CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Emery
The treatment room smells like antiseptic, electricity, and . . . lingering testosterone from the athletes who just exited to the locker room to grab their gear.
It’s a great space with its dim lights and filled with the soft hums of machines. The rhythmic pulse of stimulation units cycling muscles on and off while the few already strained muscles wait for improvement before the season starts.
My plans for charting the other players I’d worked on this morning are now out the window with Coach’s request.
Did he see something in Lucas’s performance yesterday that I missed? A flinch or grimace? A week isn’t much time to make a difference in a player’s ability, so a reassessment seems premature.
But what the coach wants, the coach gets.
“Let’s get set up over here,” I say to Lucas with a glance over my shoulder to where he’s sitting.
I pretend to ignore that his demeanor has changed in the past five minutes. From playful and upbeat with Lamar to downright off-putting. His jaw is tight. His shoulders are high, and everything about him screams frustration.
And impatience.
He doesn’t acknowledge me but rather just sits down on the table with what could be construed as a growl and a body that’s already tense.
“Okay, let’s start with the new exercises I gave you. Are any of them giving you problems? Does it feel like your shoulder is catching as you move it? Is there any pain—”
“I’m fine,” he bites out.
We’re back to this again? It’s been six days since my first evaluation of him. Five days of morning runs. Why does it feel like the man I thought I was getting to know has now shut down?
“You want to explain why you’re so pissed off?” I ask glancing at my tablet as if his mood is just another data point for me to note.
“No reason,” he says flatly.
I hum, unimpressed and gesture for him to lift his arm up. “Already lying to me and we haven’t even started yet.”
He does as I instruct but with an undeniable attitude. I step closer and press my fingers along his rotator cuff, but he’s so damn tense that all I feel is resistance. I push harder and he flinches, causing me to take my hands off.
“Don’t fucking coddle me,” he snaps. “I don’t need that. Do it again.”
I don’t react or bristle. I just meet the eyes of one of the physical therapists across the room and give him a subtle nod that says it’s fine. He nods and turns back to the player he’s tending to.
I return my attention to Lucas, voice lowered, resolve unwavering. “I don’t coddle. I assess.”
“Well, it feels like—”
“Like what?” I ask, fingers still firm, still precise as I begin to move his arm.
“Like someone’s not letting you power through?
” His nostrils flare. “Not letting you push your healing shoulder so you overdo it?” I adjust my rotation of his shoulder but can feel the tension radiating off him.
I drop his arm and make a show of stepping back.
“Might as well head to the locker room, grab your shit, and head home. I can’t do anything for you when you’re this wound up. ”
His teeth grit. “I said, don’t fucking coddle me.”
“And I said don’t be an asshole because it’s not going to get you a complete clearance any faster.” I meet his eyes and motion to his shoulder. “Now, are you going to relax so I can get this muscle to release or—”
“Maybe that’s not the kind of release I need, huh?”
It’s bait. Not desire. A man trying to regain control of a situation where his body won’t cooperate.
“That’s not how this works, Hale,” I say calmly.
“No?” His mouth curves but his eyes and voice lack humor. “Shame.”
I exhale evenly. It isn’t the first time I’ve worked on an athlete who’s made sly innuendos, and it definitely won’t be the last. And yet, for some reason, I didn’t expect that from him. Not from a man who held my hair back without expecting anything in return.
“You’re angry about something, I get it. And if you don’t want to tell me why, totally fine. But don’t take it out on me if you don’t want me to look closer. I won’t be your verbal punching bag. That’s not how I work, and it certainly isn’t going to help you. Got it?”
He exhales loudly. “Just give me a game-ready final clearance, and you won’t have to worry about it, now will you?”
“Your clearance is fine where it is,” I state as he bristles. “And my giving you a game-ready one doesn’t move you out of my care. It actually makes me scrutinize you more. Nice try though. How about you tell me the real reason?”
There’s a heavy pause between us. I’m certain he’s weighing his choice to be defensive, but I see the minute he realizes it won’t do him any good. His body relaxes some, and the lines in his face aren’t so harsh.
“He called me out in front of everyone,” he finally says. It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about Coach. “I’m trying to earn my damn spot, to prove I deserve to be here when everyone knows about my shoulder, and he fucking undercut me.”
I step forward again and begin to manipulate his shoulder to let his discontent settle. The muscles are a bit softer now. More pliant. “Or,” I counter gently as I work, “Coach was trying to see if you’re ready to step back into a QB1 role.”
He barks out a laugh. It’s sharp and self-deprecating, meaning he clearly sees through my attempt at mitigating his anger. “I appreciate the optimism, but I’m well aware why I’m here.”
I adjust my stance and start a new series of exercises I haven’t done with him before. Rhythmic stabilization, isometric holds, and the like. “And yet, you’re still pushing.”
“I don’t have it in me to quit,” he says quietly.
“Noted,” I murmur as I get some resistance in the abduction. “Admired.” I repeat the motion and watch his vertical rotation again. “And exactly why I’m more determined to get you out there.”
His eyes meet mine and for the first time, I think he might actually be beginning to trust me. He nods and closes his eyes as I continue to assess him, the silence settling between us.
I map his muscles, aware of how they’re working together, watching for limitations or pinching. Interesting just how I’m aware of him in a way I shouldn’t be.
The sculpted muscles of his body. The fullness of his mouth. The way his breathing changes when I tweak the angle of his arm to 120 degrees.
What are you doing, Em? You’ve never noticed shit like this with a patient before.
Being hyperaware of everything about him is a natural thing. We’re becoming a team. He’s a patient. A colleague. A problem I’m solving.
He’s a nice guy—usually. A very attractive guy—always.
And my hands have been all over him.
So it’s natural for me to notice everything about him, right?
If that’s the case though, why has this never happened before?
I step away for a second—on purpose. Because this—what my runaway thoughts are trying to sew together—cannot happen ever.
I focus on the tablet and adding notes to my assessment form rather than acknowledge that my pulse is erratic, and my cheeks are flushed.
“What did the boyfriend say about you moving out here?” Lucas asks out of the blue, almost like he can read my ridiculous thoughts.
I startle.
“My love life doesn’t have anything to do with your arm.”
“True,” he says with a nonchalance that is more adorable than annoying. “But it might distract me from the torture you feel the need to keep inflicting on me.”
“Torture?” I ask. “This coming from a man who wants me to okay him for full-contact play, but my gentle touch is torture? I’m not even touching you right now.”
“This second, no. But you’re looking at your Tablet of Tortures right there, undoubtedly trying to figure out how to inflict max pain after that comment I made.”
“Perhaps.” I set the tablet down and grab my goniometer so I can measure his range of motion.
“And yet you still didn’t answer,” he murmurs.
“No boyfriend. This is my year to focus on work. On this new job and the new move. I don’t want anything to distract from it,” I lie.
And that answer is final, because telling him the truth would invite questions I’m not ready to answer.
He hums. I can feel the weight of his stare on me, but I keep my gaze focused on my hands and my measurements. “Pretty sure I call bullshit on that.”
“You can call whatever you want on it.” I chuckle unconvincingly. “How about I just say I’ve sworn off men. Is that easier for you to believe?”
He toggles his head from side to side. “Yeah. Probably. So that means you’ve left some heartache behind.”
I arch a brow but don’t answer. “And what’s your excuse?” Where did that come from?
Let’s go with . . . it’s purely for conversation’s sake. Not because I want to know. Not because I care.
“Excuse?”
“Yeah. Aren’t star quarterbacks supposed to have women hanging off their every word?” I tease.
“Who says they’re not?” He grins.
“I live across the hall from you. Pretty sure I’d notice if you had a girlfriend or . . . you know, had women doing the walk of shame out of your place as we took off for our morning runs.”
“Fair enough,” he says, pausing until I meet his eyes. “And true.”
My smile sputters right along with my words. “Why not? I’m sure you don’t have any shortage of women offering.”
He shrugs and throws off my measurement, so I repeat it.
“I don’t know. Never found the right one, I guess.
” He pauses a beat. “Lots of fine-for-nows, but no one who made me want to settle. Which when you think of it, is the worst word to describe wanting to be with someone exclusively. Like settling most times means you accept your fate whether it’s good or bad—so I’ll use the word settle but I protest its meaning. ”
I bark out a laugh. “I’ll make a note in my Tablet of Torture that Lucas Hales disagrees with the word settle.”
“You know I’m right,” he teases.
“You are,” I say, but then fall quiet as I work.