CHAPTER SIX
Lucas
The best in the league have evaluated me.
Doctors with championship rings. Trainers who speak in acronyms and think they invented the “miracle” prescription. Physical therapists who treat bodies like machines and pain like a simple hurdle to leap.
So when I walk into the Rebels medical wing, I already know how this will go.
A doctor or PT will discuss how they’re going to help me.
They’ll follow this up with questions about pain levels and my current rehab regimen.
Then there will be a few half-hearted stretches to test my range of motion.
And within fifteen minutes, I’ll have the green light stamped on my file so everyone can say they did their due diligence, that I’m fine, while I know there’s nothing they can do to ease the pain that’s going to come after each and every practice.
The NFL is in the business of making money, and players are the commodity to do that. The quicker we’re on the field, the better.
Besides, why not green light the guy they know is here to be the fucking mentor? That’s one less case for them to have to deal with.
Mentor. I hate that fucking word. But it’s my gateway to showing the Rebels that I’ve still got it so I have to suffer through it.
Besides, my place on the final fifty-three-man roster is not guaranteed.
So I’ll do the song. I’ll do the dance. And then I’ll get on the field and show them how hard I’ve worked to be as close to the QB I’ve always been.
And to do that, all the doc needs to know is I’m good, pain-free, and then he’ll clear me.
I can charm my way through that in my sleep.
“Lucas Hale.”
I turn toward the voice and everything stills.
Shock hits first. Clean and sharp.
Then recognition.
Followed closely by a jolt of something dangerously close to relief.
She’s standing near the exam table, arms crossed, posture relaxed but alert.
I carried her out of a bar less than twelve hours ago—how is she still standing?
If you’d told me the poor, pale and shaking woman who had been drugged would not still be in a state of shock and falling apart, I would’ve believed you.
She insisted she was fine. I didn’t believe her.
Now, clearly, I do.
I’m absolutely impressed.
She looks . . . different now.
Put together. Controlled. Spine straight like steel. Dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail that means business over aesthetics. Heels to complement a savvy business suit. And composed in a way that makes my chest ease and tighten simultaneously.
Thank God. She’s upright. She’s here.
First day. Dream job. I can’t mess this up.
My mouth opens before my brain can stop it.
“You—”
Her brown eyes flick to mine. And while it takes a fraction of a second for her to see the clean-shaven face and associate the rest of me with the man from the hotel earlier—I see the second recognition hits.
There’s shock first and foremost, a parting of her lips, a quick intake of breath, and then a fleeting glance at the busy room around us to what? See if anyone saw a glimpse of recognition between us?
Next came the warning. I watched as she straightened and as she slipped the mask back on. It was a clear but silent line drawn between then and now.
Her expression doesn’t soften like mine does. Doesn’t acknowledge that we even know each other and sure as hell doesn’t invite questions or gratitude or concern.
It shuts me down without a word.
“Dr. Emery Porter,” she says, tone even and professional as she motions to the examination table. “Have a seat.”
Not Emery.
Doctor.
Message received. Can I blame her?
I’m still impressed that she managed to pull herself together, so I can also respect her need to keep our interaction professional.
I hop up onto the table, looking for a way to put her at ease. “You don’t look old enough to remember my rookie season.”
Her brow lifts. “And you don’t look fragile enough to be avoiding rotating your shoulder like you are, and yet here we are.”
Touché.
I like the glimpse of defiance that was unapologetically taken from her last night.
I grin. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”
“That’s a way to phrase it,” she mutters, before she flips open the cover on a tablet and starts swiping at something on the screen.
There’s a brief moment where she looks up, where our eyes lock, and I see gratitude there.
I also see a woman trying to keep her shit together so she can be the doctor the letters after her name earned her, and not the vulnerable mess I left her as this morning.
It’s quick and fleeting but again it makes me respect her more.
“So, it’s important to get something straight before we start.
I don’t care about your highlight reels or how phenomenal you were in the past. I care about you now.
About your tissue response, your mobility, and whether or not you’re pushing yourself too fast and too far because your ego lies to you and tells you that you’re fine. ”
I blink once, then laugh. “Well, you’re blunt.”
She looks up from the tablet and meets my eyes again. That glimpse of vulnerability is completely gone. “I think the words you’re looking for are efficient and educated. Exactly what you need.”
I like her already.
That’s probably a problem.
And not just because I’ve seen her scared and sick and trusting me with her safety. But because this version of her—the demanding, determined one—is remarkable.
“Okay.” I draw the word out. “They really gave you me on your first day?”
“Not sure if it’s a punishment or confidence in my work. Guess I have time to decide that.”
I chuckle. “Just tell me you think I’m cleared to play a full game, and neither of us will have to find out.”
“The man has jokes,” she says and moves toward me. “Let’s get started, shall we? Any pain today?”
“Define pain.”
This time she doesn’t smile. “Discomfort. Tightness. Burning. Stinging. Dull ache.”
I tilt my head from side to side, pretending to consider. Then I lie. “Little stiff. Nothing unexpected or different from what I’ve felt during my rehab.”
Her gaze drops to my shoulder. Not admiring. Diagnosing. “I want to have a look. Shirt off.”
I pause. “Geesh. At least buy me dinner first.”
Annoyance flickers, and it’s brief but controlled. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t indulge me with a laugh to break the awkwardness.
“Shirt off. Please, Lucas.”
“Well, since you asked me nicely.”
I peel my shirt over my head slowly. Not to show off, but because my shoulder protests the second my arm lifts.
I keep everything about me stoic, but the tightening of her mouth says she noticed.
Of course she did.
She steps closer, lips twisted in thought and fingers hovering momentarily before she touches it. When she does, it’s precise. Clinical. Professional.
“Raise your arm, please.”
Pain flares when I do, but I breathe through it.
“Higher,” she says.
I comply.
“That hurts,” she says matter-of-fact.
“It’s tolerable,” I lie.
Her eyes snap to mine. “That wasn’t a question.”
“I’m not warmed up so tightness and pain’s to be expected, at least per my last doctor.”
“Hmm,” she says as she manipulates my arm with one hand while keeping her hand pressed over my shoulder joint with the other.
“This isn’t a sport for the weak.” I shrug. “Football hurts.”
“So does lying,” she says. “But it causes a different kind of damage.”
I bark out a laugh. “You new to this?”
Her teeth clench. “Only new to you, but that shouldn’t make a difference.
” She steps back, lips twisting and eyes focused on my shoulder as if she can see to the tendons and muscles beneath.
“Structurally, it looks solid. You have most of your range of motion back with mild limitation in external rotation compared to the contralateral side. Rotator cuff feels strong, but there’s some mild tenderness over the anterior capsule. ”
“I have no clue what you just said, but I know I didn’t hear you say that I’m cleared to continue progressive throwing and non-contact drills,” I say, knowing what my previous team doctor had said.
“You’re guarding it,” she says without acknowledging my comment.
“I’m being careful.”
“I call it being dishonest,” she says.
I open my mouth to argue and then stop.
Because she’s right.
And because I watched her cling to composure this morning the same way I cling to denial now.
“I need complete honesty from you so I can do my best to get you back on the field at full capacity.”
“Who said I wasn’t being honest?”
“I don’t heal athletes, or men, or patients who lie about their pain, Lucas.”
I smirk. It’s reflexive. Defensive. “Good thing I don’t lie.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Then I guess you can see yourself out of my office since you’re already lying. Come back when you want to tell the truth.”