9
Ethan
I'm walking without crutches.
It's a small thing considering how far I have to go, but right now it doesn't feel small. My cane clicks against the floor with each step, and my knee is still aching, but I'm upright and moving. No more awkward hobbling. And God, no more armpit bruises from the crutch pads.
I catch my reflection in one of the windows and grin. I'm standing taller, and my shoulders are back instead of hunched over those damn crutches. I look like an athlete again. I look likemyselfagain.
And it’s all thanks to Natalie.
She pushed me when I needed pushing and backed off when I needed space. She adjusted my program when something wasn't working, and now, here we are. Ken was right. She's good at her job.
Maybe I should actually say thank you instead of grunting my way through every session like an asshole.
I'm on my way to see George, already composing some kind of acknowledgment in my head, when I spot them in the hallway.
Natalie is leaning against the wall outside the training room, her head tilted back and her mouth open in laughter. Lane Stevens is standing way too close to her, one hand braced on the wall above her head, saying something that is clearly the funniest thing she's ever heard.
My grip tightens on my cane.
The warm feeling in my chest turns to ice.
Lane is the head athletic trainer. He's thirty-two, single, and attractive to women. I've seen him work his magic at team events and charity galas. He's harmless enough, but right now I want to shove that charm down his throat.
Isn't there a policy about staff fraternizing? There has to be something in the employee handbook about this. You can't just corner a colleague in a hallway and flirt with her while you're supposed to be working.
I stop myself before the thought goes any further.
Who Natalie dates or flirts with or goes home with is absolutely, categorically, none of my fucking business.
She's my physical therapist.
I force myself to keep walking, and I don't look back. But by the time I reach George's treatment room, my mood has soured. George takes one look at my face and sighs.
“Bad day?”
“Just get on with it.”
George has been the team chiropractor for over a decade and he's seen every kind of attitude from every kind of player. Mine doesn't faze him.
“Lie down on your stomach,” he says. “Let's see what we're working with.”
I lower myself onto the table and try to find a comfortable position. My knee protests, and my back aches from weeks of compensating for the injury. I've been putting all my weight onmy good leg and hunching over my crutches. The result is a body that's twisted and tight.
George's hands probe along my spine. “You're a mess.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis.”
“Your hips are completely out of alignment, and your lower back is like a brick.” He presses into a spot near my tailbone, and pain shoots through me. “You need to relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You're holding tension in every muscle. If you don't let go, I can't do my job.”
I try to release the tightness, but my body doesn't want to cooperate. Every time I close my eyes, I see Natalie laughing with Lane.
“Breathe,” George instructs. “Deep breath in. Slow breath out.”
