Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Jason
The “I Swear It’s Just Nerve Firing” Maneuver
Starting over sounded brave in theory.
In reality, it’s more like stripping down in front of someone who knows exactly where it hurts and might not flinch if you break apart mid-session.
No one tells you how fucking loud it gets—not outside, but inside. The quiet in your own head turns into this screaming echo of every doubt you’ve ever had. The second you stop moving, your brain grabs a megaphone and starts reading off your failures like it’s trying to set a record.
And this?
This isn’t like when I started—when I was a kid with a half-dead pair of skates, chasing a dream big enough to drown me. That was hunger. Fire. Delusion, maybe. But it kept me going.
Now? Now, I have to work three times as hard just to believe I still belong in the room.
And when the person assigned to rebuild you walks in looking like all your teenage regrets, sexual frustrations, and unresolved emotional damage wrapped in leggings—yeah.
Let’s call this a real fucking strong start.
Scottie’s at the center of the room, tablet in one hand, arms crossed, jaw set like she’s two seconds away from delivering a verdict I won’t survive.
She looked up when I limped in. Didn’t smile. Didn’t greet me. Just gave me a once-over as if she was calculating how many times I’ve sabotaged myself this month and whether duct tape’s covered under clinic policy.
It’s early. Too fucking early for this level of psychological warfare.
My muscles aren’t awake yet. My knee’s already whispering ‘Why are we doing this again?’ And I can feel the start of a spiral, slow and familiar, nudging at the edges of my ribs.
But I made a promise to myself, plus Jacob and Leif will hand me my ass if I don’t at least try this time.
Which means I won’t be running, firing anyone, or quitting.
I step closer.
“Where do you want me?” I ask.
Scottie taps something into her tablet, still not looking up. “Mat. Shoes off. Brace off. We’re starting re-patterning today.”
It shouldn’t hit like a punch, but it does.
No easing in. No preamble. Just dive in and hope I don’t drown.
A reset.
I nod, mouth dry, as I stare at my brace.
“You sure? Shouldn't we do this process slowly and . . .” Okay, I don’t have a good excuse not to take off the brace, but, fuck, why does she have to take it away right now?
I stop with the crutches. Can we give me a month until I’m used to that so I can give up the other object that makes me feel safe enough to walk?
She glances up. Eyes clear, voice even. “You’re cleared. The brace isn’t helping anymore. You don’t need it. You need to trust your body again.”
Trust. Cute.
I drop to the mat and start peeling off the brace, which takes a long time. It sticks. Velcro catches against itself like it doesn’t want to let go. My fingers aren’t shaking from pain—they’re shaking from the part of me that still thinks maybe I’m not built for this anymore.
Every inch of exposed skin feels like I’m peeling off armor.
Scottie watches. Not with pity. Not with judgment. Just that same stillness she wears like a second skin.
“Good,” she says when the brace is finally off. “On your back.”
I lie down. The mat is cool. Too cool. Not uncomfortable, just enough to make me hyper-aware of the fact that I’m lying down in front of her with nothing left to hide behind.
My breath’s uneven.
There’s a pull behind my knee like it knows what’s coming and would like to politely decline, thanks.
She kneels beside me, slow and unfazed, like this is just another morning. Her hands slide beneath my leg—one under my hamstring, the other cradling my ankle—and I swear to God, my pulse goes rogue.
It’s not sexual. Not exactly.
It’s worse.
Knowing her hands are on me, I still want more.
Not sex. Not yet.
Just closeness. Conversation. Eye contact that doesn’t end in her walking away.
But right now, I get none of that.
Just her fingers wrapped around the most vulnerable part of my body—which surprisingly isn’t my cock—and a silence that feels like it’s watching me.
“Relax,” she says, adjusting my leg with an ease that makes me feel like dead weight. “You’re stiff.”
“No shit.”
Her mouth curves—just slightly. “Stop talking.”
“I was trying to flirt.”
“That explains why it’s not working.”
God, I missed this.
I close my eyes for a second. Not to escape—just to breathe.
To remember what it feels like to have someone meet me where I am and not flinch.
My breath locks up.
Her hands are warm, and I shouldn’t focus on them the way I am, but I can’t help myself. She moves my leg slowly, testing range. Watching for compensation. Her expression doesn’t change, but I can feel the calibration happening behind her eyes.
“Quads are engaging before glutes,” she mutters. “You’re bracing with your hip. And your ankle’s guarding again.”
“Awesome,” I mutter. “Glad to know I’m consistent at something.”
She ignores me. Presses a thumb into my thigh. I hiss.
“That hurt?”
“No,” I lie.
She does it again. Deeper.
I flinch.
She leans closer. Her voice drops. “You’re not going to get better if you keep lying about where it hurts, Jason.”
Her breath brushes my jaw—citrusy, strawberries and flowers. Warm skin. And her scent . . . it’s fruity and flowery. I used to associate it with summer practices and victory hugs. Now, it just reminds me how close I am to falling apart.
“I’m not lying,” I say. “I’m just selective with my truths.”
She raises a brow. Doesn’t respond. I just move my leg again, slower this time. Her fingers skim my calf. Not intimately. Not intentionally, yet I feel it everywhere.
“You’re disconnected,” she says. “Your body doesn’t trust your brain. And your brain’s not listening to your body.”
“Well, they haven’t been on speaking terms since I fucked up . . . it was a separation at first, but now there’s a discussion about a divorce.” I shrug. “Don’t ask me how that’s going to work out since I can’t split them, but it’s going to be a fucked-up hell if we can’t fix it.”
Her lips twitch—almost a smile, but not quite. It’s the kind of reaction that says she knows exactly how much of a pain in the ass I’m about to be.
She adjusts her grip, all business. “We’re going to start with micro-activation drills. No weight. Just control. You’re rewiring this movement pattern one nerve at a time. So that means no cheating. No overcompensating. And absolutely no bravado.”
I blink. Then look at her. Really, look at her.
She’s not here to coddle me. Not here to play the inspirational therapist or hand me a gold star for showing up. She’s here to hold me accountable—every stubborn inch of me—and she’s not flinching.
And for some completely messed-up reason, that makes me want to impress her more than I want to get better.
I nod. Once.
Her hands slide under my leg—warm, confident, without hesitation. One supports my hamstring, and the other cups my ankle like we’ve done this before. My body is something she already knows how to fix.
Spoiler: she doesn’t just know how to fix it.
She’s reprogramming it.
Starting today. Right fucking now. No brace. No filters. No room for pride.
And all I can think about is how her fingers would feel if they moved just a little higher. Or slower. Or—Jesus, Jason, focus.
“This isn’t about strength,” she says, her tone sharp enough to keep me tethered. “It’s about retraining your brain to trust the movement.”
Actually, my brain isn’t doing great right now. It’s short-circuiting under the pressure of her hands and that goddamn steady voice that does nothing to hide how close she is. The scent of her skin. The heat of her body just inches away from parts of me that are very much awake.
“Relax the quad,” she adds, shifting my leg an inch. “I’m feeling resistance.”
Yeah, well, I’m feeling a different kind of resistance—and it’s currently trying to pick a fight with the waistband of my shorts.
“Sorry,” I mutter, clearing my throat and adjusting my position, trying not to do it in the obvious way. “Your hand’s cold.”
Lie. Her hand is warm. Magic, almost. A little too magic. Like she’s casting some spell that bypasses my common sense and heads straight for the part of me that really, really doesn’t want to behave.
She lifts her gaze, catching mine. “It’s not cold.”
Fuck.
“Right. Just . . . surprised me.”
She gives me a suspicious look and then says, “I’ve touched your leg before.”
“Yeah,” I breathe out. “But not this high. Or this . . . firm. Or with this much . . . precision.”
Her brows lift. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t blush.
Scottie just knows.
God, she always knows.
And I hate how much I love that.
“You want me to stop?” she asks, all cool indifference, like she’s not holding my knee in a way that has me rethinking every decision I’ve ever made.
“No,” I say too quickly. “Nope. I’m good. Very good. Totally—uh—functional.”
Her lips twitch.
She knows exactly what I meant.
I close my eyes and try not to groan. “That didn’t come out right.”
“Oh, it came out perfectly,” she murmurs, adjusting the angle of my knee again. “Your nervous system’s just . . . firing.”
I swear she said that on purpose.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I ask, eyes still closed, trying to meditate away my erection like it’s a bad thought.
“I’m doing my job,” she says, her voice far too smug for my comfort. “You’re the one who turned a basic glute activation drill into a Rated R fantasy.”
“Basic? Nothing about this feels basic,” I mutter, shifting again and praying she doesn’t glance any lower. “I think my nervous system is experiencing . . . confusion.”
“Confusion or arousal?”
“Can’t it be both?”
She doesn’t answer. Just presses her palm lightly against my thigh and says, “Squeeze. Hold. Breathe.”
I do.
Barely.
My muscles fire, like she said. It’s not smooth. It’s not clean. But it happens—my quad kicks in, the neural pathway connects, and my leg moves how it’s supposed to for the first time in weeks.
But that’s not what gets me.
It’s the way she smiles. The small one. The one she doesn’t even know she’s doing. Like maybe—for a second—she’s proud of me.
And just like that, I’m fucked.
Not physically.
(Not yet.)
But mentally? Emotionally? Yeah . . . I’m fucked—and not in the way I’d love to be.
Her hand slides just a fraction higher, fingers pressing into the muscle like she’s testing for weakness, but I can only focus on how close she is to parts of me that are no longer cooperating.
“Good,” she says. “Now relax.”
Impossible. So, fucking impossible.
My leg’s shaking, and not because it’s fatigued.
It’s because her thumb just brushed the inside of my thigh, and I had to physically stop myself from groaning.
There’s only a few inches between her hand and my cock.
Maybe less. And that wouldn’t be a problem if said dick wasn’t currently semi-hard wanting to salute her.
I’m trying to keep it down.
I really am.
I’m breathing through my nose. Reciting hockey stats in my head. Multiplying three-digit numbers. Thinking about my third-grade math teacher and her orthopedic shoes.
Nothing’s working.
Because Scottie’s kneeling beside me like a fucking wet dream in leggings, focused and calm and utterly unaware of the absolute filthy things that are playing in my brain.
Or maybe . . . maybe she’s not unaware. She knows, and she’s not stopping.
“Okay,” she says, shifting position, leaning over me now, her knee pressed against the mat between my legs. “Engage the quad, hold, then slowly raise your leg five inches off the mat.”
I swear I hear the word ‘tease’ in there somewhere.
“You do realize you’re basically straddling me right now,” I mutter, voice low and not even a little ashamed.
Her gaze flicks to mine. “You need stabilization. This is the most effective angle.”
Sure. Effective for something.
Her ponytail swings forward, brushing my arm, and I get a whiff of her shampoo—something citrusy and sinful—and I wonder if she’d let me pull that clip out with my teeth.
God, I want to see what she looks like when she lets go.
When she moans.
When she forgets the clipboard and control and just feels me.
I could have her on this mat. Right now. Pull those leggings down, shove them past her knees, bury my face between her thighs, and make her forget her fucking name.
Would she stay quiet? Or would she gasp?
Would she say my name like it means something again?
“Jason.” Her voice brings me back, but also . . . fuck, it’s just the way I want to hear her say my name when . . . shut up, Jason.
“What am I doing now?” I try to sound innocent and not like the horndog who wants to change the dynamic and pin her against the floor while I . . . and there I go again.
“You’re holding tension in your hip flexor. Relax, or you’ll compensate, and we’ll be back to square one.”
Right. Therapy. This is therapy, not some very X-rated movie where she’s the main character, and I just get to enjoy watching her . . . for the last time, focus, Tate .
I refocus and force my quad to fire. My leg lifts—barely—but it lifts.
Her hand stays close. Not touching. Just . . . hovering.
My cock twitches.
Do not make eye contact with your crotch.
Do not.
This is fine.
“See?” she says, cool and casual, like she doesn’t have front-row seats to the most embarrassing hard-on of my adult life. “You’ve still got control.”
Barely, I’m losing my shit.
I lower my leg, then glance at her. “If I fail this exercise, do I still get a gold star?”
“Nope,” she says, standing smoothly and offering me her hand.
I take it. Her grip is firm. Strong. It sends another jolt straight through me.
She pulls me to sitting.
I’m still hard.
Still fucking aching.
Still imagining what her mouth would feel like on mine—what she’d do if I pushed her back against the mirror, hiked one leg up, and told her to keep her eyes on me while I ruined her composure.
“Session’s over,” she says, grabbing the tablet again, voice tight.
Her ears are pink.
Interesting.
I watch her type something in. Her thumb hesitates.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“Nope.”
But her eyes don’t meet mine. I’m reasonably certain she saw it. She definitely felt it when she helped me up.
Good.
Now we’re even . . . but are we?
I smile and look back as I leave. “I really hope you’re fine. If not . . . well, you know where to find me. I can help you.”