Natalie walks into the treatment room with a coffee in each hand and a smile on her face. “Morning, handsome.” She sets one of the cups on the bench beside me and leans in for a kiss.
I turn my head so her lips land on my cheek instead of my mouth.
She pulls back, confusion flickering across her features. “Everything okay?”
“Fine.”
She studies my face for a moment, then seems to decide not to push it. “Okay. Well, let's get started. Ken wants us to focus on explosive movements today. We need to make sure your knee can handle sudden stress.”
I nod and stand, moving to the open space in the center of the room. She follows with her clipboard, all business now. Good. Business, I can handle. It's the intimacy I can't stomach.
“We'll start with some warm-up stretches,” she says. “Get the muscles loose before we push them.”
I lower myself to the mat, and she kneels beside me, guiding my leg through a series of movements. Her hands are warm onmy skin. Those same hands touched him yesterday. Did she run her fingers through his hair? Did she let him hold her close?
“You're tense,” Natalie says. “Try to relax.”
“I'm relaxed.”
“You're not. Your whole body is rigid.” She presses down on my thigh, stretching the muscle. “Talk to me. What's going on?”
“Nothing.”
She sighs but doesn't argue. We continue through the stretches in silence. Every time she touches me, I have to fight the urge to pull away. Every time she smiles at me, I think about how she smiled at me before lying straight to my face.
After the warm-up, we move to the plyometric exercises. Box jumps first, starting with a low height and working up. I throw myself at the box with more force than necessary, landing hard, my knee protesting with each impact.
“Easy,” Natalie warns. “You're not competing against anyone. Control is more important than height.”
I ignore her and jump again, higher this time. The landing jars through my entire body, but I don't care. The physical pain is easier to handle than the storm raging in my chest.
“Ethan, slow down. You're going to hurt yourself.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine. Something is clearly wrong, and you won't talk to me.”
I step off the box and turn to face her. “I said I'm fine. Can we just get through this?”
Her jaw tightens, but she nods. “Fine. Lateral jumps next. Side to side, controlled landing. Five sets of ten.”
I throw myself into the exercise with reckless intensity. Jump left, stick the landing, jump right, repeat. My knee screams at me, but I push through. The pain is a welcome distraction.
I hate liars.
Natalie stops counting and just stands there with her arms crossed, her expression a mixture of frustration and concern. “Why did you ignore my messages yesterday?”
“I was busy.”
“Busy doing what?”
“Just busy.”
“That's not an answer.”
I complete another set of jumps and land hard, my knee buckling slightly. I catch myself before I fall, but the damage is done. Natalie is at my side in an instant, her hands reaching for me.
“Don't.” I step back from her touch. “I'm fine.”
