12. Roman
12
ROMAN
“Come on , quit being such a pussy and play another game!”
Sighing, I pull my headphones off and place them beside me. I hit my limit of teenage boy insults twenty minutes ago, so that one pretty much did me in.
I drag a hand down my face as I lean back against the couch. I’ve been sitting here for almost three hours, killing time with video games while I wait for Mikey to get off work.
Debating getting a head start on the night, I look at the fridge where I put the beer earlier. It’s become an unspoken tradition for our Fridays to consist of alcohol and video games. I already did my physical therapy for the day, made myself food, napped, and now I’m just bored.
Glancing at my phone, I have an errant thought wondering what Lily is doing right now. Is she working at the clinic tonight? Is she at home? Is she watching a movie? Maybe one that I recommended.
Part of me wishes I could text her. But even if I had her number, I’m not entirely sure I could text her, what with our professional relationship and everything.
Or even if she’d be receptive to it.
My sigh is heavier this time, knowing the likely answer to that question but not having the mental fortitude to acknowledge it. I should just stick to being her problem patient, horror movies aside.
I look at the time and calculate that I have another hour before Mikey shows up. I’m sick of playing video games with thirteen-year-old boys, so that’s out. I also don’t really feel like drinking, so that’s out, too.
Glancing down the hallway, my attention zeroes in on the office-turned-gym. I already did my PT today, but…
I pull my wheelchair over without a second thought. I’m sick of slow progress. More exercising should mean quicker recovery, right?
And as I reach for the resistance band and start in on another workout, I ignore the little part of my brain that’s imagining a certain blonde cheering me on.
* * *
The next day, my session with Lily starts the same way it always does. With me climbing onto the treatment table to complete the same exercises we always kick off with.
As Lily moves to the end of the table to flex my foot, I lean back on my hands and watch her. I don’t know if I thought our late night at the clinic this week would make it weird between us, but I’m actually a little relieved to have things feeling more comfortable.
“So…since I don’t have a new PT assigned to me, am I right in assuming you haven’t watched Hereditary yet?” I ask her. Then, a slow grin stretches across my face. “Or did you watch it and actually like it?”
She sends me an exasperated look that only makes me grin harder. “You should make peace with the idea of me hating it because, I’ll tell you right now, there’s zero chance I’m going to like it.” Ducking her head, she mumbles, “And no, I haven’t watched it yet.”
I tsk. “I’m disappointed. I thought we had a deal.”
Lily huffs as she moves to my other foot. “Our only deal is your insurance paying me to be your drill sergeant.”
“Ah. My mistake. I thought you were moral enough to honor a verbal contract.”
She straightens and puts her hands on her hips so she can glare at me.
I shrug, unable to hide my smirk. “All I’m saying is, I kept up my end of the deal.”
At that, Lily’s gaze drops to my legs. “No kidding,” she says distractedly. “I can see a difference in your range of motion. Have you been doing your exercises every day?”
When I don’t answer, she cups my heel and calf and pushes my leg back toward my chest. I wince when it strains my hamstring.
“Did that hurt?” she demands.
“Just sore,” I grumble.
A grin slowly stretches across Lily’s face. “Because you’ve been working out a lot,” she asks, though it doesn’t sound like a question.
Once again, I don’t answer.
“Who knew all I had to do to get you to do your homework is promise to watch a movie,” she says with a chuckle, gently putting my leg down.
I drop my head with a sigh of defeat. “Believe me, I had no idea I was so easy.”
I expect her to rip on me some more, but when she doesn’t, my gaze moves back to her. She’s watching me, her expression soft but unreadable.
“I’ll watch whatever you want me to watch if it gets you to do your PT,” she says gently. Then she holds up two fingers with a warm smile. “Scouts honor this time. I promise to honor the verbal contract.”
I quirk an eyebrow in mock-disbelief instead. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Lily returns her focus to my leg with a smile. “That’s fair.”
But then it fades, concentration appearing in its place. “Do you get massages?” she asks distractedly.
“Sometimes. When the aches and pains get bad.”
She purses her lips. “You should get them regularly. They’re great as preventative maintenance.”
I open my mouth to tease her, to tell her I’ve heard that a million times, but I never get any words out. Because her thumb starts to massage my calf and every thought flies from my head.
I must be wearing a dumbstruck expression because she notices. “Can you feel that?” she asks, misinterpreting my surprise.
It’s not that there is sensation that’s stunned me. It’s her touch.
She feels…warm.
Swallowing roughly, I nod. She puts her other hand on my calf, and I watch as she starts to massage the muscle.
I think I hold my breath the entire time. She drives her thumb into the meat of the muscle, kneading and pulling. Slowly working her way along my leg, it isn’t until she reaches my ankle that the sensation changes.
Having an incomplete spinal cord injury means I lost some sensations but not all. The neural pathways that still connect to the brain are the areas where I can still feel—the other ones, it’s either numbness and tingling or nothing at all.
“Have you ever done anything with sensory re-education?” Lily asks, her massage becoming more of a brush of her hand instead of a knead of the muscle as she glances up at me. “I lost you around the ankle, didn’t I?”
Swallowing roughly, I nod. “I did some sensory stuff. But I was never…” I trail off. I was never consistent with it.
Lily hesitates for a moment before saying lightly, “We can add a few minutes of it onto our sessions, if you want.”
My eyes drop down to her hand. I can barely feel her touch where she has it, and I kind of hate it. I want to feel it.
I want to feel her .
But I try to play off my mounting desperation anyway. My voice sounds rough as I say, “You don’t have to do that. I know you’re at the end of your shift by the time I come in.”
She looks up from where she had her eyes trained on my foot, and locks onto my face instead. I can feel her studying me: my words, my intention behind them—my general fear around therapy. And I sense she can see through all of it.
Pulling in a small breath, she says quietly, “Touching you isn’t exactly exhausting.”
My eyes widen. There’s no way to misinterpret her comment. It’s the closest she’s come to the professional boundary between us, and I’m at a loss for words as to how to respond to it.
Her gaze still locked with mine, she sees my speechlessness and seems to make the decision to just push right past the moment. Looking back down at my leg, she says, “You really should do some sensory re-education. With me or someone else. Neuroplasticity is the most heightened in the first year, but you can still do a lot with it right now.”
The part that I’m going to push past is the idea of doing this with anyone else. “You’re right, I should be adding that into my therapy.” Clearing my throat with a cough, I add, “If you wouldn’t mind taking the extra few minutes, I’d appreciate the help.”
“Of course. How about this…” She looks around, then crosses the room to grab a towel. “I’ll go over your legs with a towel first, then I’ll follow with a massage. We’ll try a different texture every session.”
I nod, feeling weirdly nervous. “Okay.”
The towel’s texture is an odd one. Despite using one every day when I shower, the sensation of Lily dragging it over my skin, sometimes lightly and sometimes with a little more pressure, feels new. Especially when she reaches an area where I lost nerve sensation, the shift from feeling the rough texture to feeling only pressure is bizarre.
Lily takes her time moving the towel over my feet, my calves, and over the lower part of my thighs. After a few minutes, she sets the towel aside and says, “I’m going to wash my hands with cold water before I massage you. The temperature shock might help with things.”
Once again, I nod automatically, trying to ignore the bubble of nerves in my stomach. Why the fuck am I so nervous?
When she lays her hand on the top of my foot, I suck in a startled breath.
“Shit, that’s cold,” I say through gritted teeth.
Chuckling, she moves to the other foot. Same jolt of surprise. When she moves to my ankle, her hands feel slightly warmer, but still cold.
I frown when I realize what just happened.
“You feel that, don’t you?” Lily asks with a smug grin.
I don’t respond, too stunned by the sensation of temperature on a part of my body that’s been mostly useless for the past two years.
Slowly, Lily slides her hands around to my heel. And then over my ankles, up my calves, and to my knees, tracing her hands over my skin and reacquainting my body with her touch. Before long, I’m lost in a haze of awe and sensation.
Her hands have warmed as she’s moved up my leg, but it isn’t until they register as warm on my quad that something occurs to me that makes me tense up.
I don’t know how high on the leg she plans to go, but if she goes any higher, her hands are going to have an effect. And it’s not an effect that either of us is ready for.
It’s no secret that spinal cord injuries, even in the most minor of cases, affect sexual function. My injury affected everything below my hips, so obviously my dick is included in that picture. And even though I’ve been able to get somewhat reacquainted with it—and gain an understanding, if not always control, of it—in the two years since the accident, it’s still an entirely unpredictable area of my lower body.
I have no idea what might happen when a hot woman is touching my leg.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath with anticipation until Lily stops her massage and straightens.
“Okay, that’s enough procrastinating. Let’s get you started on some strength exercises.”