15. Ellie
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ELLIE
Three days later, I arrived at the therapy pool, my belly doing gymnastics I hadn’t authorized. I’d only been down here once during orientation, when Patty had speed-walked me through every treatment space.
The pool wasn’t large. Maybe fifteen feet across, chest-deep at its deepest point, with an underwater treadmill built into one end and resistance jets along the sides.
Rails ran along the shallow steps for patients who needed extra support.
The whole space smelled like chlorine and warm tile, but it felt clinical. Which was exactly what I needed.
The pool area was empty and quiet except for the low hum of the filtration system.
Beneath my sweatpants and t-shirt, I wore a navy-blue one-piece that was both practical and suggested I was here to work.
The resistance bands went on the deck first, then the foam flotation equipment we’d use for supported range-of-motion work. I double-checked the water temperature and pulled up Brashe’s treatment plan on my tablet.
Water therapy was a standard modality. The buoyancy reduced the load on the joint, allowed earlier mobility work, and would give us a controlled environment—
I was reciting a textbook to myself. That’s how freaked out I was.
We were soon going to be in the water together, both of us wearing less clothing. Our bodies wet. Pressing together.
My fingers fumbled with the tablet screen. I had to unlock it twice before it registered my thumbprint.
I’d reread his last text four times before getting out of my car this morning. Just a photo of his hip, properly iced, the instruction sheet visible in the frame. Timer set for twenty minutes.
Seventeen times. That was how many times I’d reread the note he’d left on the coffee he’d brought me. Thanks for not giving up on me. —B
I’d thrown the note away yesterday. Then dug it back out of the trash this morning and stuffed it into my purse.
This was a problem.
I hadn’t given up on him because he’d stopped giving me reasons to. He did every exercise as prescribed. He asked questions that showed he was actually listening. He texted me at 9:41 PM every single night with proof he’d done his evening ice protocol, as if he was afraid I’d think he’d skipped it.
And when Mikael had made another comment about my “hands-on approach” in the break room, Brashe had gone so still I’d felt it from across the room. He hadn’t said anything or made a scene. Just stood up and left.
Mikael had gaped at Brashe’s back and shut up, hopefully forever.
I pulled off my sweatpants and t-shirt, folded them, and dropped them onto the bench, and stared at my reflection in the pool’s surface.
This would be fine. I’d done pool therapy dozens of times during my fellowship, though never with a patient I couldn’t stop thinking about.
The door opened at 7:00 AM, and Brashe walked in wearing athletic pants and a team t-shirt. His gaze found me, and he went very still.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “You can change in the locker room if you want, or just—”
He pulled off his shirt in one smooth motion.
I kept my face blank and hoped he couldn’t hear my heartbeat from across the room.
I’d seen dozens of athletes without shirts. This was no different.
Except it was, because I could see almost all of him now.
The bulk of his shoulders and chest, the muscle definition that came from a lifetime of explosive movement.
And scars. He had a long one across his ribs, another on his shoulder, and smaller ones scattered across his torso like a map of every hit he’d taken and kept playing through.
He pushed his pants down, revealing black board shorts underneath, and I forced my attention to the resistance bands.
“You can swim, right?” I asked, my voice much too breathless.
“I’m an orc, not a rock.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I can swim.” He paused at the pool edge, his mouth twitching. “But I’m better at stopping pucks.”
“Good thing there are no pucks in here.”
“Yet.”
I almost smiled. “Get in the water, Kedish.”
He lowered himself in slowly, testing the injured hip as he went. The water climbed his body—thighs, hips, waist, and chest—until he stood in the deep end with the surface lapping below his shoulders.
“We lost the first game,” he said. “It’s my fault.”
“You’re not the entire team.”
He shrugged.
“How does it feel?”
“Warm.”
“I meant your hip.”
“Better. The pressure’s different.”
I made a note on my tablet, then set it down and sat, dangling my legs in the water.
His gaze tracked the movement, then very deliberately moved away.
I dropped in, the water cool against my skin despite the therapeutic temperature. It rose to my waist, then my chest as I slowly joined him.
“We’re starting with basic mobility,” I said, falling back into clinical mode. “Walking forward, backward, and lateral movement. I want to see how the hip responds to resistance without impact.”
He nodded.
“Forward first. Slow, controlled steps. Don’t push through the pain.”
He walked the length of the pool, his movements careful but smooth. The water created resistance that would’ve been impossible to replicate on land, every step loading the hip so I could see exactly where weakness remained.
I watched from the side, noting the slight hitch in his stride at the very end of his range.
“Again,” I said. “This time slower.”
He did it again. And again. And again, without a cocky grin or attempt to convince me he was fine when he wasn’t.
This version of Brashe, the one who showed up early and followed instructions and didn’t make excuses, was so much worse than the jerk from the picnic. That guy I could dismiss. This one was making it really hard to keep my walls up.
“Lateral now,” I said. “Side steps, facing the wall.”
He moved through the drill.
“Alright. Now I need to check your hip mobility.”
He turned to face me.
I moved closer. “I’m going to guide you through some range-of-motion work. It’s going to require me to position your leg.”
I placed my hands on his hips, feeling the muscle tension under my palms.
“Rotate left.”
He did, the movement smooth until the very end, where I felt the restriction.
“And right.”
Same thing. Smooth, then restricted.
My hands stayed on his hips, and I could feel his heartbeat through his skin. Or maybe that was mine. Either way, the pool room felt smaller than it had five minutes ago. Hotter too.
“The restriction is still there,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “But it’s better than it was.”
“That’s good, right?”
“It’s progress.”
“Enough to get me back for game three?”
“We’ll see.” I stepped back and grabbed a resistance band from the deck.
“We’re doing standing adductor work now,” I said, wading back to him. “This is going to be uncomfortable.”
“Most things with you are.”
I shot him a look.
One corner of his mouth lifted despite his effort to suppress it. “I meant the treatment.”
“Sure you did.”
I positioned the band around his thigh, adjusting the tension, and had to step close to check the angle. Near enough that when I leaned in, my face ended up near his chest.
As I instructed him through the movements, I swore I could feel his heartbeat speed up.
“Am I doing this right?” he asked. The tip of his ridged tongue slipped out to trace across his right tusk.
I did my best not to swoon, because the question felt loaded with more than physical therapy.
“Yes,” I strangled out.
I stepped back and made myself check my tablet, even though I knew exactly what the next exercise was.
If only my hands would stop shaking.
“Next, you’re going to stand on your left leg,” I said.
He shifted his weight, lifting his right leg slightly.
“Higher.”
He lifted it more, and his balance wobbled.
I reached out to steady him.
He caught himself, but his frustration showed in the set of his jaw.
“I used to be able to hold the butterfly position for two full minutes,” he said quietly.
“You will again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Because you’re doing the work.”
He met my eyes, and the air between us changed. I had clinical words for an elevated heart rate, shallow breathing, and dilated pupils. I didn’t have clinical words for this.
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Then I cleared my throat and stepped away, releasing him. “Okay. Advanced mobility work now.”
This was the part I’d been dreading, because it required positioning his leg while standing close enough that there was no professional distance left.
“I need you to extend your right leg,” I said. “I’m going to support it and guide you through hip flexor and adductor stretches.”
I moved into position, my hands on his thigh and hip, my body angled against his for support, and he did as I asked.
The water lapped around us. The echo of the pool room made every breath sound louder than it should.
I guided his leg through the stretch, feeling the resistance in the muscle, the point where it wanted to protect itself.
“Breathe out,” I said.
He did, and the muscle released slightly.
I pressed deeper into the stretch.
His hand came up to brace on my shoulder, his grip tightening as I worked.
We were standing so close I could see the water droplets on his skin, could feel the rise and fall of his breathing.
“You’re staring,” I said, not looking up, keeping my focus on the stretch angle.
“You have a freckle.” His voice came out rough. “Right here.” His finger touched my temple, water-slick and gentle.
My hands stilled on his thigh, the stretch forgotten.
“Brashe,” I basically gulped.
I should step back. Should do any of the hundred things a good physical therapist would do in this situation.
Instead, I met his eyes.
What a mistake, because he was looking at me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.
“We shouldn’t,” I said, but my voice came out too soft to be a real protest.
“Shouldn’t what?” His voice dropped lower. “Notice things about each other?”
His hand was still on my shoulder. Mine were still on his thigh. We stood in chest-deep water with no one else in the room, and every reason I’d built for why this was a bad idea dissolved like sugar in hot water.
“How have I never seen this before?” he asked, his thumb tracing the freckle so gently it made my heart ache.
“Because you weren’t looking.”
“I’ve been looking at you since before the picnic,” he said. “I never stopped.”
Air refused to move through my lungs.
His hand moved from the freckle to my jaw, cupping my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone.
I leaned into the touch.
“Tell me no,” he said.
I couldn’t.
He kissed me. Gentle at first, questioning, like he was giving me every opportunity to pull away.
I kissed him back, my hands sliding from his thigh to his chest, my touch turning needy.
For a handful of seconds, nothing else existed. Not the chlorine smell or the echo of the pool room or the fact that this was the most unprofessional thing I’d ever done. Just his mouth on mine and the way his other hand moved to the small of my back, steadying me in the water.
Brashe Kedish was kissing me like he really meant it. Tongue ridges really were special.
The water made everything feel suspended, dreamlike, but the kiss was very, very real.
His hands found my waist beneath the water, spanning my ribs, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. The buoyancy made everything weightless, and it was easy to wrap my legs around his hips, to feel him hard against my core through the thin barrier of our swimsuits.
He groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through my chest.
I should stop this.
Instead, I rocked against him, chasing the friction, my fingers digging into his arms. His hands slid lower, gripping my thighs, adjusting the angle until—
My moan rang out.
“Right there?” he murmured against my lips.
I couldn’t speak. I could only nod and move against him, the water sloshing between us with every shift of our bodies.
His thumb moved higher on my inner thigh, and my mind short-circuited, every nerve ending I possessed redirected to that single point of contact.
I forgot how to breathe. How to think. How to do anything except feel.
“Tell me to stop,” he said again, his breath ragged. “Tell me and I will.”
I didn’t. I couldn’t.
His fingers brushed over the fabric, finding my clit through it, and I bit down on his arm to keep from crying out. The pressure was maddening. Not enough. Too much. Exactly what I needed.
“Ellie.” My name came out broken. His hips rolled against mine, and heat shot through me so fast I gasped.
I should stop this. I knew I should stop this.
When he stroked my clit, I lost whatever focus I might’ve been clinging to.
An orgasm roared through me, and I shuddered in his arms, rocking against him while he thrust against me.
A door closed somewhere above us. The locker room, maybe. Or the gym.
Reality crashed back.
I pulled back, breathless, my hands still pressed against his chest. “We need to… I need to finish the session.”
He studied my face, still breathing hard. “Right. The session.”
We separated, him with a hard-on thrusting against his shorts, me with limp limbs, buzzing from the orgasm he’d given me.
“We can’t—We shouldn’t—”
“You’re right,” he said.
We got through the rest of the exercises in charged silence. Every time I touched him to adjust his position, the air crackled. Every time our eyes met, I saw the pool kiss reflected back at me, and my limbs went limp all over again.
When we finished, I climbed out first, wrapping a towel around myself quickly.
“Continue the hip mobility work,” I said, falling into business mode because it was the only thing I knew how to do. “I want you in this pool doing three sets, twice a day.”
“Will do.”
“And don’t skip the adductor squeezes just because they’re boring.”
“I won’t.”
“I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow,” I said, my voice unsteady.
“Ellie—”
“Tomorrow, Brashe.”
I grabbed my clothes and fled to the ladies’ locker room before he could say whatever was written on his face. My composure splintered the second the door closed behind me.
I stood under the shower until my skin started to wrinkle, scrubbing at my skin like I could wash away the chlorine and the memory of his hands and the taste of his mouth.
My lips still tingled. The spot on my temple where he’d touched me felt warm. Everything inside me throbbed.
I turned the water hotter, then hotter still.
It didn’t help.
When I finally emerged into the hallway, dressed in a blazer and slacks, he’d left.
I went to my office and sat at my desk, staring at nothing, touching the spot on my temple where his finger had traced the freckle.
I could still taste his kiss.