CHAPTER FOUR
Winter’s POV
“Go home, Doctor Winter.”
I glance up to see my sister Cami standing there, holding a box and looking displeased.
“Hey,” I say, taking in the scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls and doughnuts. The box bears
the logo of her bakery, Belle’s Treats. I’m definitely in for a treat.
“‘Hey’?” she replies with a raised eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. She places the box on my desk
and sits down, clutching it tightly.
“You’ve been in the hospital for two nights without a word, even though you promised me you’d
take better care of yourself. All I got was a brief text: ‘I’m not coming home tonight.’ Seriously,
Winter?”
“I’m sorry,” I say earnestly. “Work just—”
“Bullshit.”
Cami rarely swears. Unlike me—who used to be wild two years ago—she’s always been proper.
No swearing, no one-night stands. She’s perfect.
“Cami.”
“Let’s go to a club this weekend.”
I laugh in surprise. “Are you drunk?”
“No, I’m serious. I preferred it when you were with men, even if it was just for one night. At least
then, when you didn’t come home, I knew you had someone with you. But this?” She gestures
around my stark office.
“Knowing you’re alone here for two nights straight is tough. You’ve come so far. You’re the top
therapist here, treating the best athletes. You don’t need to work yourself to the bone.”
But my work is my life. Outside this office, I feel empty.
“I get it,” I reply. “But the more recognition I get, the harder I have to work to maintain my
reputation.”
Cami takes my hand. “Winter, taking a break isn’t a crime. I’m not asking you to dive into a
relationship or anything. Just take a small break. For me, if not for yourself.”
It’s because of Cami that I learned to feel loved. Our mother was too consumed by grief after
our dad’s death to care for me. Cami has always been there for me.
Seeing me weakened, she pushes the box towards me, a tempting bribe.
“If you won’t let a man take care of you, and you won’t take care of yourself, at least let me
help,” she says.
I chuckle and glance at my laptop screen, loaded with work—meal and exercise schedules for
my patients, plus specific instructions for those who can’t visit. Just before Cami walked in, I was
combining diet plans. Maybe my assistant can help with this.
“Alright, Cami. I’ll take a—”
My email refreshes, and a new message appears. It’s from the head doctor. The subject catches
my eye: Damon Torrence.
“What’s up?” Cami asks, leaning in.
I open the email slowly, and together, we read:
“After a recent game injury, player Damon Torrence has sustained significant damage...
Lionscore has requested your expertise to assist in his recovery and would appreciate your
prompt response...”
Cami gasps. “Damon Torrence? The Damon Torrence?”
I nod. “Looks like it.”
Damon Torrence. The man who broke his promise.
My heart races as I step into the sports rehabilitation center. After a year as a physical therapist,
I've met many stars, but today isn’t just any day. Today, I’m meeting him. Will he remember me?
Will there still be that spark between us? What will this reunion mean for him?
A swirl of thoughts fills my mind as I reach room D-31, where the receptionist said Damon is
waiting. I freeze at the door, though to him, I'm just the physical therapist arriving for his session.
With a deep breath, I open the door to find Damon sitting on a treatment table, his back to me
and his eyes glued to his phone. Even seated, he seems taller than I recall. His dark hair falls
messily as he runs his hand through it, unaware of my presence. In the reflection of a nearby
picture frame, his chiseled jawline is still the same, and the stubble on his chin reminds me of
how it felt brushing against my skin.
I shake my head, close the door softly, and clear my throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Torrence.”
He turns around, meeting my gaze, but there’s no sign of recognition. Instead, he flashes a
charming smile. “Are you my physical therapist? Dr. Berkeley?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Wow,” he says, surprised.
“I expected someone stern and old, not someone as beautiful as you.”
My heart sinks. It’s clear he doesn’t remember me—or maybe he’s pretending not to. Either way,
I feel a pang of disappointment.
But should I be surprised? He broke one promise, so why not another? For two years, I followed
his career, watching every game and rooting for him. I bragged about him, believing he’d
become the best NBA player ever.
Then the articles started:
“Rising Star Damon Torrence Spotted Leaving Hotel with Country Singer Angel Locsin.”
One article led to another, each one a new woman, a new scandal, a new heartbreak. Now,
here he is, flirting with me while barely recognizing who I am. I don’t know what stings
more—the flirting or his lack of memory.
“Is this the report on your leg?” I ask, ignoring his comment and approaching the table where
the report lies.
“Yeah, Doctor Grayheart said you’d need it.”
As I glance at his phone, showing one of his games, I scoff at the narcissism and focus on the
report.
“What’s the issue?” he asks.
“I don’t have magic eyes, Mr. Torrence. I’ll need more than a few seconds to figure this out.”
“Not that. You scoffed and shook your head when you saw my phone.”
“Did I?” I say, not looking up as I shift through the reports.
“I know judgment when I see it.”
“Do you?”
Tension fills the room before he speaks again.
“Dr. Berkeley, do you have a—”
I stop as I examine the scan more closely. My heartbeat quickens. It can’t be.
“What’s the problem?” he asks again.
I drop the report and retrieve a black pen from my pocket. Without a word, I kneel beside him
and gently lift his leg from the wheelchair. I trace a line above his ankle, where the bandage
doesn’t cover.
He doesn’t react.
“Dr. Berkeley?” he asks, his voice tinged with concern.
I draw the line again, pressing harder.
“Please tell me you feel that, Damon.”
Time seems to freeze as I wait for his response, staring up at him.
“Do you feel that?” I repeat.
Then I see it—recognition in his eyes. Though it’s what I wanted, it’s overshadowed by my concern.
“Do you—?”
“Winter?"