The Boy I Never Got Over
Description
When elite physical therapist Riley Morgan is unexpectedly assigned to rehabilitate international football star-and her high school ex-Lucas Rivera, she's forced to confront the past she buried under years of ambition. Sparks fly, old wounds resurface, and the media catches fire as their professional lines blur. But when a rival player frames Lucas for harassment and Riley risks everything to uncover the truth, the two must decide if love deserves a second shot-or if their dreams are destined to live on separate fields.
Chapter 1
Aug 13, 2025
Riley’s POV
“If I quit physical therapy, I’m joining BLACKPINK. Just putting that out there,” Kira Chen declared dramatically, striking a pose on her crutches like she was about to headline Coachella.
I rolled my eyes, snorting. “Please. You’d trip on your own ego before you hit the stage.”
Kira clutched her chest as if wounded. “Wow. Harsh from the woman who just fixed my knee. Where’s the love?”
“Love doesn’t fix ACLs,” I said, flipping through her chart with exaggerated focus. “Hard work, biomechanics, and three iced coffees do.”
“Speaking of which…” She pointed to the giant cup in my hand. “That your third?”
“Fourth,” I admitted, taking a long sip like it was oxygen. “Don’t judge me. I have to deal with Zara’s situationship meltdown on top of fixing broken athletes.”
“Hey!” Zara yelled from the corner where she was scrolling through her phone with a vengeance. “It is not a situationship. We’re just… in a complicated emotional limbo.”
“With a rat-faced man who cheats on you every time Mercury retrogrades,” I replied sweetly. “Yeah. That sounds like a beautiful fairy tale.”
“I hope your next date ghosts you mid-appetizer,” Zara shot back.
Kira cackled while I packed up the resistance bands, humming along to Taylor Swift’s “The Man.” My body moved in rhythm, hips swaying, fingers dancing over the clipboard. On the outside, I was always sunshine. Banter. Laughter. But inside?
Hollow. Like someone had scraped me out with a silver spoon and left the shell.
My phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen, expecting another meme from Zara. Instead, it was a restricted number flashing across the screen.
I picked up, already dreading the pitch. “Riley Morgan. Please don’t try to sell me another ergonomic chair.”
A pause. Then a clipped British accent: “Ms. Morgan, this is Dr. Sheridan from the Premier League Medical Board. We have an urgent rehabilitation request. Confidentiality is required. Elite athlete. Immediate recovery plan needed.”
I froze mid-step. “I don’t do blind rehab dates. If you won’t tell me who it is, the answer’s no.”
Zara perked up from the couch like a meerkat. “Premier League?” she mouthed, eyes wide. “TAKE IT!”
I ignored her and kept the phone pressed to my ear. “I’m not available for chaos. I like schedules. I like structure. And I definitely don’t like mystery clients.”
“But you’re the only one with the necessary credentials,” Sheridan insisted. “Your success with the Olympic team, your published joint-recovery methods—there’s no one else qualified for this particular case, especially not on such short notice.”
“Then they should’ve gotten hurt earlier,” I muttered.
“They need you, Ms. Morgan. And frankly, so does the League.”
The numbers they offered next made my eyebrows shoot up. Zara, still watching, mouthed, How many zeroes? I held up five fingers.
“Take it!” she whisper-screamed. “If you don’t, I swear to God I will chase you with the pancake spatula.”
I covered the phone and glared at her. “You wouldn’t.”
Zara was already on her feet, waving the spatula like a sword. “Try me. I am PMS-ing and emotionally fragile.”
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll take it. But I’m not happy about it!”
“You never are,” Zara grinned, victorious.
***
The next day, I was waiting for Dr. James at our usual spot: an upscale bar with dim lighting and overpriced wine. James had been my post-grad hookup since med school. Six-foot-one. Sharp jaw. Glasses that made him look like he read for fun, even though I knew for a fact he watched reality TV in scrubs.
He greeted me with a smirk and two gin and tonics. “So, Doctor Morgan. Saving the world one strained ligament at a time?”
“Barely,” I said, taking a grateful sip. “Yesterday I got bribed and threatened with a spatula.”
He laughed, leaning against the booth with that casual charm he wore like cologne. “What’s the new case?”
“No clue,” I said, relaxing into the leather seat. “Just some anonymous elite athlete with too much money and a death wish for their hamstring. The usual.”
He raised a brow. “You didn’t even get a name?”
“Nope. Top secret. Like it’s MI6 and not someone who forgot to stretch before sprinting.”
My phone lit up.
I glanced at it and every part of me stilled.
BREAKING NEWS: Lucas Rivera injury worse than reported. Career at risk without surgery or aggressive rehab.
The world tilted. My drink suddenly tasted like ash. Even though they hadn’t sent me my new six figure patient file yet, something in me told me it was him.
James noticed. “That’s the guy, isn’t it?”
I stared at the screen. At the headline. At the name that lived under my ribs like a scar that wouldn’t fade.
“Yeah,” I said quietly, pulse pounding in my throat. “That’s the guy.”
The Boy I Never Got Over
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