Chapter 4
Jonathan
The barbell slips from my grip mid-press, and I barely manage to drop it to the floor before my shoulder explodes in white-hot pain.
The camera's still rolling—because of course it is.
I've been filming my new "Power Morning" series for YouTube, and nothing says authentic content like capturing myself fucking up my rotator cuff.
"Shit," I hiss, grabbing my right shoulder. The pain radiates down my arm, sharp and immediate. This isn't the good burn of muscle fatigue—this is something torn or strained.
I address the camera. "Well, folks, that's what happens when you don't properly warm up. Don't be like me. I'm going to cut it here and ice this immediately."
I stop recording and assess the damage. Range of motion is limited, there's already inflammation setting in, and I can feel the muscle spasming under my hand.
Perfect. Just perfect. I have a brand deal video to film tomorrow for a supplement company, and now I can barely lift my arm above shoulder height.
Stuart's in the kitchen when I trudge upstairs, looking disgustingly put-together for someone who claims he never sleeps well. He takes one look at me cradling my arm and sighs.
"What did you do?"
"A shoulder press with zero warm-up," I admit, opening the freezer for an ice pack. "Camera was rolling, so at least I'll get content out of my stupidity."
"Let me look." He sets down his coffee and approaches with his doctor face on.
"It's fine—"
"Jonathan." He uses his 'don't argue with the surgeon' voice.
I let him manipulate my shoulder through various positions, wincing when he hits the injured area. His hands are clinical, precise, examining the injury with professional detachment.
"Likely a strain of the anterior deltoid, possibly involving the rotator cuff," he diagnoses. "You need to see Mitchell. Give his office a call—"
"Actually," I interrupt, an idea forming, "I've been wanting to try alternative treatment methods. You know, for content. Compare traditional physical therapy with other approaches."
Stuart's jaw tightens. He already knows where this is going. "Jonathan—"
"Claire's a chiropractor who specializes in sports injuries." I try to sound casual, like this just occurred to me. "She treated professional athletes. This is literally her specialty."
"Absolutely not."
"Why? Because you slept with her and then did your usual disappearing act?"
His face goes carefully blank, that surgeon's mask he wears when he doesn't want to reveal anything. "Because you need proper medical treatment, not pseudoscience."
"Chiropractic care for sports injuries is evidence-based. Besides, didn't you two debate this extensively? I seem to remember you conceding several points about conservative treatment."
"I didn't concede—"
"You did. I was there. You admitted manual therapy has its place in treatment protocols."
Dane walks in at that moment, an irritated look on his face. "Why are you arguing about treatment protocols at eight in the morning?"
"Jonathan injured his shoulder and wants to see Claire for treatment," Stuart says flatly.
"Excellent idea," Dane says immediately. "Support a new practice. Plus, it would give Stuart an excuse to see her again without admitting he wants to."
"I don't want to see her again," Stuart insists.
"Right. That's why you spent twenty minutes staring at her last night like she was a complex tumor you needed to map before surgery."
"I was not—"
"You were," Dane and I say in unison.
Stuart returns to his coffee, his movements sharp with irritation. "If Jonathan wants to waste money on woo-woo therapies, that's his choice."
"Not that I ever needed your blessing." I pull out my phone, ignoring the protest from my shoulder. "I'll call Lottie and get Claire's number."
"It's too early in the morning," Stuart points out.
"Let's be real. Lottie's probably on her third mimosa by now."
I'm right. Lottie answers on the second ring, sounding delighted to hear from me and even more delighted when I ask for Claire's number "for professional purposes."
"Oh, how wonderful! Claire will be thrilled to have a client. She's been so anxious about rebuilding her practice. That awful ex-boyfriend really did a number on her confidence, you know."
"She mentioned starting over," I say carefully, fishing for information.
"Starting over is putting it mildly. She lost everything—her practice, her savings, her confidence. But she's resilient, my Claire. Just needs the right opportunity to remember how brilliant she is."
She gives me Claire's number along with several unsolicited details about Claire's morning routine. Apparently, she meditates every morning with Geoffrey in her lap.
I text Claire immediately:
Hi, it’s Jonathan from next door. I injured my shoulder during training and could use your professional expertise. Are you available for a consultation today?
Her response comes quickly:
I can come by at 10 if that works?
Perfect. See you then.
I show Stuart the text. "See? Professional. Just a standard consultation."
"You're playing with fire," he warns.
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just treating a shoulder injury." I grab a protein shake from the fridge, wincing at the movement. "Besides, when's the last time you saw me seriously interested in a woman?"
Stuart's eyes narrow. "You're not seriously interested in Claire."
"Why not? She's beautiful, intelligent, and has a career she's passionate about. Plus, she can apparently hold her own against you. And, apparently, you aren't interested in her, so she’s fair game."
"She's too young for you."
"She's twenty-five. I'm thirty-eight. That's only thirteen years. Better than your twenty."
"This isn't a competition."
"Isn't it?" I lean against the counter, studying my very annoyed friend. "You had your chance. You literally left her in a hotel room with a business card like she was a completed transaction."
"That's not—" He stops, jaw clenching. "It was complicated."
"It's always complicated with you. Meanwhile, the rest of us just live our lives."
By ten o'clock, I've showered and changed. Stuart has barricaded himself in his office, claiming he has surgical notes to review, but I know he's hiding until he has to leave to go to the hospital later today.
The doorbell rings precisely at ten. Claire stands on our doorstep in joggers and a fitted shirt, carrying a professional bag and looking absolutely nothing like the dressed-up woman from last night.
Her hair's pulled back in a ponytail, face fresh without makeup, and somehow, she's even more attractive like this—natural, confident, in her element.
"Jonathan," she greets me, though I catch her glancing past me, probably looking for Stuart.
"Thanks for coming. He's in his office," I add, answering her unasked question. "Reviewing patient notes, supposedly."
Pink tinges her cheeks. "I wasn't—"
"It's fine. Stuart hides from anything and anyone that might require him using his emotional intelligence." I step aside to let her in. "Can I get you coffee? Water?"
"Water would be great." She follows me to the kitchen, her eyes taking in the space with appreciation. "This is a beautiful home."
"Thanks. We bought it together about two years ago, right after Stuart's divorce was finalized. Made more sense than three separate places, and it's big enough that we don't kill each other."
I get her water and we head to the living room.
"Tell me about the injury," she says, shifting into full professional mode.
I explain what happened while she watches me move, her eyes analytical. "I was filming for my channel and I didn't warm up properly. Stupid mistake."
"Show me your usual shoulder press form," she instructs.
I demonstrate with an invisible barbell, stopping when the pain kicks in. She circles me slowly, eyes taking in every detail of my posture and movement.
"Your right hip is higher than your left," she observes. "And you're anteriorly rotating that shoulder even before the press. How long have you been compensating for that imbalance?"
"I... didn't know I was."
"May I?" She gestures to my shoulder.
"Please."
Her hands are confident as they palpate the area, finding the exact spot where the deltoid is angry. I hiss at the contact, but she doesn't pull away, just gentles her touch while continuing her examination.
"Definitely the anterior deltoid, but you've also got involvement of the subscapularis. Feel this?" She guides my hand to a spot just under my armpit. "That's the real problem. The shoulder press just exposed existing dysfunction."
"So what do we do?"
"First, we need to address the inflammation. You're probably just icing and taking ibuprofen?"
"You got it."
She shakes her head, pulling out a notebook from her bag.
"Ice is good for the acute phase, but you need a comprehensive anti-inflammatory protocol.
Turmeric—specifically curcumin with black pepper for absorption.
Ginger, fresh preferably. Omega-3s, at least 2000mg daily from a quality source.
Tart cherry juice for recovery—the real stuff, not concentrate. "
She writes as she talks, her handwriting neat and precise. "I'd also recommend bromelain and quercetin. Both natural anti-inflammatories that work synergistically."
"You're suggesting I fix my shoulder with supplements?"
She looks up, a small smile playing at her lips. "I'm suggesting you support your body's natural healing processes while we address the mechanical dysfunction. Your body wants to heal—we just need to create the right environment."
She has me lie on the floor, then starts putting me through various assessment tests. Her hands are warm through my shirt as she guides my movements, testing range of motion, identifying weaknesses.
"Your external rotators are weak," she notes, having me resist against her pressure. "Common in people who focus on the mirror muscles. All show, no functional strength where it counts."
"You're basically saying I'm compensating?"