reformer while Mila frames him in front of the logo, and Zoe feeds me figures from the waitlist. Six more athlete testimonials if everyone signs their consent forms. Carina is chasing two of them for me in between patients. Sloane has somehow fielded and referred three calls meant for me from Moreno, and Nia sent me a voice note earlier from wherever she was, reminding me that pressure isn't proof I’m failing. It’s proof the thing matters. I listened to it twice in the supply closet with tears running down my cheeks, before wiping them and heading back out.

All of these brilliant, talented women. All part of the reason that Return To Play looks like a real studio.

Rhys clears his throat when Mila starts recording.

“I’m Rhys Morgan,” he says, then stops. “No. That sounded like a hostage video.”

“It did,” Mila agrees.

His eyes cut to hers and narrow. “Helpful.”

“Just try again, but speak like you’ve met yourself before.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and pretend to check my clipboard. His second take is better, and by the third, he stops fighting the camera and starts talking about the part I need people to understand—being technically cleared doesn’t mean you’re ready to play.

When Mila lowers the phone, she’s quiet for a second.

Rhys shifts, eyeing her suspiciously. “Was that terrible, too?”

“No,” she says lightly. “That was useful.”

“Oh.” His face softens before he shifts back to neutral. “Good. Thanks.”

Mila glances down at the screen to replay the clip, and Rhys’ eyes dart where she’s swaying her hip without realizing.

“So you dance professionally?”

“Yeah.” Her gaze lift to his. “Commercial, mostly.”

“Right.” He nods once. “Is that like, tours?”

“Among other things.”

I watch Mila look back down at the clip, thumb sliding over the screen. Rhys is still watching her, but not in the usual way men watch Mila, as though they’ve mistaken her for a dainty thing on display. He watches like he’s trying to understand how all the pieces fit together. Then his attention flicks to her hip again.

“Are you—” He stops.

Mila looks up and waits, and Rhys, who walked into this place grinning like a man who has never once struggled to make conversation in his life, rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“Nothing.”

“Ask the question.”

“Ah, no. I decided I enjoy being alive.”

Her expression barely moves, but her eyes sharpen with interest. “Go on, then. Let’s see if you survive.”

“Fine.” Rhys sighs. “I was going to ask if you’re coming back from an injury too, and then I realized asking a woman I’ve known for twenty minutes about her medical history might be a strange choice.”

Mila studies him for a beat. “Fifteen.”

“Ah. But then at the half hour point, I was planning to ask about allergies and childhood fears anyway.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Good save, Rugby.”

His brows lift. “Rugby?”