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“You’re the best, and I’m glad you called. Did you win?” I ask, needing to talk about something normal.

“No. I never thought I’d say this, but we miss O’Keefe. Don’t tell him I said that because it’ll go straight to his head.” Mav leans in conspiratorially.

I bring the phone closer as well. “Your secret is safe with me.” A noise steals my attention, and it’s a doctor standing in the doorway. “Gotta go. Call you in a minute.”

Maria sleeps peacefully, and I step out to the family waiting room to regroup. Slouching in a seat, I exhale slowly. The doctor assured us it’s good news. Sorry, but in my world, fractures and blood clots aren’t good news.

“Angeldancer4, is that you?”

I don’t lift my head or give any recognition to my screen name. The last thing I need is an interaction with a client. Not here. Not now.

“Hey.” He’s closer, and I freeze with vague recognition of his voice but stay silent.

“Angel, it’s me.” The guy rests his hand on my shoulder. “Buddy.”

“Please don’t touch me. I don’t know who you are.” My instinct is to flinch away and curl into myself. My pulse races, making me lightheaded on top of the stress. He seems harmless, but touching me sends my head to a messed-up place.

“You don’t have to hide from me.” He places his arm around me, then screams as his hand is ripped away. In the fight, flight, or freeze response, I freeze, which doesn’t say much for my survival in an actual emergency.

“He asked you nicely not to touch him. I’m telling you to leave, or I’ll call security.” My savior is none other than Theo O’Keefe. This is hell on earth. Fate should kill me now and get it over with.

I recognize him as the guy from the gala who touched me, and his eyes fill with tears. “Don’t do this to me again.” But he has enough sense to run away from O’Keefe. How could he find me in two crowded places weeks apart? The probability has to be low.

“Thanks?” I ask, confused. “What are you doing here? Problem with your finger?” O’Keefe couldn’t travel with the team because he broke a finger and will be out for a couple of weeks. Their trainer didn’t trust him to rest if he’s with the team. That seems valid.

“I wish.” O’Keefe throws himself into the seat next to me. “Here.” He tosses me a to-go bag.

I can smell the bacon, egg, and cheese before I open it. My stomach rumbles in anticipation of the BEC, which is on my favorite everything bagel. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Jamal and Mav for beating me into submission,” he huffs with a smirk.

“Sorry you got the short end of the stick.” I bite into the sandwich and have to slow myself down from inhaling it and choking to death. “You must have more important things to do”—I pause—“and there’s the whole deal of you hating me.” I’m too exhausted to filter my words.

“It’s not you.” O’Keefe’s huge frame takes up so much space. “What can I say? I’m an only child. I don’t share.” He shrugs.

“Share?! I’m not sharing with you.” No matter if he means this food or Mav, I won’t share either. A piece of bacon gets lodged in my throat, and I cough.

O’Keefe thumps my back. “Glad we’re on the same page. As long as you don’t touch Jamal, we don’t have a problem.”

“I’ve never touched him. That’s not what I do,” I say straightforwardly.

“That’s what he said.” He scrubs a hand over his face, processing.

“I don’t do in-person sessions, and I dance 99 percent of the time.” I lick the bagel seasoning off the wrapper. Not that O’Keefe is entitled to an explanation, but him and Mav are teammates and it’s better to clear the air.

O’Keefe grunts, and we sit in silence for a minute.

“Thanks for getting rid of that guy.” I wave my hand in the general direction he left. “I’m not in the headspace to handle it.”

“A client?” he asks.

“Must be. But he doesn’t match any of the profile pictures. Imagine lying to a sex worker.” I gasp in mock horror.

“Stay away from him,” O’Keefe warns, but I’ve got no desire to interact with the guy.

“Roger that.” I salute him.

More silence.