Chapter 4
Chapter four
He’s a boundary issue with a slutty mustache
Carina
Yoga was a mistake.
My thighs are shaking, and my hip flexors are screaming. And delightfully, my sports bra is also attempting to saw me in half.
Beside me, Heidi shifts effortlessly into a crescent lunge, her expression serene and limbs infuriatingly long.
I adjust my stance and don’t fall over. That’s a win in my books.
“Your inner monologue is loud today,” Heidi murmurs without looking.
“My hips are loud today.”
She inhales softly and deepens her stretch, her exhale peaceful and annoyingly centred.
Mine is not.
The studio is warm, with soft light filtering through linen curtains. The air smells like cedar and eucalyptus and sweat. Heidi, of course, is completely in her element. At peace with her breath, her body. Her mind.
Mine is trying to remember whether I signed off on that last med clearance form for Moreno, if I refilled the naproxen script for the junior lacrosse patient, and whether the rotation board will try to block my latest ligament return-to-play protocol.
And now, adding to my long list of thoughts, I have the addition of wondering if my legs can physically hold me upright for another four seconds.
“This is good for you,” Heidi says casually.
“Is it?”
She catches my eye, smiling like we’re in on some joke together.
We are not.
“I thought orthopedic surgeons were supposed to have good body awareness,” she whispers, raising her leg.
I lift mine into the same pose, but the edge of my mat catches on itself and folds beneath my foot. My balance wobbles.
Heidi snorts. “Never mind.”
I roll my eyes on an exhale. “Are you here to stretch, or to antagonize me?”
“Can’t it be both?”
The instructor drifts past with a serene smile and gently adjusts my elbow. Heidi makes a face like I just got a gold star, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
Ten minutes later, we’re on our backs in some blissed-out corpse pose, and my brain is still chewing through patient discharge plans and surgical prep for the next week.
My eyes stay closed. “Remind me why I let you drag me here?”
“Because your cortisol levels are so high, they should be classed as a biohazard.”
I grunt.
She turns her head lazily toward me. “Also, because the last time you didn’t make time for a break, you nearly concussed yourself on the IV pole trying to reach the top shelf in supply.”
I crack one eye open. “That was months ago.”
“Maybe a month,” she corrects cheerfully. “And the memory lives rent-free in my head.”
I close my eyes again, the instructor’s voice floating over us as if it’ll help soothe the constant chatter in my head.
What would help is obvious—annoyingly obvious.
Sex. With the right person, and the kind where I don’t have to think or lead or manage anything. The kind where someone else takes control. My kink isn’t lying there and doing nothing; it’s someone else being in charge for once.
Telling me what to do, so I can finally shut my brain off.
It’s not complicated, really. I give orders all day, and I make decisions that affect people’s lives.
So yeah, sometimes I want to be told to get on my knees and not overthink it.
To me, letting someone else see that part of me, letting someone unravel me in a way that no one else can, is hot as hell.
I haven’t had that in a while. Long enough that my body knows exactly what it’s missing.
But I do not, under any circumstances, say this out loud. Because the second I do, Heidi will have me on a dating app, a referral list, and possibly a mood board within two minutes.
“You’re annoying,” I mutter.
“I’m a gift,” Heidi says serenely. “To you, and to Moreno morale.”
Once the session is finished, and the instructor’s closing quote is a reminder that our vibe attracts our tribe, we roll up our mats in companionable silence. I watch her coil hers neatly, like she’s not the kind of person who regularly leaves coffee cups in her car until they fossilize.
I follow Heidi out of the eucalyptus-scented studio and into the adjacent in-house café. She’s already pulling her dark brown hair out of her ponytail, somehow glowy and rested and not at all sweaty and tired.
She nods toward the counter. “I’m getting a chai and a giant danish, and you are too.”
The café is a warm blur of wood and honey light.
We grab our usuals—Heidi’s spiced and steaming, mine bitter and black with a dash of cream—and snag a corner table by the window.
My thighs are still burning from that final warrior sequence, and my palms feel dry and chalky from the mat.
Heidi doesn’t sit so much as melt into the chair across from me.
“So,” she says, mouth already half-full of pastry. “How many of your plants are still alive this week?”
I arch a brow, eyes tracking my spoon as I stir my coffee. “All of them.”
“That’s not what you said last time.”
“That was before I re-potted Bertha.”
“Bertha?”
“The begonia. She needed more drainage.”
“You said that about the fern.”
“Fernanda was rootbound.”
“And the ficus?”
I hesitate. “Less fine.”
She gives me a look. “You ever think about letting a few more actual people into your life, beyond me and the chorophyll crew? Most people unwind by sleeping or having sex,” she adds. “Not by having a rotating ICU for plants.”
“They’re not dying,” I say. “They’re adapting.”
“To what? You? That apartment? The sunlamp schedule you built from scratch?”
“Photosynthesis is an important science.”
“You’re more nurturing with leaves than you are with people,” she says. “And you give them names.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth. “Leaves don’t talk back.”
And they don’t ask questions. Don’t look at me like I’m an anomaly in scrubs. They don’t pause before deciding whether I’m competent or just impressive for a woman.
“No,” she agrees, “but when they fall off, you lose your mind.”
I don’t answer, and she doesn’t need me to.
She smiles behind her mug. “You do know most people don’t need to re-pot their stress every two weeks, right?”
I keep my gaze on the swirl of cream in my cup. “Maybe I just like giving things a second chance.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe you like being the one who fixes it.”
A silence stretches that’s not awkward, but the kind that settles when someone knows you well enough not to fill it.
“I’m fine,” I say eventually with a sigh, because it’s the quickest way to end a conversation that wants to go places I’m not ready to follow. But she doesn’t buy it, she never does.
“I know this case is getting to you,” she says quietly. “You’re carrying it in your shoulders. In your jaw. In the fact that you’re skipping more lunches than normal.”
“It’s just the red tape,” I explain, looking up and away again. “And the waiting.”
She nods, slowly stirring her chai. “Is he still asking about his leg?”
“Every time I walk in the room.”
Heidi swallows. “Shit.”
I don’t say anything, just stare out the window at the passing foot traffic, the thin sheen of frost on the sidewalk. A dog trots by in a tiny raincoat, and people move as if time isn’t snapping at their heels.
“I really want to get him in this trial,” I say eventually. “The access is still tied up between the funding, approvals, and logistics. All the things I can’t fix. But I think I can make it work so long as this gala goes to plan.”
“The fundraiser Jenny mentioned?”
I nod, lifting my own cup back up. “There’s a venue and some auction items. We just need more stuff and better awareness. I think the organizer has secured an athlete or two to attend, which means Moreno will come, and some of his associates, too.”
“Then you’re doing all you can, babe.”
I exhale, letting my shoulders fall. “I just want this kid to have a shot. He’s eight. He told me his favorite color is blue. Loves dinosaurs. Can name every mascot in the pro leagues. But now, our conversations revolve around him asking if he’s going to lose his leg.”
Her face shifts. “Carina…”
“I told him no,” I say softly, eyes locked on the frost-fogged window. “And I don’t know if that makes me a liar or an optimist.”
“It just makes you human.”
I shake my head. “That’s the part I’m not supposed to be. Not with this.”
“You’re allowed to be tired, and you’re allowed to care.” She reaches across the table, fingers curling around my wrist gently, her voice steady in a way mine hasn’t been for days. “You’re someone who hasn’t given up, not a liar.”
“Doesn’t make me honest, either.”
“It makes you someone who’s still holding the line, though.”
I press my thumb to the rim of my cup. “While standing there trying to convince an eight-year-old and his family that hope is a reasonable thing to have.”
“You believe it when you say it?”
I nod. “Most of the time.”
“That’s enough.”
My throat tightens, but I swallow it down. “I just… I wish I could control the outcome.”
“Carina,” she says softly. “You don’t have to control everything.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I just… I don’t like what happens when I don’t.”
I tip my head back and stare at the café ceiling for a moment, then bring my cup to my lips. My coffee’s gone cold, but I drink it anyway. My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, but I don’t reach for it. Across the room, someone drops a spoon. It clangs off the tile and startles a baby into crying.
Heidi clears her throat. “And Reid?”
I make a face. “What about him?”
“Just wondering how your favorite grumpy goalie is doing.”
“He’s not my favorite anything.”
“Uh-huh. That explains the weird domestic vibe I walked in on during your last appointment with him.”
“He was struggling with his sock.”
“And gritting his teeth the entire time, probably pretending it didn’t hurt. So manly.”
I shrug. “He’s grumpy.”
“He’s huge.”
“And focused.”
She rests her chin in her hand. “And hot.”
“He’s my patient, Heidi.”
“Was your patient. Now he’s a boundary issue with a slutty mustache.”
I glare and place my cup down heavily.
“And he’s weirdly polite for someone who looks like he could break you in half.”
“Are you done?”
She grins. “Not even close.”
With a groan, I slide my empty mug toward the center of the table. “You’re the worst.”
“Mm, but,” she pauses, reaching across to squeeze my hand, “you’re the one who named your favorite lavender plant after me.”
This time, I chuckle outwardly and shake my head as I yank my hand out of hers to grab my bag.
“All I’m saying is, he looks at you like he’s interested. Now you’ve fixed his knee… maybe you can fix his attitude, too.”
I know exactly how he looks at me—like he sees the seams, and he’d know exactly which thread to tug to have me unravel for him.
And I hate that part of me wants to find out if he’s right.
“I’m not sleeping with a patient.”
“He’s not your patient.”
“He’s a complication.”
“He’s a complication with very nice forearms.”
“Goodbye,” I say, standing.
Heidi laughs as she rises too, shoving her chair in with one hip. “You love me.”
“I’m re-potting you next.”
She gathers our empty mugs and tosses a napkin into the trash while I slip on my jacket. “There are worse complications than him, yanno.”
I don’t answer because Reid Hutchison would be an incredible complication. He’s a Moreno Clinic patient, and about ten years older than me, and very much obsessed with his own career and rehabilitation.
“Hey,” she says lightly, adjusting her scarf as she watches me. “Try to sleep this week.”
“I’ll think about it.”
She stops to talk to someone near the counter, so I say my goodbyes and step toward the door, brushing past a table where someone’s left a yoga block behind. I grab it and set it on the stack by the door without thinking.
Outside, the air is even colder than before. My phone buzzes in my coat pocket again—a message from one of the nurses at the clinic, asking if I’m free to talk about labs.
I don’t hesitate, texting back that I’ll call her in ten.
But when I go to lock my screen, something else flashes across it—an email from Jenny with a promo post for the upcoming gala.
Gold script with a clean white background.
A title that reads A Night Of Hope, with a list of confirmed attendees, mostly a medical who’s-who, auction items, and potential sponsors.
It’s polished and professional. It’s hope packaged as PR.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and exhale, breath curling in the cold. I don’t want to read further or reply right now, because none of it matters if I can’t get this kid what he needs.
Slowly, I make my way back to the parking lot to call the nurse from my car.
There’s a faint rainbow caught in the mist over the street that catches my eye, and I look at the colors for half a second longer than necessary, then keep walking.
I’m still tired, but still upright.
And still choosing hope.