“It's temporary, Ethan. A few more months of hard work and you'll be back on the ice.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Definitely.”
I look at her across the darkness. She's just a silhouette now, her features hidden by shadow, but there’s conviction in her voice.
“Do you really believe that?” The question makes me sound fucking vulnerable.
She doesn't hesitate. “Yes. I've seen your progress. I've seen how hard you work, even when you're frustrated and angry and want to give up. You're going to make it back, Ethan. I don't have a single doubt.”
I swallow hard against the sudden lump in my throat. No one has said those words to me since the injury. Not with that kind of certainty.
She believes in me and not because she has to or because it's her job. She believes in me because she's seen me at my worst, and she still thinks I can do this.
“Thanks.” Thank you seems too small.
She stands and picks up her yoga mat. “Goodnight, Ethan.”
“Goodnight, Natalie.”
She disappears inside, and her sliding door clicks shut behind her.
I stay on the balcony for a long time after she's gone, staring at the city lights and thinking about everything she said.
She's single. She believes in me.
10
Natalie
“You're in a good mood today,” I say as Ethan lies on the treatment table.
His leg is extended while I guide him through a series of stretches, and he hasn’t scowled at me once in the last sentence.
“Am I?”
“You haven't grunted at a single one of my questions. That's cheerful for you.”
He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh. “Maybe I'm just tired of being an asshole.”
“That would be a refreshing change.”
He laughs again. The sound is low and rusty, like he doesn't use it often, but it transforms his whole face. The hard lines soften, and his eyes crinkle at the corners, and for just a moment, he looks like a completely different person.
My heart stutters in my chest.
“How was your weekend?” he asks.
I let in a sharp inhale of breath. In all our sessions, he's never asked me anything personal. Our conversations have been limited to his knee, his pain levels, and the occasional weather comment.
“It was good,” I say, recovering quickly. “Quiet. I did some exploring around the neighborhood and found a coffee shop with the best croissants I've ever tasted.”
“Which one?”
“It's called Early Mornings. Little place on Fifth, near the bookstore.”
“I know it. Their espresso is decent, too.”
