Chapter 6 The Girl Who Wasn’t There （Nate）
THE GIRL WHO WASN’T THERE (NATE)
My hip’s been complaining this morning, aching with every movement, a reminder of how close I am to pushing it too far. I ice it, stretch it, tell myself it’s fine, but I know the truth. If this doesn’t get better, my season’s screwed.
Mercer claps me on the back, jolting me out of my head. “Your new PT’s waiting. Heard she’s the best. She’ll get that hip right.”
Good. I need someone who knows what they’re doing. The smell of antiseptic and clean mats hits me as I push open the door to the PT room. I’m halfway through a mental checklist—groin stretch, mobility work, maybe ice—when I spot her.
The sight of her knocks me flat. Her blonde hair is sleeker now, pulled back to bare the sharp line of her jaw.
Those blue eyes that used to light up when she saw me are now cool and steady, controlled, and edged with warning.
Dark-blue scrubs shouldn’t be a turn-on; on her they are, skimming her curves and tightening my throat.
She holds herself with quiet power: shoulders back, chin lifted, owning the space without trying.
“Nate.” She says my name evenly. She must have been expecting me because there’s not even a flicker of surprise.
“Eden.” Her name is a pained rasp. For just a second, recognition of what we used to be to each other flickers in her gaze before the professional mask slides back into place.
She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t even blink. No hello, no small talk, just straight to business. “Your groin’s been giving you trouble?”
I arch a brow, trying for levity. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
The corner of her mouth twitches as if holding back a smile. Then it’s gone. Message received.
“Why don’t you hop up on the table?” she says briskly, jotting something down. “We’ll start with an assessment. Where exactly does it hurt?”
“Starting off hot, I see.” Playful charm used to work with her. Now all I get in return is a raised eyebrow.
So no reminiscing, then. Fine. “Hip flexor, maybe the adductor.” I settle onto the table. “Tight when I push off. Splits are…not fun right now.”
“Got it.” Her tone is clipped. She makes another note on her iPad without looking at me. “Lie back.”
I stretch out on the table, the vinyl cool under my shoulders, and she steps closer, testing the range of my leg. Her hands are clinical, but they’re still the same hands that used to trust me to keep her safe in the dark. Now she’s the one in control, and I don’t know how to feel about that.
“I saw you at the game last week.” I keep my tone casual.
She pauses mid-movement—a flicker—before she recovers. “Yes.”
“Those were good seats.” I glance at her, trying to catch her stare, but she stays focused on the angle of my hip. “And the guy? Your boyfriend?”
There’s the slightest hitch in her breath, no more than a beat. “Maybe,” she says finally, words flat. “We’ll see.”
The response hits in two places at once.
Warm because it’s not a yes, cold because it’s not a no either.
Not her boyfriend. Yet. My mind flashes back to the front row, to her laughing at something he said, to his hand on her thigh.
Guy’s got money to throw around. Box seats, perfect view, perfect girl.
The thought is petty, sharp, and so uncalled for I almost wince.
Still, the comment slips out. “Looked like he was marking territory.”
She shifts her weight, still not meeting my eyes.
“It was a lovely first date.” Her tone goes husky; heat floods me, coiling low and dangerous.
The edge in her words cuts clean. Before I can answer, she presses my leg deeper into the stretch.
Her gaze locks on mine, defiant. “He saw an opportunity. He took it.” A pause. “I liked it.”
The way she says it—steady, almost detached—lands hard. Every brush of her fingers sends a slow surge up my spine, and it’s not from the stretch.
“You enjoy guys who don’t ask for permission?” It’s more of a snarl than a question.
Her lips curve, the faintest dare. “I like confidence.” Then, after a brief silence that lands low in my groin, “Dominance. When it’s done right.”
The air between us snaps tight. The room closes in, too compressed for a space that smells of antiseptic and clean mats. I drag my gaze to the ceiling, anywhere but her.
Jesus, Russo. Pull it the fuck together.
Her words are a revelation and a challenge all at once. This isn’t the girl who used to trail after me on the beach. This is a woman who knows exactly what she wants.
And if the past is any proof, it isn’t me.
The thought slams into me before I can stop it: If I’d had the guts back then, if I’d just taken the chance, maybe things would be different now.
The past snaps into focus. I had chances. I didn’t take them. Summer after summer, she slipped away.
How foolish was that? I breathe deeply, chiding myself.
Stop it, asshole. She’s Leo’s little sister. Your PT. Don’t get any stupid fucking ideas.
She gently straightens my leg and steps back, scribbling notes on her iPad again. For a second, I watch her. The way she moves—calm, precise, in total control—is nothing like the girl who used to leap off lifeguard stands with her hair flying.
She sets the iPad aside, arms crossing as that cool blue gaze sweeps over me, having mapped out every weakness.
“I want to try something.”
Her hands settle lightly at the base of my skull, fingers tracing along the ridge before cradling my head. It’s so unexpected I freeze.
My mouth quirks. “Pretty sure my hip’s a long way from there.”
Her gaze flicks to mine, unfazed. “Your body doesn’t work in pieces, Russo. Hip’s screaming because everything else is locked down. Nervous system included.” She adjusts her touch, barely any pressure, and for a second I can’t figure out what’s happening.
Heat curls low in my gut, a response I can’t shut off. “Feels like you’re trying to read my mind.”
Her lips twitch. “Not exactly. Your craniosacral rhythm.”
“Sounds made up.”
“It’s not.” Her tone is patient. “Athletes under stress hold tension everywhere. If your system doesn’t release, your hip won’t either.”
I shut up, because she’s right, and because whatever she’s doing makes the noise in my head drop a notch. The ache in my hip doesn’t vanish, but there’s a shift. My whole body unclenches.
When she finally lets go, I blink against the overhead light, dazed in a way no PT session’s ever left me. She steps back, arms folding. “How do you feel?”
I push up slowly. “Different.”
Her brow arches. “Good different?”
I nod once, reluctant to admit more. “Yeah. Good different. So tell me, what’s going on with my hip?”
“You’ve got an adductor strain and probably a small tear where the hip flexor attaches. That’s why every push-off and split feels like hell—you’re overcompensating. But I’m sure your trainers have told you as much.”
I cock a brow. “And you’re going to fix me?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Six to eight weeks,” she replies, clipped and certain. “If you do exactly what I tell you and stick to the plan, you’ll hit the playoffs ready.”
So she knows about hockey. I want to ask if she’s been watching, if she’s been there more than once, but I bite the words back.
“Does Leo know you’re treating me?” I ask instead.
“I just found out an hour ago.” She laughs.
“And I’m not allowed to tell him or anyone else anyway.
” I look at her blankly. “The NDA I signed?” Her mouth curves, then she redirects.
“You are free to tell him if you want to, though. But as for the two us now, let’s focus on your treatment, shall we? ”
“And what does that look like?”
Her tone is clipped. “We’ll start with targeted soft tissue work to release the surrounding muscles—hip flexors, quads, glutes.
Then mobility drills to restore range, followed by progressive strengthening.
You’ll also do neuromuscular control exercises to retrain stability, because right now, your body’s protecting the injury instead of healing it. ”
I let out a low whistle. “Sounds like a lot.”
“It is,” she says simply. “But if you stick to the plan, you’ll end up even stronger than before.”
I lean back, watching her. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you’re risking your career.” Her words hang between us, and I can see a flicker of concern buried under all that detachment.
She picks up her iPad again, her tone smoothing back to neutral. “I’ll give you a plan to follow between our sessions. Three times a week with me, daily drills on your own. No shortcuts.”
I smirk, leaning back on my elbows. “So you’re saying you’re in charge?”
Her lips twitch, holding back a smile. “In the PT room, yes.” She lets the words linger, then adds, slowly, “Think you can follow orders?” A beat. “While we’re in here?”
The pause seems deliberate, a spark on dry kindling. My mind jumps straight to every other room where she wouldn’t be the one calling the shots—images I have no business entertaining—but they flare hot and fast before I shove them back down.
Heat coils low in my chest, sharp and hungry. Yeah, Trouble, I think, gripping the edge of the table to ground myself. I can follow orders. In here.
She nods toward the mat in the corner. “Stand there. I want to see how you stabilize under load.”
I step onto the mat, and she circles me, cataloging, causing my pulse to slam in my temples. A minute ago, I promised I’d follow her orders, and already, all I can think about is breaking that rule.
The way she moves—close enough for me to catch the faintest trace of her shampoo, far enough to keep me wanting—lights me up from the inside out.
Ten years of buried fantasies surge back, raw and unfiltered.
The urge to grab her, pin her to this mat, and finally taste what I’ve been starving for claws at me so hard, it’s almost painful.
I grit my teeth, holding myself together by a thread.
“Single-leg stance,” she says.
I lift the injured leg, balance on the other. Her eyes track every millimeter my hips try to cheat.
“Hold. Don’t let the knee cave.”
Her palm finds my inner thigh to cue the adductor—firm, precise, clinical. My brain? Not clinical. A reel I didn’t order starts playing anyway: her hand higher, my mouth on a promise I have no business making. Heat climbs fast. I stare at a ceiling sprinkler and pretend it’s my moral compass.
“Breathe,” she reminds me, crouching to check alignment. Her voice is calm, her face level with my groin, and I become a monk in real time. This is not how you think about your physical therapist. This is not how you win trust. This is how you earn a restraining order.
I count breaths. I do not flinch. I do not disgrace the franchise.
She stands, steps back, gaze sharp. “Again. This time with resistance.”
Thank fuck.
“So,” I say when she’s again marking down notes on her iPad, “what have you been up to all these years? Besides plotting my torture.”
Her focus flicks to mine, guarded. “Studying. Training. Working toward opening my own practice.”
“Nothing else? No wild adventures?“
That earns me the tiniest smirk, but she shuts it down quickly. “No. Just…work.”
“Sounds boring,” I say lightly, testing the edge.
Her jaw ticks. “It’s focused. And I like it that way.”
She has me do a few more stretches, a couple of slow lunges, then calls it. “That’s enough for today. I’ll send the office a routine for you to follow in between sessions. Don’t overdo it until I say you can.”
I grab my hoodie, slinging it over my shoulder. “Guess I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
“You will,” she says, her tone perfectly neutral. “Our office will sort out the schedule with your coaches. They’ll let you know.”
I step out of the PT room, hip still throbbing but the rest of me humming. Clearer. Lighter. She flipped a switch I didn’t know was there.
Hoodie on. Phone buzzes—Mom. I almost let it go to voicemail. I don’t. “Hey, Ma.”
“Hey, baby. That hip behaving?” Dishes clink; she’s packing a lunch like always.
“Better. Sore, but…good.” I take a breath. “You’ll appreciate this—my new PT is Eden Carver.”
A soft pause. “Mm-hmm. Isn’t that somethin’.”
“Yeah. Small world.”
“Haven’t laid eyes on that child much these last few years, have you?”
“Not really. Couple times. She’s…different. Focused. Good at what she does.”
Another hum. Then she pivots. “Listen, I been thinkin’ on Christmas. What if we do Fire Island this year? Quiet. Just us, if your schedule lets you.”
“I’ll come. We don’t play over Christmas.”
“Alright then.” I can hear her smile. Casual as weather, “I might ring Gina, see if the Carvers are around. Be nice to have all you kids under one roof a minute, like old times.”
“Ma…”
“Hush, I said might. They are family. Only if it suits folks.”
I blow out a breath. “Ok.”
“Perfect.” Paper rustles, there’s a list starting. “And if it turns into more than a few heads, check if Dmitri’s place is winterized. Ask him nice. If not, we’ll make do.”
“Ma, it’s starting to sound like a big thing.”
“Ain’t nobody throwin’ a parade,” she says, all honey and steel. “Low-key. Now text me later. No pressure.”
We talk about nothing another minute, then hang up, but her voice lingers. My mother knows how I feel about Eden. She’s always known.
And now that she’s back in my life, and I know what she looks for in a man—bro code be damned—I’m going to be the one to give her what she needs.