Chapter 7
Brianna
At the Dean's sharp insistence, Peter got to his feet — reluctantly.
His expression shifted. Anger gave way to confusion, then landed on shock.
Kate's face darkened like a storm rolling in.
Peter, on the other hand, looked thrilled. He stared at me, struggling to form words, gesturing first at his leg, then toward the field.
I knew exactly what he was trying to ask.
I shrugged.
"You're not going back out there today. But in two days? You'll be cleared for the next game."
The moment I said it, Dean Arise pulled me aside. His voice dropped to ice.
"Brianna, I have no idea what possessed you to make such a reckless claim. Take it back. Now."
"Do you understand what it means to return to high-intensity contact sports two days after an impact like that?"
When I didn't answer, his expression turned grim.
"It means you're lying. I know you're new to this position and eager to prove yourself. But Brianna — this is not how you do it. What you did for Peter just now was excellent work. But don't make promises you can't keep. I'll handle the damage control and say you misspoke."
As he turned to leave, I caught his arm.
"Dean, please trust me. I'm confident because what I used on him is my own patent."
"What?"
Clearly, Arise had no idea that the most widely used healing compound on the market came from me. I pulled out the patent certificate — the one Cole had helped me revise and verify.
Arise took the paper. His hands were trembling.
The way he looked at me changed. The anger drained out of his face. He steadied himself, then clapped a hand on my shoulder — firm, approving.
Then he pressed a card into my palm.
"I'm launching a new medical research initiative. I'd like you to be part of it."
With that, he left. As he walked away, I caught something unmistakable in his expression: anticipation.
When I got back to the sideline, Peter was sitting on the bench. He stood awkwardly, limping over to me.
"I'm sorry. What I did today — that wasn't right."
I nodded, offering him a steadying hand.
"It's fine. You didn't know me. The assumptions you made were understandable. But going forward, I think we need more trust between us, Vice-Captain."
That got a laugh out of him.
Cole noticed. Mid-run, he turned his head — just for a second.
That's when the opposing team's captain hit him with a dirty elbow to the face.
I saw it clearly: the faceguard tore into Cole's cheek.
The Ronaldde crowd gasped in unison. Blood welled up fast along his jawline, soaking into the collar of his jersey.
The referee blew the whistle. The opposing coach jogged over, apologizing profusely.
Cole waved him off and looked straight at me across the field.
I grabbed the kit and sprinted over. The moment my fingers touched his face, I could feel warm blood still pulsing from the wound.
I kept my expression neutral as I pulled off his faceguard. The second I saw the cut, I frowned.
"It's deep. You need stitches now, or you're risking infection. If you want a scar for the rest of your life, by all means — keep playing."
Cole acted like he hadn't heard a word. He reached up, wrapped his hand around my wrist, and brushed his thumb over the blood that had gotten on my palm. His tone stayed light, almost teasing.
"Two minutes left, Brianna. Just stop the bleeding. I can finish."
I bit my lip, unwilling to budge. Holden stepped in from the sideline, backing him up.
"Cole, the score's this close — two minutes could change everything."
"I trust my team physician."
Cole wasn't looking at anyone else. His eyes stayed locked on mine, his voice steady and absolute.
"You can handle this. Right?"
I sighed, pulled out the hemostatic gel, and pressed it firmly against the wound. Then I wrapped sterile gauze around his head twice — tight enough to hold the cut closed, loose enough not to block his vision.
"Two minutes. The second this is over, you're coming with me to the locker room. If it tears open again, that's on you."
Cole smiled, ruffled the top of my head, pulled his faceguard back on, and charged back onto the field.
The final two minutes were chaos. Cole drove the team forward thirty yards through sheer force of will and scored the winning touchdown with one second left on the clock.
When the whistle blew, the stands erupted.
His teammates swarmed him in celebration. He shoved through the crowd and came straight to me, yanking off the bandage with a grin.
"See? I'm fine."
I looked at the wound — bleeding stopped, but still angry and raw — and shook my head, exasperated.
"Come on, Captain. Time to sit still and let your team physician do her job."
The locker room was quiet except for the muffled roar of celebration outside.
I had Cole sit in a chair while I went to wash and disinfect my hands. When I turned back, he was looking in the mirror, reaching toward the wound.
I swatted his hand away.
"Don't touch it. Your hands are covered in bacteria. If it gets infected, that's your problem."
He dropped his hand obediently, watching me in the mirror as I threaded the needle. His tone was casual, almost lazy.
"Brianna, did your hand just shake? I saw you pause when you picked up the needle."
I dabbed iodine over the wound a little harder than necessary. He hissed. Only then did I respond.
"You're seeing things. I've stitched up hundreds of wounds deeper than this. Why would my hand shake?"
Once the area was sterilized, I leaned in with the needle. He was sitting, I was standing — suddenly we were close enough that I could smell him: sweat, adhesive wrap, something clean underneath. My breath caught for half a second.
"What's wrong, my team physician?"
Cole looked up at me. The corner of his brow lifted slightly.
I had to admit — he was unfairly attractive right now.
I swallowed and waved it off like it was nothing.
But it wasn't just his looks that had made me pause. It was his healing. No normal person could recover this fast. It wasn't natural.
That's when my phone buzzed.
I pulled it out. An email. The sender: Eamon, captain of the USC football team.
The message read:
[I know what you're wondering. I can tell you what you want to know.]
Before I could process it, Cole stood and leaned in close.
"Who's that from?"
