Chapter 8
LIAM
Thursday morning, Anne was different.
She arrived — five minutes late, which was unusual for her. She had always been early. Always waiting when I got there, clipboard ready, professional mask firmly in place.
But this morning, she looked exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair pulled back in a messy ponytail instead of the neat bun she usually wore. And when she met my eyes, there was something hollow in her expression that made my chest tighten.
"Morning," I said carefully.
"Morning." She set down her bag with less care than usual, and I heard the thud of equipment hitting the floor. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic."
It was a lie. I could tell it was a lie. But I didn't call her on it.
"No problem. You okay?"
"Fine." She pulled out her clipboard, flipped through pages without really seeing them. "Let's get started. How's the shoulder?"
"Anne—"
"Pain level overnight?"
"Anne, look at me."
She did, finally, and I saw it. Whatever professional armor she had been wearing was cracking. She was barely holding it together.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired."
"You didn't sleep."
"How would you know that?"
"Because I didn't sleep either."
The admission hung in the air between us. Her eyes widened slightly, and I could see her processing it. Understanding what I was not saying: I couldn't sleep because I was thinking about you. About yesterday. About that coffee and the way you looked at me.
"We should focus on your treatment," she said, but her voice was softer now. Less defensive.
"Okay."
She moved closer, and I noticed her hands were shaking slightly when she reached for my shoulder. Professional touch. Clinical assessment. But I could feel the tremor in her fingers.
"Range of motion has improved significantly," she said, guiding my arm through the exercises. "Pain?"
"Minimal. Maybe a two."
"Good. That's good." She made notes, but I watched her write the same number twice, cross it out, write it again.
Something was wrong. Something more than just being tired.
"Anne, talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about. You're healing well. On track for?—"
"I don't mean about my shoulder. I mean about whatever's bothering you."
She stepped back, creating distance. "This is professional, remember? We don't do personal."
"You're the one who set that rule."
"And you agreed to it."
"I did. But that was before I saw you bring me coffee that you didn't have to bring. Before I watched you remember things you could have forgotten. Before I realized that maybe—" I stopped myself.
"Before you realized what?"
Before I realized that maybe you didn't move on any more than I did.
But I couldn't say that. So instead I said, "Nothing. Forget it."
We worked in silence for the next twenty minutes. The tension between us was thick enough to cut with a knife, but neither of us acknowledged it.
"Let's try resistance bands," she said finally. "Same position as Tuesday. I need to be behind you to guide the movement properly."
I remembered Tuesday. Remembered the feel of her pressed against my back, her breath on my neck, the way every muscle in my body had gone tight with want.
"Okay," I said.
She positioned herself behind me, and it was worse than Tuesday.
Worse because now I knew what her coffee tasted like in the morning.
Worse because I'd spent the past two nights jerking off thinking about her.
Worse because I could feel how tired she was, how fragile, and all I wanted to do was turn around and pull her into my arms.
"Raise your arm slowly," she instructed, her voice close to my ear.
I did. She applied resistance, and I pushed through it, feeling the burn in my shoulder, the stretch in my deltoid.
"Good. That's good." Her hands adjusted my form, fingers pressing into my muscle to correct the angle. "Just like that."
I was going to lose my mind.
She was pressed against my back, guiding my movement, and all I could think about was turning around. Kissing her. Asking her what was wrong and not letting her deflect this time.
"Higher," she said. "Can you go higher?"
I pushed through the resistance, arm shaking slightly.
"Stop." Her hands dropped immediately. "That's your limit."
I lowered my arm and turned to face her before she could step away.
We were inches apart. Close enough that I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the way her bottom lip was slightly chapped like she'd been biting it. Close enough to hear the hitch in her breathing.
"Anne," I said quietly. "Whatever's going on, you can tell me."
"There's nothing going on."
"You showed up late. You look like you haven't slept in days. Your hands were shaking during the assessment. That's not nothing."
"It's not your concern."
"The hell it isn't."
"Liam, we're not—" She stopped herself. Took a breath. "We're not together. We're not friends. We're PT and client. That's it."
The words hurt more than they should have.
"Right," I said, stepping back. "PT and client. Got it."
Something flashed across her face—regret, maybe—but it was gone before I could identify it.
"I should go," she said, gathering her equipment. "Same time tomorrow."
"Wait. Tomorrow's Friday."
"So?"
"Do you have afternoon sessions on Fridays? I could do later if that works better for your schedule."
She hesitated. "I actually... I'm driving back to Chicago Friday afternoon. I won't be here."
Chicago. The thing she'd mentioned the first day. The reason she couldn't stay late. The reason she rushed out every night at exactly the time her session ended.
"Every weekend?" I asked.
"Yes."
"That's a long drive. Four, five hours?"
"Four and a half. Depending on traffic."
"What's in Chicago that's so important you make that drive every week?"
Her expression shuttered completely. "That's personal."
"Right. Personal. We don't do personal." I grabbed my shirt from the bench, suddenly needing to put space between us. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, then."
"Liam—"
"It's fine, Anne. Really. I get it. Professional boundaries. No personal questions. Just PT and client."
I left before she could respond, before I could say something I'd regret, before I could ask the question that was burning in my chest since Monday.
What is she hiding? What could possibly be so complicated that she can't even say it out loud?
I was still standing in the corridor when Jonesy found me.
He had that particular expression he wore when he'd clocked something was wrong but hadn't decided yet whether to push. His gym bag was over one shoulder. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago.
"You look like you got hit by a truck," he said. "And not the good kind."
"There's a good kind?"
"Sure. When you walk it off in two shifts." He fell into step beside me. "PT session that rough?"
"I'm fine."
"You've been saying that since Monday. It's getting less convincing."
"Jonesy—"
"I'm not going to push." He held up his hands. "I'm just saying. Whatever's going on with you and the PT from Chicago?—"
I stopped walking. "Nothing's going on."
He looked at me the way he looked at guys who were lying to themselves about an injury — patient, unconvinced. "Okay."
"It's not what you think."
"I don't think anything. I just noticed you've been somewhere else all week, and she showed up looking like she hadn't slept, and when I walked past the training room Thursday you were both pretending very hard to be professional." He shrugged. "But I'm sure that's nothing."
I didn't say anything.
"The offer stands," he said. "Beers, no questions. Whenever you want."
He walked ahead to the parking lot and left me standing there.
I stood there.
The thing about Jonesy was he never pushed. He just left doors open and waited to see if you walked through them.
I wasn't ready to walk through that particular door yet.
Not right now.
Friday evening, I was alone in my apartment, and it was driving me crazy.
Anne had left the training facility at noon. I knew because I'd watched from the practice rink—watched her walk to her car with an overnight bag, watched her drive away toward the highway.
Toward Chicago.
Toward whatever—or whoever—was waiting for her there.
The team invited me to dinner. Carter, specifically, had mentioned there was a new place downtown and they were bringing dates.
"You should come," he'd said. "Bring someone. Or don't. But at least get out of your apartment."
I'd declined.
Now I was sitting on my couch, eating takeout Chinese food, trying not to think about Anne driving four and a half hours to Chicago.
I failed spectacularly.
I pulled out my phone and Googled her again. Same search as before: "Anne Mitchell physical therapist Chicago."
Same results. Professional page. Credentials. Nothing personal.
I added "boyfriend" to the search. Nothing.
I added "husband." Nothing.
I added "engaged." Nothing.
I was being pathetic. I knew I was being pathetic. But I couldn't stop.
There had to be something. Some reason she drove to Chicago every single weekend. Some reason she looked so devastated this morning.
Was she seeing someone? Was that why she wouldn't tell me? Why she looked so guilty when I'd asked?
I set down my phone and leaned back against the couch, thinking it through.
What had she said that first day? Something about her mom. Something about needing to get back to Chicago because... wait, what was it exactly?
I pulled up the mental replay of Monday's session. After the almost-kiss, when her phone had rung. She'd said she had to go. She'd said something vague about Chicago.
Then later, I remembered her mentioning her mom to the team trainer. I'd overheard it in passing. "I need to check on my mom," she'd said.
Her mom.
Carol Mitchell.
I knew her mom. I'd met her half a dozen times when Anne and I had been together. Thanksgiving dinner our senior year at Cornell. A few times when she'd visited Chicago during Anne's Northwestern years. Nice woman. Warm. Supportive. Always asked about my games, my shoulder, if I was eating enough.