CHAPTER SEVEN
Emery
Do not react.
That’s the first rule.
The only rule.
The only way the duct tape and willpower holding me together will keep.
Because the man sitting on the exam table is the same man who carried me out of a bar last night. The man who watched me shake and vomit and insist I was fine when I absolutely was not. The man who saw me scared, drugged, vulnerable . . . everything I never let anyone see.
And now he’s here.
Fully upright. Fully composed. Fully Lucas Hale.
He took my lead and acted like last night never happened. And I want that—no I need that—so much today and yet . . . he saved me.
But I can’t show it or say it, because if I do, that might be the thing that breaks me.
And the man last night—selfless, protective, considerate—is nothing like the man Owen told me to expect. Prickly and stubborn.
The one sitting before me is neither, but he sure as hell is lying about his pain.
And that’s what I’m holding on to right now as a way to keep my composure.
The athlete before me, his pain, and my training.
He sits on the table with broad shoulders and surgery-scarred skin. His posture is loose like his body has never failed him—even though we both know differently. His medical file is a testament to that.
He sits with a confidence that says he’s untouchable when clearly, he isn’t.
He was there last night. The thought creeps in out of nowhere causing my chest to tighten and vision to blur.
Does he think less of me because of what happened? More of me? Will he tell somebody about the situation and that I was the victim?
The questions pile up fast and sharp when I should be working. I shove them down where they belong—under muscle memory and protocol and the letters after my name.
This is my exam room.
Focus on Lucas, Em. Get the job done. Overthink and break down later.
I draw in a quiet breath, set the tablet down, and turn back to Lucas to resume my assessment.
He wears pain like a badge of honor and arrogance like armor. That much is obvious as he tenses beneath my fingertips but doesn’t show so much as a grimace.
He must come from the weakness only gives people ammunition crowd. That’s not going to do either of us any good if I’m trying to help him.
I keep my hands steady and deliberate as I move around him, cataloging every subtle hitch in movement he thinks he’s hiding or contraction beneath the skin he can’t help. This—this is what I do. Bodies don’t lie, even when people do.
But still, it doesn’t matter how hard I focus on him, on his shoulder, on the wince he offers before clearing it away, because I keep seeing him this morning, standing in the doorway. Holding my hair back . . . caring when he didn’t have to.
I’ve never had a patient see me at my worst before. Never had to wonder if professionalism alone could erase someone’s memory.
“This time I want you to resist me,” I say.
“Didn’t we just do this?” he asks.
“Yes. But I want to do it again now that we both know you’re lying.” I smile. “Resist,” I say as he presses against my hand, and it takes considerable effort to fend him off. “Good. That’s great.”
He’s definitely strong, exceptionally so, but he’s also compensating for the pain.
I press along his shoulder blade and feel him tense. Tenderness is to be expected, but if my fingertips cause a wince, what will fifty throws in a football game do to it?
“You enjoy this?” he asks.
“Watching you pretend like nothing hurts when it clearly does? It’s the highlight of my day,” I say drolly.
He laughs. The sound is low and easy and fills the clinical space with warmth somehow. “You don’t strike me as someone who likes easy patients, Doc.”
“You’re right—”
“Well, today’s your lucky day.”
“—I like honest ones.”
His eyes flick to my mouth. Not my hands. My mouth.
The awareness is immediate and unwelcome, and yet, my pulse kicks up a notch.
I ignore all of it.
I’ve got you.
Especially that. This is not last night. This is not a bar. This is not a hotel room at dawn.
I swallow and relax my shoulders.
This is my first day of my dream job, and I will not let one moment of weakness rewrite that.
“Lift again,” I say.
He does and his jaw tightens.
There it is. Just as I’d expect with this injury and this far along in rehab.
“Pain level?” I ask.
“Manageable.”
“Lucas.” I sigh.
“What?”
“I get that your previous doctor and PT cleared you for game-speed throws, but pain and tenderness mean you might be pushing yourself too fast. Pushing through pain is one thing, but we need to decipher if the pain is from the recovery or if something else is wrong. The last thing you want is another setback.”
He snorts. “There was pain before the injury and pain after. It’s football. Besides, you sound like every doctor I’ve ever had. If I’d listened years ago, I never would have kept playing. I never would have won a Super Bowl.”
“And yet you’re still injured,” I say calmly.
A charged silence settles between us.
He studies me now. Those blue eyes of his are assessing and scrutinizing and deciding. Is he looking for cracks to exploit? Is he looking for the woman from last night instead of the doctor in front of him?
“You’ve never worked in the NFL,” he finally says, voice even.
I don’t take offense to his comment and meet his gaze without blinking. “No.”
His smile is smug. “Well, forgive me then if I don’t take career advice from an inexperienced—”
“Woman who specializes in fixing elite athletes when their bodies start betraying them?” I cross my arms over my chest and lean my ass against the counter behind me.
“My training has lasted about as long as your years playing in the league. Residency and specialty and fellowships. I appreciate your concern over my experience—I’d have it too if my career depended on it—but I assure you I’m here because I’m damn qualified, and the only thing I like better than preventing someone from being injured is getting them back on the field as close to one hundred percent after an injury.
I’m the one person in this building who doesn’t give a shit about your legacy.
While they pay me to care about your immediate future, I actually care more about you and your functionality for the rest of your life.
” I wave a hand. “But go ahead. The door’s right there if you think I’m incompetent because . . . I don’t know . . . I’m a woman?”
He exhales slowly and something about the way his abs ripple with the motion and the rise and fall of his shoulders has heat curling in my lower belly that I refuse to acknowledge. Although it is fucking annoying.
“Wow. That was . . . something,” he says, eyes wide and a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Impressive speech. You’re quite defensive though.”
“And you’re reckless.”
“You’re thorough though, I’ll give you that.”
“And you’re stubborn to a fault.”
We stare at each other.
I move farther away, fighting the smile tugging at my lips, and slip my professional mask back on.
“Get dressed,” I say.
“For the record, my questioning your experience had nothing to do with you being a woman,” he says.
I cringe at my overreaction. At wounds Jared left that still simmer beneath the surface . . . and that I reacted to.
I shrug it away and change the subject. “I have what I need for now. We’ll do a deeper eval tomorrow. I want to watch you work through some drills. Do some strength tests on the machines. See what your current PT regimen is so I can tweak as needed.”
“Can’t wait,” he says wryly.
“And Lucas?”
“Yes, Doc?”
“If you want to play this season, like have me rooting for you to get off the sidelines, you need to start telling me the truth. With all this cutthroat competition to make the starting roster, I’m the closest thing you have to a friend in this place. Use me to your advantage.”
His mouth curves in a slow, dangerous smile.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You might be the first person who’s ever asked me to do that.”
I don’t smile back as he bunches his shirt in his hand and then walks out.
But my pulse doesn’t slow either.
I stare in the direction he walked long after he turns the corner.
How do you handle someone who was once a giant in the sport? How do you show respect but deliver honesty? And how do you do all that with a man who you know will fight you every step of the way?
“If it were easy, Porter, you’d bitch about that too,” I mutter to myself and then head to my desk to type up my evaluation notes.
One down, six more evals to go today.