A/N: Thanks everyone for the love! (Also I adore that the roommate is such a huge question. Don't worry, the answer to that will be revealed in the next chapter...) :)

Chapter Two

"So how's the new place?" Neville glanced up from tying his sneakers and caught Sami's grin. "You've lived there how long now?"

"It'll be six months soon. It's pretty cool." Sami sat on the bench and leaned his head from side to side. "We're thinking of getting a dog. My roommate's job doesn't require traveling like mine does, so someone will be home every day to take care of it."

"I thought you weren't a dog person."

"Yeah, well…" Sami shrugged. "As long as we get something small, y'know?"

Neville nodded. He couldn't remember who Sami's roommate was. They'd never met. Sami always came over to his apartment, or they met up at Finn's or Kevin's. All he knew was that the guy wasn't in the business. That had been a surprise, because they all stuck close together. He himself had shared a place with two other men before finally saving enough to have an apartment of his own. But Sami had lucked out, and was now able to afford staying in a higher-class building across town. "What's his name again? I don't think I've—"

"Alright, fellas, listen up!"

The deep voice of Matt Bloom echoed in the locker room, instantly silencing all of the chatter. Once he was sure he had everyone's attention, he glanced at the clipboard in his hand.

"New rehab and trainer system goes into effect today. You'll still have the same classes and the same schedule, but as of now you'll each have your own medical trainer. I know you've all heard about it…"

Neville listened as Matt explained the new system. He had heard a few rumblings about it the day before, but none of it had made sense. He found he liked the idea of having one person working one-on-one with him while he got himself back into shape for the ring. Especially when Matt assured that Dr. Sampson would be overseeing everything and would step in if needed. He threw his voice into the chorus of understanding after Matt told them to get their trainer assignments downstairs. Once he'd left, the chatter picked up again and Neville leaned to put his glasses inside his locker.

"You haven't said a word about last night's dinner," Sami pointed out. "How was it?"

"Dinner?" Finn looked up from his phone. "How was it?"

"It was fine," Neville answered. "Stephanie is a good cook."

Finn snorted and tossed his phone into his bag. "And the girls?"

"A bit boisterous." Smiling as he recalled the exuberant game of Monopoly that he'd been dragged into with Murphy and Aurora, he removed his watch. "But they're good girls."

"And?" Sami pressed after a few seconds.

"And… Hunter and Stephanie were nice. Welcoming."

"And what about the other dinner guest?" Finn asked.

Neville opened his mouth to lie, only to glance over when Tyler Breeze laughed.

"Fresh meat," Tyler announced with a grin. "So you're the new chosen one?"

"What?" Confused, Neville looked to Finn, then to Sami. Both his friends studiously looked away, pretending to be busy with adjusting their shoelaces.

"Stephanie's been going at it for almost a year now." Tyler grinned. "It's been at least a couple months since she's had someone new over for dinner. Wait… You didn't know?"

"Did you, when you went?" This from Kevin Owens.

"Of course I did. Ambrose warned me."

"Nobody warned me," Finn muttered.

"Or me," Enzo Amore added with a chuckle.

"Warned about what?" Neville was lost.

"Stephanie has it in her head that Angela needs to settle down. I guess she was a little wild when she was a teenager. Anyway, Stephanie learns what she can about everyone, and she invites guys randomly to dinner at casa Helmsley." Enzo finished tying his dyed hair back and shot Neville a quick grin. "A home-cooked meal, a relaxed evening with the bosses and their kids, the whole she-bang. But Angela's always invited too. Because Stephanie and Hunter want her to find love."

"Her dad is Hunter's cousin," Sami informed.

Neville nodded. "I know. He's in the Navy. But—"

"When her mom died, Hunter was appointed her guardian. Just in case, with her dad being in the military and everything. So he's practically her second father."

She had said as much the night before. But it didn't explain the series of dinner invitations that had apparently been given to the entire NXT roster. Did Hunter and Stephanie just keep inviting man after man?

"It's stupid if you ask me," Tyler announced. "She's barely out of college, right? She just wants to have fun, not get saddled with a husband and kids."

"Oh, she definitely has fun." Enzo grinned.

"That she does," Apollo Crews put in.

"And we've loved helping her have fun, haven't we?" Zack Ryder whooped.

Neville inwardly flinched at the laughter that followed. He'd heard worse, naturally. Any locker room filled with men was bound to have the conversation turn to women. Over the years he had heard more from coworkers about sexual positions, breast sizes, blowjobs, pubic hair variations, and at least a dozen other topics, than he had learned about anything in all his school years. But he hadn't expected to hear such talk about the bosses'…cousin? Unofficial daughter? Giving his head a shake, he looked to Finn, who was joining in the laughter and smirks in a way that made it apparent he had helped Angela have fun as well. When and how had she become so popular with the NXT roster? Were Hunter and Stephanie sneakily pimping her out to the talent?

"Does she know?" he asked. "That they want her to find love and all, I mean."

Sami laughed. "Oh, she definitely knows. And she hates it."

"I noticed."

"That bad, huh?" Finn clapped him on the shoulder, his expression one of understanding.

Aware the others were listening, Neville shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I'm not likely to be invited again."

"Dude, even Enzo was invited again," Sami breathed. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," he answered defensively. "Good luck to whoever they marry her off to is all I can say."

He sensed Finn and Sami sharing a look and rolled his eyes. Pushing off the bench, he left the locker room. He wouldn't be attending any of the classes that day, but he did want to meet with his new trainer before getting in a workout. His only hope was that it was someone who wouldn't try to hold back his return. Someone who would encourage and understand.

Downstairs, he was greeted warmly by William Regal, and they discussed his injury and recovery while heading in the direction of the rehab room. Regal assured him that his trainer was top-notch, then moved off with an enigmatic smile. Neville wondered what that was about, and why Matt grinned when he entered the room.

Then he saw her.

"Ah, fuck," he muttered, managing to quickly mask the words with a cough.

Angela Grant was seated on one of the tables. Next to Matt, she appeared smaller than she had the evening before. In fact, dressed in the usual Performance Center staff garb of black pants and an NXT polo shirt, she almost looked like a child brought to work.

"Miss Grant," he greeted when her eyes landed on him.

"Mr. Neville."

"Good, you two know each other." Matt's grin widened.

"We met last night," Angela told him, her cool green eyes still on Neville.

"Briefly," he added.

"Well, now you'll get to know one another a little better. Neville, meet your new trainer."

Her? Neville looked to Matt in astonishment. "Her?"

"Yep. Angela's the newest member of our rehabilitation team. She recently received her degree in sports medicine and rehabilitation, and she's earned a degree in nutrition." Matt's grin had disappeared, and there was a hint of pride in his voice when he lightly patted Angela's shoulder. "She was already familiar with the staff here, and completed her training with Sampson while working towards her degrees."

Looks and brains, he thought, managing a nod. A double-edged sword. And, if his brief time on the network the night before had told him anything, she had a natural talent in the ring. Which made her a triple threat, and made him regret his words the night before. Why had she stopped performing? He had only been able to find that she had suffered a knee injury, and then nothing aside from tidbits on the gossip sites. He had found her Twitter and Instagram, but there was nothing on them about her decision to not get back into the ring. Perhaps her injury had been more serious than anyone had known.

"Don't worry," Matt told him, patting him on the shoulder as he passed by to leave the room. "You're in good hands."

Angela had slipped off the table and jerked her head. "Let's get started."

"Miss Grant—"

"I've already gone over your file. I just want to check your ankle before I put you on the treadmill."

The treadmill. He almost groaned. He would much rather go for a run on the open road. Thinking of the dull, monotonous forty-five minutes he'd spent on the machine the day before, he steeled his features and moved to sit on the table. The room was silent except for her moving around, washing her hands and getting a pair of gloves, and he impatiently bounced his knee. While she donned the gloves, he cleared his throat and blurted, "I didn't know you had become a trainer here."

"Not many people do."

"Why was it a secret?" he asked, swinging his feet up onto the table and reaching to remove his shoe and sock.

"It wasn't, really. I realized a few days into my training here that no one noticed me anymore."

He found that hard to believe. "How could they not notice you?"

"Different hair, not in workout gear… Have you been wearing your compression socks?"

"Every night," he answered, watching her bobbed hair fall forward as she ducked her head. She had cut it, he realized, thinking of the longer hair she'd sported in her matches. "And the tape when I work out. Were you doing your schooling while working in NXT?"

"Yes. We'll keep the tape and socks up for the time being." One hand began to slowly manipulate his ankle. "How was it last night?"

"A little sore," he admitted. "And it was stiff this morning when I woke up. The stretches Sampson told me to do loosened it up, though."

"Hmm."

Her touch was so light that had he not been watching he wouldn't have known she was touching him. Used to the businesslike gruffness of Sampson and the other, older trainers, he found that the silence that usually calmed him was disturbing. "Was it difficult?" he ventured after a moment, hissing when her thumb pressed deeply into the side of his ankle.

"Was what difficult?"

"Keeping up with your school while training here and performing in NXT," he elaborated.

"Not really." She straightened and removed the gloves with a snap. "I'll tape you up, then it's a half hour on the treadmill."

Feeling as though he'd been dismissed by her, and not sure why, he merely nodded. Again her touch was light and gentle, fingers moving rapidly. He was surprised when she lightly patted his leg and told him she was done. He put his sock and shoe back on then followed her into the gym area.

"You're favoring the left foot," she told him ten seconds into the brisk pace she had set.

He mentally cursed, focusing on letting his left heel take all of his weight. Each time his foot came down he feared pain, recalling the first time he had put weight on his ankle after the injury. "Habit," he said.

"Going by your x-rays, the bones are fully healed now, so you can break that habit."

"Yes ma'am."

Her nose wrinkled slightly, and for some reason it reminded him so much of Stephanie that he smiled. She watched him for several moments before making a notation on her iPad. "When was the last time you did a set of leg presses?"

He had to think for a moment. Feeling perspiration start to bead on his forehead, he thought longingly of the bottled water he'd left upstairs. "Last week." Adding the weight he had used, he saw her nod. "Will I be doing that today?"

"A couple sets. Your muscle hasn't gone down, so we don't have to work on getting it back on par with your right leg. We just want to get it back into fighting shape, so to speak. How do you feel about the stair climber?"

Neville glanced at the machine and didn't bother hiding his disgust. "I'd rather go up real stairs, to be honest."

"How do you feel about the treadmill?" she inquired with what he thought may have been a smile.

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"I think it would make a very nice coat rack for little people."

That actually earned him a small laugh. "Would you rather go outside for a run?"

"I would, but I understand—"

"Then come on, let's go."

He had the mental fortitude to plant his feet on either side of the spinning conveyor. "What?"

"Let's go. I didn't get my run in this morning, and you hate treadmills, and being out in the open will give me a better chance to see how your ankle performs." She tapped rapidly on the screen of her iPad, then punched the stop button on the treadmill. "Grab some water, and I'll meet you out front in five minutes."

"Really?"

"No, I'm joking," she deadpanned with a roll of her eyes. "Yes, really."

When he met her out front, she had changed into a pair of leggings and a tank top and was holding her left foot to her backside. Having already warmed up on the treadmill, he lightly jogged in place while she stretched her legs. Her toned physique was a silent testament to countless hours in a gym. He didn't mean to stare, but when she leaned to adjust her shoelaces, he caught a glimpse of color at the apex of her spine. Recalling the brief hints of the tattoo on her upper back during the matches he'd watched, he couldn't help but wonder what the full piece was. She straightened, stretched her arms above her head, and he thought he saw tips of wings on each of her shoulders.

"What's your tattoo of?" he asked suddenly.

She glanced back at him, blinking in surprise. "Which one?"

"Er… The one on your back." How many did she have?

"It's angel wings. And up here," she added, reaching to touch where he'd seen a flash of color, "is a pink rose. For my mom."

He almost asked if he could see it, but bit his tongue. "And your others?"

She turned to face him, one hand moving to tug the neckline of her tank top over. "There's this," she explained.

"A seal in a bubble?" he questioned, confused as he stared at the small tattoo just above her collarbone.

"For my father. And my brother."

"Ah. They're both S.E.A.L.s?"

"Yes." She smoothed her tank top back into place, then extended her right arm so he could see the Roman numerals on her inner wrist. "My birth year… And I have another one for my mom…" With a sigh, she hiked up the hem of her top, showing a spray of dandelion seeds that seemed to float up her side. "They meet up with a dandelion right here," she explained, touching a spot just beneath her left breast. "With an infinity symbol and a quote."

"What quote?" he inquired as she lowered her shirt. It was either that or ask if he could see the dandelion and its infinity symbol.

"'She lived and laughed and loved and left.'" She pursed her lips and looked at something behind him, then flicked her gaze to him. "And what about you?"

"Me? Oh, no, no tattoos," he answered with a chuckle. "I have an aversion to needles."

"A lot of people do. My—" she cut off with a shake of her head. "Come on, let's get moving."

"How far are we going?" he asked her once they'd jogged across the parking lot.

"I know a loop that's just over five miles. You game?"

Without waiting for an answer, she moved down the sidewalk, increasing her speed. Neville watched her for a few seconds before heading after her. He caught up with her, the narrowness of the sidewalk forcing him to stay behind her, and watched the way her short hair bounced with each step. Letting his gaze travel lower, he tried to visualize the tattoo she had described on her back. When her mother died? He had wanted to ask the night before, but her iciness had kept him from doing so.

He supposed he had been a bit condescending towards her. It had been a way of defending himself against her own arrogance. The way she had so casually admitted she knew nothing of his career had hurt. Not that he considered himself famous. He knew he would never be a household name like Cena or The Rock. Considering how close she was to Hunter and Stephanie, though, he would have thought she would at least be familiar with his history. In the company, if nothing else. However, he had to have stung her pride when he'd gone off about not being handed things.

"Miss Grant," he began, grateful when the sidewalk widened and he was able to move next to her.

"Is your ankle feeling okay?"

"Yes, it's fine. I just—"

"Let's pick up the speed a little. In two blocks we turn left," she instructed before sprinting off.

With a muttered curse, he followed. The early summer morning was already sweltering. He could feel sweat collecting on his back, and more than a few drops of it rolled down his neck as he met her pace. He would have to take off his shirt before long, or he'd melt. Staying behind her, he watched the back of her tank top begin to darken with sweat.

It started at the center of her back, a misshapen diamond of darker blue, and spread lower. His gaze naturally lowered to follow it, until he found he was watching her backside. It bounced each time one of her feet met the pavement, grew taut as her other foot surged forward, and relaxed just in time to bounce again. Slightly entranced, he followed her down the blocks and around the park with no further attempt at conversation.

They had just passed an older woman sitting on a bench when Angela moved to the side of the pavement.

"How's the ankle?" she asked once he'd gotten beside her.

Despite the sweat and the heat and the relentless pace, she wasn't breathless. Neville took a moment to calculate every nuance of his ankle as he ran, finally nodding. It was a little achy, but nowhere near as bad as the first time he'd gone for a run after the cast had been removed. He told her so, making sure to include the bit about the ache, and glanced to her in time to see her nod.

"When we get back, I want you to do your usual upper body workout, then we'll get some stretches in before putting you on the leg press."

He nodded, grateful she wasn't going to throw him on the machine immediately after the run. "Do you run every day?"

"I try to get seven miles a day, but sometimes I can only do five." She pursed her lips. "I wasn't able to run for a long time."

"How bad was your injury?"

Angela considered his question, almost pointing out that her injury had been beyond damaging, considering she wasn't on the road to returning to the ring. Or something similarly curt. She didn't want to get into a conversation about her recovery and rehabilitation. Nor did she want further questions about her decisions. Focusing on keeping her breathing as even as possible, she ignored the faint twinge in her knee and kept her gaze straight ahead.

"I had to have two surgeries, and one stem-cell treatment, to repair the damaged tissue and cartilage inside."

"I've heard of that. Did they harvest the stem-cells from your hip?"

"They did. How did you know?"

"Hideo had that after his shoulder surgery. He was telling me about it."

"Oh." Able to recall the steady, metallic tap, tap, tap as the surgeon bored into her hip to collect the stem-cells, she felt a lump form in her throat and quickly swallowed it down. "I suppose you could say the injury was pretty bad…"

"How did it happen?" When she glanced at him, she saw his face was flushed. And not from the exertion of their run, she realized when he quickly looked away. "Was it at a taping?"

"A live show." Even though there had been no video of it, she could see herself in third-person. Poised on the top turnbuckle, ready to do the move she had practiced and rehearsed countless times in the aerial training ring and down at the gymnastics center. The move she had thought she had perfected. The move she had performed on her opponent that night several dozen times before, until they were both comfortable with it. She could see herself launch off, spin, and land. Except instead of landing as she was supposed to, she had landed fully on her left knee, twisting at the last second. She could still feel the sensation of ligaments tearing and bones grinding together. Could still feel the shock in her system, the feeling that it would all be okay. Hating that her throat started to close up with emotion, she coughed. "I fucked up."

"I doubt—"

"I fucked up, Mr. Neville. I was being ballsy when I shouldn't have been." She didn't want to talk about it anymore. She refused to. She could already sense his pity, and she'd had more than enough sympathy over the past several months.

"We all fuck up, Miss Grant," he said after a moment. Angela glanced over at him in surprise, surprised to see his hair had started to loosen from the neat man bun – god, how she hated that term – at the back of his head. A lone curl had worked free and was bobbing against his shoulder. His bare shoulder, she realized, briefly staring at his thickly muscled bicep before turning her attention to their direction. When the hell had he taken off his shirt?

"Yes, we do, but there are different levels of fucking up," she pointed out.

"I suppose there are. But there are also different ways of looking at it." His pace slowed as they neared the next intersection, but he easily followed her lead when she turned down the side street. "I've had my share of fuck ups that I thought would end my career. No matter how careful you are, or how many times you work on a move or a spot, there's always a chance something will go wrong. You just have to pick yourself up and move on."

"True," she conceded. "But there are times when you can't pick yourself up and move on. There are times when you have to stay down."

"If you fall down seven times, you get up eight."

She pondered the wisdom of his words for a moment, then shook her head. He knew nothing of her situation. "Sometimes, you don't."

"I know it's hard, getting through an injury. Even though this time around mine wasn't very severe, there were days I didn't want to try getting back, but—"

"The difference is that after your injuries you can still get back in the ring. Within a month or two you'll be back having matches. I won't. The only way I can get back into a ring now is when I'm helping someone that's injured. I'll never feel that adrenaline rush when my music hits, or the euphoria of my match being well-received by the crowd."

He was quiet for so long she grew certain that he was going to let the subject drop. Slowing her pace, because they had started the last mile leading back to the Performance Center, she dropped her gaze to the ground and watched his feet land on the pavement.

"You miss it," he said after a moment.

She jerked her head up, found he was looking at her. His light eyes were filled with understanding.

"I didn't know," he began, then shook his head. "I knew of you before we met yesterday. But I didn't know about your injury. That it was so bad, I mean. I'd heard you were out, but to be honest…"

"You don't pay attention to the women," she finished, looking ahead again.

"Right. I don't mean any offense, because I know the women are talented, I just…" He paused, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "I've taken the roundabout way of getting to it, but I wanted to apologize for what I said. The bit about being handed things and having to work hard. I didn't mean to insult you."

"You didn't." God, the last mile was taking forever. Her knee was starting to ache, and she wished she had taken the time to put on the brace. "Trust me, I've heard worse. But hey, apology accepted."

They turned at the corner, and she was relieved to find they were within the last two blocks of the Performance Center. Anxious to get there, to get a quick shower and put some ice on her knee, she shifted her thoughts to what she had to do for Neville. Dr. Sampson had already put together a comprehensive plan together. Strength training. Cardio. Stretches aimed at improving his flexibility. Just that morning they had worked out a nutrition plan for him as well. She had been told that Hunter had very big plans in store for the Englishman. Of course, when she'd asked Hunter, he'd tapped the tip of her nose and told her it was none of her business.

Blinking, she realized Neville had loped ahead of her. His longer legs made for easier strides, and she was momentarily struck by the glistening muscles of his back. It was blatantly obvious that he had kept his upper body in top shape while recovering from his injury. He had superb mass and tone, and she allowed herself a few brief seconds to admire his backside. His shirt was hanging from the low waistband of his shorts, bouncing against his hip.

Too bad he was, for all intents and purposes, her patient. He had a body that women no doubt drooled over.

As they neared the Performance Center, her right shoe slipped, the toe catching in the few centimeters of uneven pavement. Before she could balance, she felt her body start to pitch forward. She blindly threw her hands out to grab something – anything – to break her fall, fingers grabbing at frim, bare flesh. She saw a flash of the pavement coming to meet her, then suddenly Neville was directly in front of her.

She landed atop him, wincing as her knee met the pavement. Eyes closed, she waited for the pain and when it didn't come immediately she slowly opened her eyes, releasing her pent-up breath. Her face was pressed to the center of his chest. She could feel the pound of his heart, could hear his heavy breathing. She knew she should apologize for dragging him down with her, and for possibly hurting him as well, but all she could think of was the pain radiating from her knee.

"Shit," she gasped, clenching her eyes shut for several seconds. A pair of strong arms came around her, and she was surprised by the comfort they offered. One hand moved up to cup her shoulder, then swept her hair from her face. Briefly, she allowed herself to enjoy the tenderness.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly.

Jerking upright, she saw the concern etched on his face. His brow was furrowed. His hand fell from her hair, and before it could reach to support her knee she pushed off him. Ignoring the pain that flared as she rose to her feet, she shook her head. He was practically oozing sympathy. Pity. "It's fine," she insisted. Why was he so concerned? She was supposed to be the one worrying about him. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to—"

"I'm fine," he assured, already on his feet. He brushed his hands over his shorts, eyes moving to her knee. "Are you sure—"

"I'm fine," she repeated. It hurt like hell. She'd probably damaged it. She could already hear Dr. Sampson admonishing her for not wearing her brace. Her first day on the job, and she'd probably screwed things up for herself. Again. She put a little weight on her left leg, gritting her teeth through the flare of pain, hoping against hope that it was just a bad bruise.

"Let me help you," Neville said gently. Before she could protest, before she could even draw in a breath to tell him that she was perfectly capable of walking inside on her own, he was at her side. The disparity in their heights seemed tenfold, but he easily hunkered down and guided her arm around his shoulders so her leg bore no weight. He steered her a few steps, one hand holding hers steady on his shoulder, the other around her waist. Then, stopping, he shook his head.

Angela opened her mouth to assure him that she could make it on her own two feet – or one foot, as the situation seemed – but never got farther than a sharp intake of breath. He swung her up, cradling her in his arms, and began walking steadily towards the building. "Put me down," she grunted, pushing at his chest. "I'm not crippled, I'm just—"

"In pain," he finished. "And you might have damaged your knee. Stop wriggling before you damage it further."

She snapped her lips together, insolently folding her arms over her chest. Realizing that she was mirroring exactly what Vaughn did whenever she got into trouble and was marched off to bed early by her father, she tried to relax. She thought of telling him that she had to weigh too much for him to be carrying, but remembered the weight numbers of his usual workouts listed in his file. He could easily carry two of her. Probably with one arm. Resigned to her fate, she fully ceased her protests.

Until he reached the door.

"I can go the rest of the way," she attempted, painfully aware of the receptionist and security guard's curious looks as she was carried through the reception area. Neville paid her no mind though, pushing the inner door open with one foot and heading in the direction of the rehab room. The usual hubbub of the training area died away and she felt her cheeks start to burn as the groups in each ring slowly turned their heads to watch their progress. "Mr. Neville, really—"

"Ten more steps won't kill you," he promised, turning so he could back through the swinging door. Doing so gave everyone – and it was everyone, she could see the inquisitive looks and hear the whispers – a better view of her in his arms.

She was almost relieved when the door swung shut behind them. She could tape up her knee and go about her business. First, though, she would have to get rid of the persistent Englishman. "Thank you. I can take it from here."

"What happened?"

"Fuck," she groaned, clapping a hand over her face at the sound of Dr. Sampson's voice.

"She took a spill." Neville was answering for her. Did he somehow know she would have stretched the truth? He carefully placed her on one of the tables, then used his t-shirt to mop the sweat from his brow as he explained what had happened. And, damn the man, he laid out every tiny detail.

"Why aren't you wearing your brace?"

"I thought I would be okay," she answered. "You and Amann said I could go without it for longer periods, and…"

Sampson nodded and began to gently prod her knee. When she winced he nodded again, reaching to ease her pants up to her thigh.

Angela looked away, not wanting to see the scars that marred her knee. The thick, jagged lines that would never be the same color as the rest of her skin. Two surgeries had wreaked havoc on her flesh. Gasping when she felt the material of her leggings peel over her kneecap, she clutched her hands together.

"Road rash," Sampson explained gently, lightly patting her leg. "I'll get the wash and we'll see what else is going on."

Looking up in surprise when she felt something cold and damp against her fingers, she blinked at the sight of the water bottle being offered. She took it, grateful for the distraction from her knee, and took a sip. "Does it look bad?"

"Just a little blood. And there's a bruise forming. How does it feel?"

"Burns like hell," she muttered. Taking another sip of water, she glanced to him. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"And your ankle is okay?"

"It's fine."

She smiled wryly at the echo of her earlier statement. "Stiffness? Pain? Swelling?"

"Some stiffness. No pain, no swelling."

Satisfied that he was being honest, she looked over to Dr. Sampson, who was heading back over with supplies in hand. "You can go now, Mr. Neville."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm in good hands. Sampson won't let me budge for another hour, at least." Her gaze dropped, and she quickly leaned her head back when she caught sight of the tiny droplets of blood on her knee.

"What's wrong?" Neville asked, taking the water from her and setting it aside. "Can't stand the sight of blood?"

"I can poke at anyone else's wounds and finger-paint with their blood all day long… I just can't stand the sight of my blood," she explained, knowing it sounded crazy. But it had been a fact for as long as she could remember. While her schoolmates gleefully picked at scabs so the scrapes and scratches would bleed again, she had refused to do so. Because, strangely enough, seeing her own blood made her weak in the knees. Dizzy. During her early years, her parents had no doubt gone through a million Band-Aids to keep her from seeing her blood.

The door swung open forcefully, the usually silent hinges screeching, and Angela sat up, looking past Neville to see a familiar figure striding towards the table.

"What the fuck is going on? I came down for my training with Sara and heard you were carried in – Hiya, Nev – and hurt." Becky Lynch ducked around Neville and perched on the edge of the table. "What happened? Is it your knee? What did you do?"

"I decided, hey, what the hell, I haven't caused any drama around here in a while…" Angela shrugged, smiling at Becky's boisterous entrance. "So I tripped myself on my run."

"Jesus," Becky sighed, leaning to get a look at the knee that Dr. Sampson was washing. "That bruise is as big as my left tit."

Angela looked at the redhead and settled back on the table. Glancing to Neville, she cleared her throat. She didn't want him in the room when Sampson gave her the bad news. His apologies aside, it was obvious that he thought she had been handed her contract. That she hadn't worked hard. "You can go," she told him, as gently as possible. "Becky won't let me budge, either."

"I'll take care of her, Nev," Becky promised. Waving as he left the room, she turned back to Angela as soon as the door swung behind him. "I take it you're his new trainer?"

"We just started today." Angela cast a rueful glance at her knee, hissing as Sampson began to prod it again. "And might have ended today, too…"