Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
T he next morning I report to At Your Service PT at eight on the dot, my head full of steam. I’m ready to get to work and put this injury behind me. Jenna better fix me. Fast.
No one is in the waiting area, so I enter the main physical therapy room. Machines, equipment, weights, exam tables, and much more await. No stranger to hard work in the gym, a small thrill ripples at the prospect of working on new muscle groups.
Jenna walks out of a corner office carrying a clipboard. Unlike at the movie premiere, she’s wearing a pair of dark navy scrubs. Her hair’s pulled back into another ponytail.
“Glad to see you’re punctual.” Bet she wasn’t used to that with Darren, who always ran at least fifteen minutes late. On a good day.
I mumble, “It’s one of my talents.”
“Did you bring workout clothes?”
“I did.” I hold up my duffle.
“Great. I’ll show you where you can change. If it were warmer out, I’d say you could come already dressed, but Mother Nature’s being a tad picky lately.”
Dang. Has to be a record for her stringing the most words together. Since no response is required, I slip into the changing room. I soon return to the main area in my grey sweats and a Hunte T-shirt. Felt it was appropriate, given my dinner companion last night.
Jenna begins, “I got your doctor’s report. Have to say I was shocked at the stage three diagnosis, but we’ll get you fixed up in no time.” Damn well better.
She asks me some questions about how much I iced it, my general fitness level, and current pain level. “It doesn’t hurt all the time,” I reply. “When I move a certain way or put too much weight on it, I’d say I’m around an eight. If I’m resting, I’d give it a three or four.”
She nods and takes notes. “All right, we’re going to start off today with an objective movement exam that will test the strength and range of motion of your groin muscles so I can develop the best protocol for your recovery.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
Jenna doesn’t react to my dry tone, merely points to the examination table. “Lie down on this and we’ll get started.”
With precise movements, I sit on the table, my legs dangling. “I’m usually the one putting a lady in this position.”
She steps back and rubs her arms. “Lie down.”
Geez. I thought Darren said she had a sense of humor? I remember enjoying our first—and only in-depth—conversation. Seems like the Godfather movies are no longer on her radar. My back contacts the table.
“Good. Now put the ankle of your good leg against your knee.” When I follow her instructions, she continues, “I’m going to stabilize your hip and push down on your knee. Since this is your good leg, I’m hoping you don’t have any pain or strain. Let me know if you do.”
What does she mean by stabilize ?
Instead of asking, I follow her instructions. One of her hands holds onto my hip. Her other hand pushes against my knee, which moves quite far. She releases my legs. “Any pain?”
“Nope. All good.” I catch my bottom lip between my teeth, willing my body not to respond to her touch. The fact she’s about to inflict pain—and gave me a wrong diagnosis to start—are all the deterrents I need. “Are you going to push as hard against my bad leg?”
She shakes her head. “No. I wanted to get a baseline. I’ll go easy on your injured leg.”
Relieved by her words, I position the ankle of my bad leg against the opposite knee. Her hand lands on my other hip bone while she takes her time in lightly pressing against my knee. She doesn’t have to go far before I’m sucking in air like a guppy.
“How bad?” She returns my leg to a straight position.
My heartrate beats faster than if I were running a 5k. “Ten.”
Her ponytail swings. “I’m sorry, Bennett. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I need to know what I’m working with here.”
She seems to really mean what she’s saying. “I get it. I’ll deal with whatever pain you inflict if it means I’ll be ready for our opening date.”
“It’s not going to be easy, and I’m not making any promises. But I will work hard to get you there.”
I can welcome pain if it equals getting over this injury. Plus, it’ll keep my mind on recovery rather than the woman in charge of my physical therapy, who’s been touching my hips and knees with strong yet surprisingly supple hands. Ones that would feel amazing on other parts of my anatomy. Stop it, Bennett! You’re only here to get therapy.
Jenna pulls my Hunte T-shirt up. Whoa . All the time at the gym was worth it for my cut abs, which she doesn’t appear to notice at all. Instead, she positions my good leg at a ninety-degree angle and puts her hand on my knee. “Now, push hard against my hand. Again, I’m going to compare your two legs.”
I push against her hand without any problem, already knowing the other side is going to hurt like a bitch. When she tells me to do it again on my bad side, I clench my teeth and push. Tears spring to my eyes as pain floods my system. Within seconds, she jumps backward and writes something on the paper on her clipboard as I concentrate on breathing through my nose and out my mouth.
When my breath evens, she explains, “I’m going to do what is known as ‘palpation.’ All it means is I’m going to press on various areas in each of your legs and compare them.”
Let this be over soon so I can crawl into a corner and cry like a little girl. “Go ahead.”
“All you need to do is lie still.” Keeping my shirt lifted, her hand touches my good leg, digging deep into the tendons and muscles in my thigh. I focus on anything to keep my lower appendage well, low. She moves to my bad side.
“If you wanted to get in my pants, there are much easier ways,” I joke.
“Bennett, I’m not a groupie. I’m a trained physical therapist trying to do a job. Now lie still.”
She repeats her exploration, touching the pull and causing me to cry out. Her hands spring from my legs. After a minute, they return to complete her palpation. What a word. Palpation. Should be palpitation because when she touched the pull, it sent me into one. I focus on the throbbing centered around my injury rather than the woman who caused it.
She tugs my T-shirt down, skimming her fingers over my abs. I would make a crude comment about this, but my leg hurts too damn much. The sound of her pen scribbling provides background noise while I calm the fuck down.
“You can sit up now. I only have one more test I’d like to do if you’re up to it?”
Like I have a choice. I come to a sitting position and my legs, once again, dangle over the side of the table. At least there’s no pain in this position.
She points to the floor. “For this load test, I need you to get off the table and lie down on the floor on your left side, with your right leg stretched out. Place your left foot in front of you.”
I try to get into the proper position, but her head tilt indicates something’s off. The next thing I know, she moves my legs to her liking. Good thing I’m wearing sweats.
“Everything good? ”
I query my body. “Yeah. No pain.”
“Good.” She offers a small smile. “What’s going to happen is I’ll ask you to hold your right leg up, then I’m going to press down. Your job is to use your inner thigh muscle and not to let me move your leg. Got it?”
My lips purse. “You want me to hold up my bad leg?”
“Yes.”
With reluctance, I lift my leg. The pull reminds me it’s there.
“How’s the pain level?”
“I’d give it about a three.”
“Alright. Now I’m pressing down. Don’t let me move your leg.”
Pressure is applied to my leg, to which I counteract for a moment. Then the injury roars to life loud and clear, and I let my leg drop. I turn onto my stomach and will the pain to stop.
A hand smooths my T-shirt, which I didn’t realize had ridden up. “You did it. Good job.”
I lifted my leg for maybe five seconds. Without moving my head, I murmur, “You need to hang out with other people. Your bar for what constitutes a good job is so low a worm could get a trophy.”
“Your injury is a low level grade three pull, which means we have a lot of work ahead of us to get you performance-worthy.” She helps me sit up on the floor and joins me with her clipboard.
For the first time, doubt creeps in. If I can’t take the stage, will UC replace me with a new lead singer? Not. An. Option . “I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”
“Good.” She reaches behind her head and tightens her ponytail. “Here’s the plan. You need to come here twice a day for a couple of hours, at eight and again at six or so.”
I swallow. This is no joke. Will she be able to fix me?
Unaware of my inner turmoil—or ignoring it—she continues, “We’ll work on exercises, sometimes using weights, but also give you massages, heat, and ice. When you’re not here, I’ll need you to rest and elevate your leg, and ice it at least once a day. ”
“Gotcha.” I crack my knuckles like Luke does. Gotta drop the pussy act. “I’m ready.”
“I see your doctor prescribed pain medication.” Her grey eyes shift from the papers to me. How did I not realize before how expressive they are?
I blink. “Which I refused. Luke has the script. Over-the-counter stuff is fine.”
Her breathing shallows. “I understand.”
I know she does, probably more than any other person on earth. Still, I feel the need to explain. “After what happened with Darren, the band agreed never to be tempted with that stuff again. I’m not going back on my word.”
“Thank you.”
I almost don’t hear her, given how quiet her voice has fallen. “We didn’t know he was addicted, Jenna. He hid it from us. From all of us.” I pick at my sweats.
We remain silent for a full minute. Jenna clears her throat. “One more condition to go over. No sex until you’re healed.”
My hands fly above my shoulders as if I were surrendering. “What? I wasn’t told that before.”
Her pen taps against the clipboard. “It’s right here. With a groin pull being so close to, well, you know, you can’t risk reinjuring it. Sex would be a primary culprit.”
I’ve never heard the words “sex” and “culprit” in the same sentence. I don’t think I ever want to again. “There are ways?—”
She cuts me off. “No sex until you’re healed. It’s for your own good.”
“Months? You’re really telling me I can’t have sex until I’m one hundred percent again? Are you crazy?” I’m now mentally stomping all over the idiot Bennett who did the crazy jump. What the hell was he thinking?
“I’m sure you can, ehm, get busy before the full six months are up, Bennett. The doctor wants you to be generally pain-free before jumping into bed with your girlfriend, that’s all. ”
“I don’t do girlfriends.” A vision of Lissa flits through my brain, and I repeat. “Never again.” I’m not down with this “no sex” news, though, so I repeat, “I don’t remember this instruction from the doctor.”
She turns her back to me, gets up, and walks to the counter. Leaning her hip against it, she points to a paper. “Want to read it?”
I rise—albeit awkwardly—and reach out my hand for the clipboard. “No offense.” She passes it to me and damn, that’s exactly what it says. I rub two fingers over my nose. “To be revisited.”
She retakes the clipboard and scribbles something. “Duly noted.”
We stare at each other. Her high cheekbones are made more prominent by having her hair pulled back. She’s definitely lost weight since she was with Darren, but also has gained an air of...confidence. The biggest difference I’ve noticed, though, is her demeanor. She always was quiet, but had a ready laugh and quick wit. The wit’s still there, but the laugh? Not so much.
I know what it did to UC, but what has Darren’s death done to her ?