CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Emery
The PT room hums the way it always does. The whir of machines. The clink of weights hitting the rack. Low music floating in from the locker room. The soft thud of cleats against the rubber flooring. The click of gear coming off and being set down. For some reason though, it all feels different now.
Or maybe I’m experiencing the cacophony through a different lens.
I try to focus on my tablet but as has happened the past few days, my attention drifts elsewhere. Like a lovesick, lust-fueled, ridiculous teenager.
Lucas is across the room, working through band resistance with one of the trainers hovering nearby. His movements are controlled. Intentional. Less guarded than they were a few weeks ago. He catches my eye just as I look up, and a warm and reckless feeling sparks low in my stomach.
I avert my gaze the second ours meet.
The way my pulse still kicks in when I think about his hands—where they’ve been. How steady they were. How they lingered like they had nowhere else they’d rather be.
It’s been four days since the gala night.
Days of pretending this is just routine. Just rehab. Just early mornings and late nights of nothing at all happening between us.
Except it is.
Our morning runs have resumed, slipping back into them like they never stopped. Side by side. Comfortable quiet between us with the city still half-asleep around us. No touching. No talk of us. Just the sound of our feet hitting pavement and the awareness of him being there solid and constant.
There have been late-night phone calls while lying in our own beds talking into the early morning hours.
Stupid really, considering we live feet from each other, but I feel like it’s our unspoken way to slow this down.
To continue to get to know each other. To crave that intimacy for when we can explore it the next time.
And I’d lie if I said not crossing that hall was the biggest test of my restraint I’ve had in a long time.
I don’t tell him how much I’ve looked forward to these moments in the last four days.
I don’t tell him how much I hate when the run or the phone call ends.
And it’s this—seeing each other at work, quick looks across the room, and murmured somethings as he passes by. There’s a constant charged energy whenever we’re in the same vicinity.
“My turn, Doc,” Lucas says with a shit-eating grin as he assumes the position—lying on his back, shirt discarded, and one arm bent for me to guide through his slow, controlled movements.
My brain short-circuits momentarily as I remember my tongue running over those abs. And when our eyes meet, the amusement in his says he knows exactly what I’m thinking about.
“You threw more in yesterday’s practice than you have previously in your recovery. How’s the shoulder today?” I ask. I press my fingers into muscle and tendon, familiar in a way now that’s both reassuring and wildly inappropriate.
Clinical.
This is totally clinical.
Then why does his gaze look like he wants to devour me right here and now?
I repeat the mantra as I begin my circumduction assessment to better ascertain what’s going on beneath the skin.
He’s silent as I work, his expression a mask of indifference while his eyes remain fixated on my face. I close my eyes for a beat as I move into evaluating his flexion and welcome the smooth give of warmed tissue beneath my hands.
It’s impossible to clear my head though. To separate him like this—clinical and a patient—from the man whose body I can still feel over mine.
“No pain with that?” I ask, voice neutral.
“Depends. Are you asking as my doctor?” he says before his voice lowers so only I can hear, “or as the woman I can’t get out of my head?”
I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll give myself away.
“Kidding,” he says, clearly enjoying this. “Mostly-ish.”
“Hale,” I warn quietly.
“Oh, I love when you Hale me.” He chuckles. “But yes, I’ll keep things where they need to be kept.”
“You’re never going to forget that statement, are you?” I ask.
“Nope. Just like you won’t orange slices and Gatorade.”
My hands falter momentarily at his words and the grin he gives me when I meet his eyes.
The things this man does to me is ridiculous.
You’re at work, Em. Stop staring. Stop wanting.
Because the last one isn’t easier said than done or anything.
Needing to refocus, I shift my grip to assess the one place he still has difficulty, his abduction movement.
I bring his arm out to the side and then overhead.
He hisses in response and I don’t know if it’s from pain or surprise.
I repeat the motion, slower this time and more deliberate.
“Talk to me. What was that for? Sharp pain? A pinch? The joint grinding? What?”
“No. Just . . . tension.” He exhales with the next movement.
I hum and repeat the motions so I can try and recreate whatever caused him discomfort to better assess what’s causing it. “That’s helpfully vague.”
“Funny. I was going to say the same thing about you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. This is the problem: the way our connection bleeds into this facet of our lives. The way his voice drops when it’s just the two of us. The way my body reacts before my brain can catch up.
I press my thumb into the supraspinatus muscle near his shoulder blade. He sucks in a breath and visibly tenses. I wait for him to play it off, to pretend that didn’t just happen.
He doesn’t. No playing it off. No pretending it wasn’t there, which is progress. He just clenches his jaw when I do it again.
“That spot,” he says as I repeat the motion again but this time with less pressure.
“Has it always hurt when I do this or just since the three-step drop drill yesterday?” I ask, concerned he might be experiencing a setback. And while that would be perfectly normal, it’s the last thing I want for him, considering how well he’s been performing.
And it hasn’t gone unnoticed by Coach.
“Can’t be sure,” he says. I give him a dubious look and sigh, but he shakes his head. “I’m being serious. I can’t be. I’ll pay attention to it in practice and let you know.”
I meet his eyes and can see the honesty in them. The trust. And a small part of me sighs in victory at maybe finally breaking through on that front.
“The minute you feel anything, you let me know. I’ll be on the sidelines and—”
“I know. I will.” His eyes meet mine. “I promise.”
Our gazes hold for a beat until his begins a slow, lazy descent down to my chest, his eyes darkening as he does.
“Eyes up,” I say snapping my gloves off and tossing them into the bin.
His grin is lazy but dangerous. He lifts his brows. “You started it.”
“I absolutely did not.” I laugh.
“You had your hands on me, Doc.” He lowers his voice. “Can’t blame a man when his mind wanders.”
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
“And yet, you keep putting me on your table because you just can’t resist me.”
I grab my tablet to give my hands something to do. “Next game’s in five days.” I twist my lips and tap in a few notes. “The drills are no contact the rest of the week, which is helpful.”
“You can’t protect me forever, Doc.”
“I’m well aware,” I mutter. I wish I could. “What feels good to you one day can change in seconds. A wrong hit. A weird torque on a throw. A—”
“Emery,” he says, voice firm. “I know the risks of this job, and yet I still keep playing. If I get hurt, that’s on me and has nothing to do with you or your assessments or clearances.”
“I’m only as good as the information you give me. It’s easy to second-guess myself—”
“You aren’t at the top of your field because you second-guess yourself.” He lifts his eyebrows. “You’re here because of your knowledge and skill.”
I groan. “See? This is why—”
“Things need to be kept where they’re kept. Or kept where they keep. Or whatever in the hell that saying is.” His grin is playful, but his eyes are serious.
That stupid phrase pulls me out of my own head, my own doubt, and refocuses back to him.
“You’re right.” I nod.
“I trust you and your assessments. Now you need to trust me and that I’m being honest with you.” He holds his hand out for me to shake it. “Deal?”
A smile crawls onto my lips. How does he make everything seem so simple? So casual? “Deal,” I say and shake his hand.
But even this connection, as innocent as it is, has my body humming.
The room suddenly feels too quiet. Too exposed. Like everyone has turned and is now watching our interaction when I’m more than certain they aren’t.
I force myself to take a step back, professional walls snapping into place even as my skin buzzes from where we’ve touched. “That’s it for now. I have Buckman coming in”—I look at the clock—“two minutes. We’ll reassess everything before the game on Sunday.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I wipe down the bench and sanitize my goniometer, ready for Buckman, and keep my head down, eyes focused on anything but him.
“Emery?”
I glance over my shoulder at him.
“I look forward to seeing you later,” he says quietly. No teasing. No grin. Just pure honesty. He gives me a smile and then heads out to the locker room.
I don’t even have time to pick up my tablet before Tyler walks up with his ever-efficient self and always squeaky shoes. “Dr. Porter?”
I startle, trying to make sure the guilty look is off my face. “Hi, Tyler. What can I do for you?”
“Grant wants to see you,” referring to the general manager.
My stomach tightens.
“Now? I have Buckman coming in any second.”
“Grant is aware. He said it’ll be quick and wants me to let Buckman know you’ll be back in ten.” He smiles apologetically. “He’s waiting in his office.”
Great. Why does this unexpected summons have me so nervous?
The walk to Grant Walker’s office feels longer than usual. Probably because I have a guilty conscience. He stands when I enter and motions to the chair across from his desk.
“Have a seat,” he says, following suit, as I fold my hands carefully in my lap, a million thoughts racing through my head.
“So,” he says, leaning back. “I thought it would be a good time to check in with you and see how you’re liking it here so far with the Rebels.”
Relief flickers—brief but cautious. “I’m enjoying it.
I feel like I’m still getting my feet beneath me if I’m honest. Not with treating the athletes per se but more getting a feel for the whole system, the dynamics and personality of each moving piece.
But the more I do, the better I can assess the best possible ways on how to improve the program. ”
“Which was one of the reasons you were brought on board.”
“Yes.”
He nods. “I’ve noticed you’ve been spending a lot of time with Lucas.”
My heart stutters.
“Yes.” I nod. “Just as with all the athletes under my care, I believe trust needs to be built between the doctor and the patient. As you know, Coach and Owen gave me direct instruction to prioritize Hale and his rehabilitation so they can make decisions before the final roster is needed, and so I’m doing just that. ”
Grant studies me for a beat longer than necessary before giving a very even, “Very well.” He glances at the folder on his desk. “What is the time frame for updated scans on his shoulder?”
“Protocol has us spacing the imaging out every two weeks at a minimum unless there’s an expected reinjury. Theory is we need time to see how the soft tissue responds under load before imaging again. Otherwise, we’re just chasing noise and not data.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Noted. I look forward to hearing what his next scans show.” He flips open the folder, looks at what’s inside of it before saying, “Security flagged footage from the facility after the last game.”
The room tilts. Game night. Our first kiss outside in the parking lot. Lucas told me there were no cameras, and I took him at his word.
Did I just doom myself by doing that?
My pulse spikes hard enough to make my ears ring.
“Yes. The flat tire prolonged the evening, but I stayed late that night to finish both progression paperwork and my contemporaneous memos regarding each player. It was the first time I was able to observe the organization work together as a whole, and so I wanted to write it all down while it was still fresh in my mind.”
My palms are sweating and I casually try to run them on the thighs of my pants to dry them. It doesn’t work.
Grant glances down at them and then meets my eyes.
“Relax. What they flagged wasn’t a concern,” he says as I exhale—barely.
“In fact, I said it more because I wanted you to know that your dedication hasn’t gone unnoticed.
Late hours. Extra care. Consistency. Opinions offered when you feel they’re needed.
That kind of commitment matters—especially during a probationary period. ”
My chest tightens but this time it’s with something dangerously close to pride.
“Thank you,” I say.
“It’s been noted by everyone who has a say.”
“The late hours aren’t being done because of the probationary period. That’s just how I work.”
“Good to know.” He steeples his fingers. “If you don’t mind, are you willing to give any preliminary observations of the medical end of the program so far?”
The question grounds me. Anchors me. And as I start talking about protocols, prevention, and the long game, the tension slowly leaves my shoulders.
I don’t notice how close I came to thinking I’d ruined everything.
All I know is that something is shifting.
I feel like I’m finally stepping up to the plate.
Or maybe I should say to the line of scrimmage.