“You’re doing more than enough by giving me a place to stay, and you already helped with furniture and stuff; you don’t need to pay for my groceries too.” I feel bad that I’m twenty-four years old and not self-sufficient, especially since RJ has been making millions of dollars since he turned twenty. Being fresh out of graduate school means my bank account is going to be light until I get a paycheck from my first-ever career-related job. On the upside, the salary and benefits are really great; on the downside, I’m working at the same clinic as my cheater ex.

“You don’t need to worry about money when you haven’t even started your job yet. Let me help. I can afford to take care of my family, so give me the chance to do that.”

He has a point, since he makes eleven million a year. Racking up a credit card bill is another stress I don’t need on top of everything else, so I concede. It’s ironic how his fame and money are both a blessing and a curse in so many ways.

The rest of the weekend passes in a blur of unanswered text messages and voice mails from Joey, many pints of Ben & Jerry’s—courtesy of online grocery shopping—and several boxes of tissues. By Sunday night, my second suitcase still hasn’t made it back from its trip to Alaska, but I ordered a bunch of clothes with express shipping—compliments of my brother’s credit card—so at least I don’t have to start my new job naked.

My stomach is in knots on Monday morning as I get ready for work. I pack snacks even though I’m too nervous to eat, pour a to-go cup of coffee, and make sure I have my key card before I slip on my shoes. A newspaper sits in front of my door when I open it, which seems odd, but I kick it into my apartment. Maybe it’s complimentary or something.

As I pull the door shut behind me, the one across the hall opens, and out steps my jerkwad neighbor. Just like our first interaction, he’s wearing only boxer briefs. This time they’re a black-and-white checker print. A set of flags crosses over the peen pouch with the words FINISH LINE right over his junk. It’s physically impossible not to look at his crotch. I force my eyes up, dragging slowly over his ridiculously cut abs on the way to his annoyingly attractive face.

He pauses when he notices me, eyes roving over my casual yoga-style pants and plain golf shirt in what feels a lot like silent judgment. It’s probably the same way I assessed him but with less drooling and more disdain. When he reaches my backpack, his lip curls in a loathsome sneer. “Are you a student?” He says it like it’s some kind of horrible disease.

I arch a brow and self-consciously adjust the strap. I could invest in a tote bag or something, but backpacks have better weight distribution and don’t cause shoulder misalignment. “Good morning to you too.” I head for the elevators without so much as a second glance in his direction. What a prick.

I’m grateful when the doors slide open almost immediately. I step inside, hit the lobby button, and fight with myself not to check to see if he’s still standing there. I lose the battle half a second before the doors close fully. He’s scratching the space between his navel and the waistband of his underwear. I roll my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief when the elevator begins its descent.

I wonder what the hell that guy’s problem is. Sure, I made a lot of noise that first night, but I don’t think it warrants his continued disdain. Whatever. It’s not like I have to be friends with him. I don’t even have to acknowledge him.

The bus ride to my new job is blissfully uneventful. The clinic is located at the edge of the university campus. They opened a brand-new center, which required a mass hiring in part because of the new expansion team in Seattle. Put a hockey team in a city, and all of a sudden hundreds of college kids want to go pro and are looking for every possible advantage to get them there.

I could’ve cashed in on my brother’s connections and scored a position at one of the clinics that works directly with the professional teams, but I wanted to get the job on my own merit, not my brother’s name.

I have a master’s in physiotherapy with a specialization in sports rehab, and I graduated at the top of my class. That, along with the glowing recommendation from my professors and my clinic placement, as well as my interview skills, got me the job. And I didn’t need my brother to do it.

So here I am, day one at my new job, praying I don’t run into Joey and end up in tears. The good thing about starting two months after him is that he won’t be part of my orientation. Also, the clinic is massive: there are more than a hundred people on staff, including physiotherapists, massage therapists, acupuncturists, chiropractors, and even a doctor, as well as a team of personal trainers—that’s what Joey was hired for. I’m hopeful the size of the clinic means I won’t run into him often—better yet, not at all—since I’m with the physiotherapy team.

I’m about twenty-five minutes early, so I sign in, pick up an orientation package of paperwork, and take a seat at one of the many empty desks in the seminar room. It’s strange being in a university as something other than a student.

The seats around me fill with nervous bodies as I complete the forms. I’m not necessarily an introvert, but new situations where I don’t know anyone apart from my cheater ex make me nervous.

Two women who look roughly my age take the empty seats next to me. One of the girls is tall and willowy with a pixie cut, and the other one is short with an athletic build, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail. We exchange hellos and names as they settle in. The willowy one is Jules, and the athletic one is Pattie. Apparently they’re cousins.