George works on my spine, cracking and adjusting and manipulating until some of the tension starts to ease. It's not pleasant, but it's necessary. My body has been working overtime to protect my injured knee, and everything else has suffered as a result.
“Better,” George says after twenty minutes. “But you need to come see me twice a week until we get this sorted. And do the stretches I gave you.”
“Fine.”
“I mean it, Ethan. Your recovery depends on your whole body functioning properly, not just your knee.”
I glare up at him. “I said fine.”
George shakes his head, but he knows better than to push. “Holmes is waiting for you next door. She's going to work on your good leg.”
I haul myself off the table and grab my cane. “Great.”
Hillary Holmes is already set up in the massage room when I arrive. She's the team massage therapist, a petite woman withstrong hands and an even stronger need to fill every silence with conversation.
“Ethan, how are you today? How's the knee? I heard you're off crutches now. That's so exciting. George said your back was really tight. Mine gets like that, too, when I'm stressed.”
I grunt and lie down on the table.
She starts working on my good leg. “We need to keep this loose so you don't develop problems on both sides. Compensation injuries are no joke. I saw a player once who messed up his good knee because he was favoring the bad one. Ended up needing surgery on both. Can you imagine?”
Another grunt.
“I know, I know, you're not in the mood to chat, but then again, you never are.” She laughs. “That's okay. I talk enough for both of us. My husband says I could have a conversation with a brick wall. He's probably right. I just like connecting with people. Life is too short to sit in silence and leave things unsaid.”
I close my eyes and let her words wash over me without really listening. She talks about her weekend plans, her sister's new baby, and a restaurant she tried last week that had the best tacos she's ever eaten.
My mind drifts back to Natalie's laugh and Lane's hand on the wall above her head. My chest constricts. Not that it’s any of my business.
But the image refuses to leave my mind.
The sun set an hour ago,and the city is glowing beneath me.
I'm on my balcony with a glass of water and the remains of the dinner Arlo prepared earlier. The breeze is warm and carries noise that makes New York feel alive. It's peaceful out here.
My chair is tucked into the corner where the shadows are deepest. From here, I can see the other balconies along the building, but no one can see me.
The sliding door to Natalie's apartment opens, and I tense.
She steps out onto her balcony dressed in tiny shorts and a cropped tank top that leaves a strip of her stomach bare. Her hair is down, flowing softly in the gentle breeze. Her feet are bare too, and her toenails are painted a soft pink.
I've never scrutinized a woman as much as I'm scrutinizing Natalie, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a warning bell is ringing. I ignore it.
She looks different from how she does at work. The professional armor is gone, and what's left is just a woman enjoying the evening air.
She rolls out a yoga mat and positions herself in the center of it.
I feel like I'm trespassing on something private, but I can't make myself stop. I just sit there in the shadows and enjoy the view.
She moves through a series of poses with fluid grace. Her body bends and stretches and holds positions that would make my muscles scream in protest. Her movements are smooth and fluid, each stretch flowing into the next, making the exercises look easy.
She's beautiful.
I've known this since the moment I met her, but right now, with the city lights behind her and her body moving like water, it hits me all over again. She's beautiful and smart and good at her job, and I have no right to want her the way I do.
She finishes her routine and settles into a seated position, her legs crossed and her hands resting on her knees. For a long moment, she just sits there, breathing.
Then she speaks, startling me. “Have you ever done any yoga?”
