Chapter 1 The Gravity of Bone #4
But he looked at her hand. She wasn't wearing a ring.
"Why are you doing this, Elena?" he asked, not taking the pill. "You hate me. You have every right to hate me. Why are you here?"
Elena’s hand stilled. She looked at the pill, then at his eyes.
"Because Cole asked," she said. "And because I took an oath to do no harm. Even to idiots who run away in the middle of the night."
"I didn't run away," Ryder said weakly. "I left. There's a difference."
"Not from where I was standing," she said. Her voice was brittle.
She pressed the pill to his lips.
"Take the damn medicine, Ryder."
He opened his mouth. He swallowed the pill. He drank the water.
Elena set the glass down. She took a step back, creating a sterile field between them.
III. The Rules of Engagement
"Okay," she said. "Here is the reality. You have a titanium rod in your leg. Your quad muscle has been sliced open. If you lay in this bed and feel sorry for yourself, the muscle will atrophy, the scar tissue will harden, and you will walk with a cane for the rest of your life."
She picked up the clipboard again.
"I am the only PT in Oakhaven. You can't drive to Billings. So you are stuck with me. And I run a strict protocol."
She held up one finger.
"Rule one: I am your doctor. Not your ex. Not your friend. We do not talk about the past. We talk about flexion, extension, and pain scales. If you try to bring up 'us,' I walk out, and you can rehab yourself with a YouTube video."
She held up a second finger.
"Rule two: You do the work. If I tell you to do leg lifts, you do them. If I tell you to breathe, you breathe. If you skip a session, I drop you as a patient."
She held up a third finger.
"Rule three: The pills." She pointed to the bottle. "I control the dosage. I know your history, Ryder. I know you like the buzz. But on my watch, you take them for pain, not for escape. If I suspect you're abusing them, I flush them."
She looked at him, her chin lifted, her eyes blazing with a challenge.
"Do you agree to these terms?"
Ryder looked at her. He felt the Oxycodone starting to dissolve in his stomach, a tiny warmth blooming in the center of the ice.
He looked at the woman he had left behind six years ago. She was stronger now. Harder. She had built walls just like Cole had.
And he realized, with a sinking sensation, that he was terrified of her.
"I agree," he whispered.
"Good," Elena said. She checked her watch. "I'll be back tomorrow at 8:00 AM for initial mobility work. Have your breakfast finished."
She turned on her heel and walked to the door.
"Elena?" Ryder called out.
She paused, her hand on the knob. She didn't turn around.
"It's good to see you," he said.
She stood there for a long heartbeat. Her shoulders tensed.
"Get some sleep, Ryder," she said.
She walked out.
Ryder lay alone in the darkening room. The pain in his leg was dulling to a thrumming beat, but the ache in his chest—the one he had carried for six years—was sharper than ever.
He looked at the water stain on the ceiling. It looked like a storm cloud now.
He closed his eyes.
The King had returned. And his kingdom was a twelve-by-twelve room controlled by the woman whose heart he had broken.
Welcome home, he thought.
And then the drugs took him down into the black.
CHAPTER 3: THE ZERO SUM
I. The Dial Tone
Morning in the guest room was a study in gray. The sun tried to push through the heavy velvet drapes Cole had drawn, but it only managed a dull, slate-colored ambient light.
Ryder lay still.
His body was a map of grievances. His shoulder throbbed with a dull, bass-heavy rhythm. His ribs felt like they were wrapped in barbed wire. But the leg... the leg was silent.
It was the silence of a held breath. The nerve block was long gone. The Oxycodone from last night had worn off at 4:00 AM, leaving him sweating and shivering in the sheets, counting the cracks in the plaster until dawn.
He looked at the bottle on the dresser. It was five feet away.
It might as well have been on the moon.
Rule Number Three: I control the dosage.
"Sadist," Ryder muttered.
He reached for his phone on the nightstand with his good hand. It was the only lifeline he had left. The screen was cracked—another casualty of the wreck—but it lit up.
10:00 AM Vegas Time.
His agent, Marcus, would be in the office. Marcus, who had called him "The Golden Boy" three days ago. Marcus, who had promised him the Nike deal.
Ryder dialed.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Voicemail," Ryder whispered. "Pick up, you parasite."
Ring. Ring.
"You've reached the office of Marcus Hale. Please leave a message."
Ryder hung up. He dialed again.
This time, it went straight to voicemail. The "Ignore" button had been pressed.
Ryder stared at the phone. He felt a cold, sinking sensation in his gut that had nothing to do with the painkillers. It was the feeling of being deleted.
He opened his email.
From: Hale Management Group Subject: Contract Termination - R. Stone
Ryder, per the morality and injury clause (Section 4.2) of your representation agreement, we are terminating our professional relationship effective immediately. The sponsor pool for a rider with a career-ending injury is non-existent. We wish you the best in your recovery.
Career-ending.
Ryder read the phrase again. It looked like a typo. He was twenty-six. He was in his prime. He had broken bones before—collarbones, wrists, ankles. He always came back. He always healed faster than the doctors said.
He wasn't finished. He couldn't be. If he was finished, then he was just... Ryder Stone. The guy who ran away. The guy with no land, no money, and no family.
He threw the phone across the room. It hit the opposite wall with a satisfying thud and slid to the floor.
"Dammit!"
He tried to shift his leg.
The pain woke up. It roared. It was a jagged, hot knife twisting inside his marrow.
He gasped, gripping the sheets. The titanium rod inside his femur—a foreign intruder drilled into his own bone—felt like it was conducting lightning.
"Okay," he panted. "Okay. Bad idea."
He lay back, sweat stinging his eyes.
He needed a pill. He needed it now. Not for the high. For the silence.
The door handle turned.
Ryder froze. He wiped his face quickly, trying to compose the mask of the "Tough Cowboy."
Elena walked in.
She looked fresh. Sharp. She was wearing black yoga pants and a fitted athletic top under her white coat. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail that swung when she walked. She looked like energy personified.
She looked at him. She looked at the phone on the floor. She looked at the sweat on his face.
"Rough morning?" she asked. Her tone was neutral, professional.
"I dropped my phone," Ryder lied.
"From across the room?"
She walked over and picked it up. She placed it back on the nightstand, just out of his reach.
"Check your vitals," she said, pulling a blood pressure cuff from her bag.
She wrapped the cuff around his good arm. Velcro rip. Pump. Pump. Pump.
"150 over 95," she read. "Heart rate 110. You're in pain."
"I'm fine," Ryder gritted out.
"Rule Number One," Elena said, unhooking the cuff. "Don't lie to the doctor. You're at a level eight pain. I can see it in your pupils."
She walked to the dresser. She picked up the amber bottle.
She shook out one pill.
She brought it to him with a glass of water.
"Take it," she said. "You'll need it on board for what we're about to do."
Ryder took the pill. He swallowed it dry, chasing it with the water.
"What are we about to do?" he asked warily.
Elena pulled the sheet off his legs. She looked at the heavy white cast.
"Today," she said, "you stand up."
Ryder laughed. It was a short, sharp bark. "I can't stand. I can't even twitch my toe without seeing stars."
"We're not walking," Elena clarified. "We are transferring. Bed to chair. We need to get you upright to clear your lungs and reset your blood pressure regulation. Gravity is the medicine today."
She moved to the side of the bed. She lowered the safety rail.
"This is going to hurt," she said. She didn't sugarcoat it. She didn't use the "patient voice." She looked him dead in the eye. "It's going to feel like your leg is ripping apart. But it isn't. The hardware is solid. The bone is stable. The pain is just noise. Do you understand?"
Ryder looked at her. He saw the challenge.
The pain is just noise.
That was his line. That was what he told himself in the chute.
"Let's do it," he said.
II. The Iron Maiden
The process of moving a one-hundred-and-eighty-pound man with a shattered femur is a study in leverage and agony.
"Good leg first," Elena commanded. "Scoot your hips to the edge. Use your good arm and your left elbow. Push."
Ryder pushed.
His body felt heavy, like lead. He dragged his hips across the sheet. The movement sent shockwaves up his left leg. He groaned, biting his lip.
"Keep going," Elena said. She was standing right beside him, her hands hovering but not touching. "Edge of the bed. Legs over the side."
Ryder hooked his good foot under his cast. He lifted the heavy white log of his left leg and swung it over the mattress edge.
Gravity took hold.
Blood rushed down into the injured limb.
The pressure was excruciating. It felt like his leg was inflating, like the skin was about to burst.
"Breathe!" Elena shouted. "Don't hold it! Exhale!"
Ryder hissed a breath out through his teeth. "God... damn it."
"I know," she said. Her voice was closer now. "The rush is normal. Let the vessels adjust. Five seconds."
She stepped between his legs. She placed a gait belt—a thick canvas strap—around his waist and buckled it tight.
"Okay," she said. "I'm going to block your bad knee with my knees. You are going to grab my shoulders—not my neck, my shoulders. On three, we pivot to the chair."
She moved in.
Suddenly, she was everywhere.
Her knees clamped against his cast. Her face was inches from his. He could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. He could smell the coffee on her breath.