Chapter 8
WYATT CHASE
Something shifted a few weeks ago with Asher and his investment in his recovery, and I’m grateful for it. He’s a hell of a lot more enjoyable when he isn’t sulking, but I also don’t know that I could have kept up with his needs on top of the injuries starting to roll in.
Dane is in concussion protocol, and I’m hoping to have him successfully through it by our first game next week.
A freshman named Carter sprained his ankle during drills a few days ago, probably trying to show off and pushing himself too hard.
Paul, a junior, lightly strained his hamstring last week, and he’s just getting back to one-hundred-percent with the return to sport protocol that we’ve been working through.
All of them required training plans of varying lengths and degrees of intensity, which needed to be put together quickly and effectively as soon as their injuries were confirmed by the medical team.
And that’s not even including the lumps, bumps, and bruises that Zane patches up every day before practice.
I can’t imagine what it will be like when the season starts and they’re actually going against opponents who are trying to crush them into the boards.
But still… I’m living for this. It’s not the frenetic energy that I used to feel on the ice, but it’s close. A million balls in the air that I’m keeping up, my awareness hyper-attuned to everything that needs to happen so that the sports medicine team doesn’t miss a beat.
Not only has Asher rebounded from aggravating his injury–it was inflamed and tender for a few days–but he’s been making incredible progress.
I’d like to give myself some credit, but it’s all him.
So much of recovery is mental, and he’s putting in the work.
Damned if I know exactly what got him on board, but I’m glad that he is.
I look down at my iPad and jot a note. I smile. “You’re officially in phase three.”
“Hell yeah,” he says at the same time he extends his hand to fist bump me.
He’s wearing a cut-off t-shirt today, which allows the full array of tattoos on his muscled arm to be visible.
I try not to stare too long as I pull back my hand.
I’ve been giving myself a strict one Mississippi count when it comes to touching him for any reason that isn’t clinical.
Usually, I have no problem compartmentalizing and keeping professional boundaries, but I’ve always been a sucker for a guy with a beard and tattoos. Especially one who’s willing to put in the work.
I clear my throat. “Ready to get started?”
He scratches his newly well-groomed beard. That’s another thing that’s changed–he’s taking better care of himself. “I’m game.” Without assistance, he slips off the table gracefully.
I point to a mat laying in the center of the room. “We’re doing glute bridges with a ball squeeze.”
There is a lot in sports medicine that sounds dirtier than it should, and I don’t miss how his lips quirk into a smile. “Sure thing.”
He lays down on his back, knees bent and feet flat. I hand him a small medicine ball which he places between his jogger-clad thighs. “You’ll want to keep a constant squeeze,” I say. “Focus on maintaining pressure.”
“Constant squeeze. Got it,” he says agreeably, and I try not to let my own response show.
“Exhale and then activate your core. Once you do that, you’ll lift your hips to form a straight line from your shoulders to your knees.
” I get back into my physical therapist mindset, pushing everything else away.
Moving my arm into the angle that his torso should be making, I mirror the angle for the position that he’s trying to achieve.
His body shifts upward to match the line I’ve created so that his thighs and hips run parallel with my arm.
I flatten my palm, making sure not to touch him.
“Now, hold for three seconds to maximize engagement. Inhale slowly and lower your hips back down, maintaining the squeeze.”
By the last rep on the first set, a bead of sweat drips down his temple. “How are you feeling? Any pain?” I question.
“Just peachy,” he grits out when he flattens back against the mat.
“Let’s take a break.” I place my arm on his shoulder to signal that he should stay in his supine position.
“If you insist.” He’s breathing a little heavier than normal, this exercise pushing him to the bounds of his current ability.
I grab a large stability ball sitting near the wall and roll it over before sitting down on top of it. “Any pain? I can see how much effort you’re putting in, but we need to make sure that we aren’t overworking the muscle. It’s different for each person, so we need to monitor it closely.”
I watch as he lets the ball drop down to the mat before slowly flexing his thighs outward.
I’ve already learned a lot of the looks that can flash across his face.
Frustration. Anger. Pain. This one’s pride, and I’m happy to see it.
“No pain. It’s definitely harder to do than I’d like, but it just feels like a deep stretch. ”
“How have classes been going?” I ask, pulling my eyes away from how his crotch is jutting up in the air. It’s also a good reminder that even though he’s only a couple of years younger than me, he’s a student. And not only that, but I’m responsible for his care.
The list of reasons that I should not even be having thoughts about Asher Reynolds could fill a notebook.
I sigh as he continues to lightly flex his thighs, oblivious to my inner frustration.
Maybe I do need to put myself back out there.
I’m getting in the swing of things at work.
Lyla’s adjusting to school and our new home.
It’s clear that now that I’m settling in, my mind is…
wandering. I can’t take the chance that it will go in a direction that it shouldn’t.
Just something casual. Enough to take the edge off.
When I look back down at him, he’s looking at me strangely. “You just completely zoned out there.”
Yeah, and he’s never going to know why. I shake my head. “I’m so sorry. What did you say?”
Instead of answering right away, he pushes himself into a sitting position and rests his elbows on his knees.
“You asked me how school was going. I know that people don’t think that philosophy is the most interesting subject, but I wasn’t expecting to be completely ignored.
” His voice is teasing, and I don’t appreciate how much I like it.
“My bad. I was running through the rest of today’s plan,” I lie. “But I do want to know how school is going.”
He smiles, and, as usual, it looks good on him. “I feel like I’m finally settling into the semester. Most of my classes are small group format and discussion-based. Lots of thinking about thinking.”
I have so many questions, but I push them to the side for now. I had an ulterior motive for lulling him into casual conversation, and I need to see it through. “And the panic attacks? Have you had any more?”
The brightness on his face dims. “I had one about a week ago. But none since then, I promise.”
“Do you know what precipitated it?” I ask cautiously. Being vulnerable about mental health is already hard enough. I want him to know that I’m a safe place for him to land with his emotions–ones that he, himself, may not even understand yet.
Silence stretches between us. I don’t push him.
Instead, I interlace my fingers and keep my elbows on my knees, using my core to balance on the stability ball.
When I was dealing with my own injury, people holding space for me ended up being far more effective than anyone pushing me too hard to talk about how I was feeling.
Finally, he lets out a long exhale. “I talked to my parents on the phone, and they mentioned that they were starting to clean out my sister’s room. They wanted to ask me if there was anything that I wanted to keep.”
“I’m sure that was hard to talk about. It’s been about two months now?” I confirm, even though I know I’m right. The date of his worst physical injury will always line up with his worst emotional one, too.
“Nine weeks, actually. But I can’t blame them. There have always been more kids in the house than bedrooms, so I’m sure that my twin brothers would like to not share anymore.”
I look at him, surprised. “I didn’t realize that you had other siblings.”
He nods. “There are–were–five of us,” he corrects.
I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down before he continues.
“I have three younger brothers. Cade and Jason are twins. Cade’s finishing up his last year of college and Jason’s in an electrician apprentice program.
Then there’s Kyle who’s at school, too.”
“That’s a lot of boys growing up in one house.” As an only child, I can’t imagine. Not only that, but they’re all adults at this point. I don’t know how I’d survive.
“Olivia wasn’t born until I was seven, but she balanced everything out.
Even though five kids seems like a crazy amount to have, it doesn’t feel like we were really a family until she came along.
” He smiles sadly and hugs his knees tighter to his chest. I think about saying something about his injury but stop myself.
“Even though she was always the first one to try and pull us into a wrestling match.”
I smile, too. “Lyla’s the same way. She balances out all the rough edges just by existing.” I don’t usually talk about Lyla at work, but I feel comfortable doing it with Asher. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to–along with being thoughtful–when he’s not lost in his own mind.
He nods in agreement. “How’s she settling into school?
I can’t remember what my first day was like, but Olivia was so fearless.
We lived close to the elementary and middle schools, and she insisted that she walk with her brothers.
I thought my mom was going to have a heart attack, but Olivia usually got what she wanted. ”