Chapter 18 Chapter 18
Emily's POV
The blender roared at six in the morning. It was petty. I knew it was petty, but after last night, I didn’t particularly care. The apartment was still dim with early morning light, pale gray spilling through the windows as the sun slowly pushed its way over campus. Most students were still asleep. Most normal people, anyway, but not Noah Harris, because Noah Harris had a rehabilitation session. And Noah Harris had invited some of this friends or whomever the girls were into our apartment the night before like he didn’t have a torn shoulder and a recovery plan that depended on discipline. Gosh, did I just say our apartment?
The blender whirred loudly again as I finished mixing his recovery smoothie. I slammed the lid onto the shaker bottle a little harder than necessary. There was no response from the hallway.
Of course.
He was still asleep, which meant step two.
I walked down the hallway and stopped outside his bedroom door. For a moment, I considered knocking politely, but then I remembered the music, the laughing. The girls leaning against him like I wasn’t even there. The quiet way I had gone to my room and pretended it didn’t matter.
I knocked.
There was no response.
I knocked again.
Still nothing.
I pushed the door open.
Noah was sprawled across the bed like a crime scene, the blanket was half on the floor, one arm hanging off the mattress, hair completely wrecked. He looked exactly like someone who stayed up too late making bad decisions.
“Good morning,” I said brightly.
He groaned. “Go away.”
“It’s six.”
He gave another groan. “Emily.”
“Yes?”
“Please leave.”
“No.”
He dragged the pillow over his head. “You’re cruel.”
“You have rehab.”
“I’m dying.”
“You’re hungover.”
“That too.”
I walked over and pulled the pillow off his face. His eyes squinted open slowly. The moment he realized I was serious, he groaned louder. “You woke me up.”
“Yes.”
“On purpose.”
“Yes.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re late.”
“I’m injured.”
“You’re irresponsible.”
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “You’re in a mood.”
“You brought strangers into the apartment.”
“They were teammates.”
“And two women you don’t even remember.”
He paused. “Okay, fair.”
I crossed my arms. “You have a shoulder injury.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re supposed to be recovering.”
“I am recovering.”
“You’re sabotaging your recovery.”
He swung his legs off the bed and stood slowly. His balance wavered slightly.
“Relax,” he muttered. “It was one night.”
“That’s not the point.”
He grabbed a hoodie from the floor and pulled it on. “What is the point?”
“The point is that your choices affect my work.” I said sharply.
He stopped. For the first time that morning, he actually looked at me. “I didn’t realize my social life required medical approval.”
“It requires common sense.”
“I had teammates over.”
“You had a party.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“Is it?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re very intense this early in the morning.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“No,” I said. “You’re not.” That landed harder than I expected.
He straightened slightly. “Excuse me?”
“You think this is funny.”
“I think you’re overreacting.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m still functioning.”
“You’re barely functioning.”
He leaned against the dresser. “Emily.”
“What?”
“You’re acting like I committed a crime.”
“You’re acting like your recovery doesn’t matter.”
“It matters.”
“Then start behaving like it does.”
He stared at me for a moment before he walked past me towards the hallway. “Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s do your torture session.”
The lounge still smelled faintly like last night. I had already cleaned the empty cups and bottles before he woke up. Mostly because I needed the space clear for rehab. Noah noticed immediately. “You cleaned.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did.”
He sat on the floor mat and stretched his injured arm cautiously. I handed him the resistance band. “Warm-up first.” He took it from me, but his movements were slower than usual. His eyes still looked half-asleep. “You shouldn’t have stayed up so late,” I said, because he still played games late.
“You’re not my mother.”
“No,” I said quietly. “I’m the person responsible for making sure your shoulder works again.” He started the first exercise. The movement was sloppy. “Stop.”
“What?”
“You’re compensating.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re careless.”
“I’m hungover.”
“That’s not a medical condition.”
He exhaled sharply. “You’re really mad.”
“Yes.”
“Because I had people over?”
“Because you’re reckless.” He pulled against the band harder this time. “Careful,” I warned.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re forcing it.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” The band snapped back as he released tension suddenly. The movement was too aggressive, his shoulder jerked. He inhaled sharply. He was in pain. I stepped forward immediately. “Stop.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” I placed my hand lightly on his shoulder. The muscle was tight and overworked. “You pushed too hard.”
He looked away. “I’ve pushed harder.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
He pulled his arm away slightly. “Emily.”
“What?”
“You’re acting like I’m stupid.”
“I’m acting like you’re careless.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No,” I said quietly. “It’s not.”
He stood up suddenly. “Look,” he said, his voice tightening. “If you want to micromanage every second of my life, that’s not happening.”
“I’m not micromanaging.”
“You woke me up like a drill sergeant.”
“You had a rehabilitation appointment.”
“You’re not my boss.”
“No, I’m not.” Silence filled the room for a moment, and then I said the thing I had been holding back since last night. “If you want to destroy your career, that’s your choice.” He froze. “But you’re not taking my work down with you.”
The words hung between us, it was heavy and real. Noah didn’t speak. His eyes shifted slightly as the meaning settled in. I wasn’t angry because he had women over. I wasn’t angry because of jealousy. I was angry because he was careless with something I had worked my entire life to do well.
Finally he spoke. “You think I’m ruining your work.”
“I think you’re capable of more.” That surprised him. “I’m serious,” I continued. “You have talent. Discipline when you choose to use it. Physical ability most athletes would kill for.” I stepped closer. “But if you don’t take recovery seriously, you will reinjure this shoulder.” He didn’t argue. “You will lose your season and when that happens,” I finished quietly, “Everyone will blame the rehab program.” His jaw tightened slightly, which meant he understood exactly what I meant. I handed him the resistance band again. “Start again.”
He didn’t argue this time. He began the movement slowly, carefully and controlled.
One set and then another. There was no sarcasm and no teasing just quiet effort. I adjusted his posture halfway through. “Engage your scapula.”
He did better.
“Again.”
He did another set. The tension in the room slowly shifted. By the end of the final exercise, sweat darkened the collar of his hoodie. “Done,” I said.
He rolled his shoulder carefully. It moved smoother than before, but he didn’t look satisfied. He looked thoughtful. “You’re intense,” he said quietly.
“I’m professional.”
“That too.”
He grabbed the water bottle from the table and took a long drink before glancing at me again. For the first time since we met, there was no sarcasm in his expression. Just… something quieter. Maybe it was regret.
“You’re right,” he said finally. The admission surprised me. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I should’ve taken it more seriously last night.”
I nodded once. “That would help.”
Silence settled between us again before he grabbed his towel and headed toward the hallway. Halfway there, he paused. “Emily.”
“Yes?”
He didn’t turn around. “I didn’t realize it mattered that much to you.” I watched his shoulders rise and fall slightly.
“It matters,” I said simply. He nodded once and he disappeared down the hallway.
For the first time since I had started working with Noah Harris, I had the strange feeling that my disappointment mattered to him. That thought alone unsettled me more than last night ever did.