8. Brody
Brody
After chatting with Jaxon about his bank appointment, I step into my physio clinic and drop into the chair behind my small desk.
Calling it an office is generous—it’s more of a command centre wedged neatly into the corner of my treatment space.
But it works. I rescheduled my patients for today, small-town understanding being one of our greatest assets, and now I’ve got calls to make and charts to update.
Someday in the future when the clinic is booked solid and I’m running a waitlist instead of a flexible schedule, I’ll hire someone to handle phones and paperwork. But for now, it’s just me doing double duty.
I open my laptop as the rest of the building hums with life.
Laughter carries down the hall, followed by the sharp pop of pickleballs and the squeal of rubber soles gripping the gym floor.
It bleeds into my space, reminding me that this place isn’t just about rehab—it’s about getting people back to living and I love it.
I take a deep breath, and even though the scent of Jami lingers, behind it there are faint smells of menthol, fresh linens and towels, with a hint of eucalyptus drifting from the diffuser perched on a shelf.
The room is functional but warm. A padded treatment table sits to one side, paper roll tucked neatly at one end.
Resistance bands hang from wall hooks in orderly rows—red, green, blue—alongside foam rollers, massage balls, and a set of ankle weights that have seen better days.
There’s a rolling stool, a skeleton to represent range of motion, a portable ultrasound and TENS machine, and a squat rack tucked into the corner for return-to-play strength work.
A whiteboard lists today’s canceled appointments, yesterday’s PRs, and a badly drawn stick figure reminding me to cue neutral spine.
Anatomy charts line one wall—muscles, joints, movement patterns.
With a lot of long hours, sometimes frustration, this old warehouse space has been transformed into my vision. It’s honest work, and I love it.
Speaking of space…
When Jaxon and I put together that yoga studio for Jami, I didn’t realize how much it would matter to her.
I knew about her ex, knew she’d arrived carrying more weight than anyone should have to, and I knew she didn’t really have a place that was hers, considering she was going to be cohabitating with Jaxon and me.
Giving her that small room felt like the right thing to do.
Seeing her reaction—the pause, the quiet way she took it in like she was afraid it might disappear—made it feel more important than I ever could have imagined. Which reminds me of what was stolen from her, and what she might need…
I open my laptop and do a search. Thirty minutes later, after going down a rabbit hole, I find exactly what I’m looking for and order it before I can overthink myself into backing out.
Am I overstepping? Probably.
Should I have run it by Jaxon? Absolutely.
Jami? No chance. She’d veto it instantly, and sometimes it’s better to apologize afterward than ask permission first.
Speaking of permission…
Jesus. The things she let me do to her that night. The things I asked for. The sounds she made when she stopped holding back.
Mind on the job, dude.
Right.
I refocus, tweak my schedule, make my calls, and I’m just about to close my laptop when my phone buzzes. I snort. That took longer than I thought.
I swipe the screen. “Hi, Ma.”
“Is she with you?”
“Hello to you too. Yes, I’m fine. Although I do have this tickle in my throat. Allergies. Thanks for asking.”
“Jesus, b’y, you’re worse than a puppy. Always needin’ somethin’,” she teases, her voice rolling with that familiar mix of love and mischief.
I chuckle. “I expected this call hours ago, and please don’t tell me you heard she’s a pretty little thing.”
“That’s exactly what I heard, and I couldn’t call until my coffee break. Priorities, b’y.”
“What can I do for you, Ma? Everything okay?”
“Come for dinner tonight and bring Jami. I’m gathering everyone.”
“That’s not necessary.” While I think my family will love Jami and vice-versa, she just got to town and took in a lot today.
“B’y,” she says in that no-nonsense tone that shuts down arguments instantly. “Of course it’s necessary. She’s Jaxon’s sister, and even if she wasn’t, she deserves a proper welcome. I raised you better than that.”
“She did get a proper welcome. Verna made her jiggs last night, and she’s exhausted today. I’m sure you heard about the cargo plane.”
“Fine, fine,” she relents and I hear a kettle boil in the background.
“Tea is ready.” Her voice is a bit distant, like she pulled the phone away, but then it’s vibrant again when she adds, “But no excuses this weekend. I expect you all for Sunday dinner, and yes, that includes actual vegetables on the table.”
I snicker at that. I’m an athlete, and Iron man, so yes, I eat my vegetables. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll check with Jami, okay?”
Then, as if on cue, a familiar warmth drifts into the room. Vanilla.
I don’t need to look up to know she’s here. And the fact that her presence alone sparks something low and electric in my chest is… inconvenient. Especially here. Especially now.
Her eyes go wide when she realizes I’m on the phone, and she takes a half-step back, but I shake my head. “I’ll talk to you later, Ma, okay?”
After I hang up, I gesture for Jami to come in.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s okay. That was just Ma. She was on her break.” She grins, and I shake my head. “What is it about me saying ‘Ma’ that makes you smile?”
“I don’t know… it’s just… adorable.”
“What did Jaxon call your mother?”
“Mom,” she says, trying to keep her voice casual, though the corners of her mouth betray her. “The way you say ‘ma’ is—”
“Adorable, right. Got it.”
She leans against the doorjamb, hovering in a space where I use tools to fix people, and all I can think about is how I want to fix her—help her—yet her mere presence thoroughly undoes me.
I shift in my chair, willing my body to behave.
It doesn’t.
“Do you think tomorrow is too early to open the yoga studio?” she asks, a new kind of excitement lacing her voice, and I can’t help the small surge of pride that comes from knowing I had a hand in making this space hers.
“Probably,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t come in here. First, we need a schedule posted, get it up on the website, figure out pricing. All that boring business stuff.”
“Right. Right. Of course.” She glances at the chair across from my desk, and I gesture toward it.
“Come in.”
She steps forward, taking in the room with quick, curious eyes. “Physiotherapy,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “How did that happen?”
I laugh, leaning back in my chair. “There was a need in this town, especially with a new pickleball social, and I was… very familiar with physio.”
“Hockey?” she guesses, eyebrow arched.
“You nailed it,” I reply.
“Wait,” she says as if she just landed on a medical cure that will save the world. “You’ve got some gimmick going here, Brody.” I take in the mischief in her eyes as she circles a finger above her head. “Some operation…”
“Meaning?”
“People pay to use the court, then they need your physiotherapy services. Now that’s some kind of racket.”
“Racket? No, we use paddles in pickleball,” I fire back, grinning. “You really don’t know much about the game, do you?”
She laughs, and absentmindedly rubs the back of her neck.
“Look at you. Don’t even play the game, but in need of my services anyway.”
Shit, I don’t think that came out right.
“I uh…I’ve got this kink.” She stretches her neck.
“Kink?” I tease, letting my tone drag slightly, testing her reaction.
Her eyes widen and dart to mine. “I mean in my neck. Right here.” She points as her lashes flutter. “What did you think I meant?”
“That’s exactly what I thought you meant,” I say, keeping my grin in check, though it’s fighting to break free.
She studies me for a moment, curious, calculating, trying to figure me out. I lean forward slightly, keeping my posture relaxed but controlled. “You want me to take a look?”
“No, it’s okay,” she says quickly. “A warm Epsom bath and some stretching will help.”
I stand abruptly, needing to move before my mind wanders too far into other scenarios involving her and baths. “Up,” I command gently, but firmly.
Her gaze follows me, as if she knows exactly what she’s doing to me without a single word.
“On the table.”
“Brody,” she begins and I cock my head. “Right, arguing with you or my brother is an exercise in futility.”
She walks to the table and slides on. “Where exactly does it hurt?”
I listen to the sound of her throat as she swallows. “It’s probably from that flying delivery truck.”
“No doubt, but let me just make sure it’s just muscle strain.” I rub my hands together to warm them before I check out her posture. “Can I touch you?”
She gives a casual shrug of her shoulder. “If you must.”
I walk behind her, put my hands on her shoulders and run my fingers along her muscles. “Let me know if it hurts, okay?”
“Okay,” she squeaks out.
I lightly brush her hair forward, moving it away from her shoulders. I check pressure points and glide my fingertip along her trapezius muscle. “You’re so tight.”
Oh Jesus.
I press into the muscle to relax it, and a small moan catches in her throat. “That’s good,” she murmurs, her words followed by another moan.
Moans.
Lovely.
Just what I need.
I pull back. “How about some heat and then I’ll use the TENS machine.”
“That sounds just about perfect, actually.”
“Do you have a T-shirt on under that sweater?” She nods. “Great, can you take the sweater off and lie down on your stomach for me?”
I turn and rustling sounds reach my ears as she removes her sweater and settles onto the table. I walk over to the heating pads, giving her a moment to get comfortable. I carry them back, plug them in and after they’re warm, I drape them over her back, the warmth seeping into her muscles.
“How’s this?” I ask.
“It’s good,” she murmurs, already leaning into it.