“Bullshit.”
The word is quiet but certain.
I force myself to meet his eyes. “Fine. You would’ve been better. You follow instructions and the guys who are here respect you.” I shove my tablet into my bag. “But I didn’t want to give Winters another reason to document concerns about my judgment.”
His eyebrows rise slightly. “That’s your concern? That demonstrating stretches would look inappropriate?”
“Your shoulder’s still healing. Having you do hip mobility work in front of Winters felt like asking for trouble.”
“From Winters or from you?”
There’s something underneath the question. Not accusation, but curiosity. Maybe amusement.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you don’t.” But he’s almost smiling now. “I would’ve followed your instructions. Professional and everything.”
“Rodriguez did fine.”
“Rodriguez made it into a comedy routine.”
“That’s his personality. You know that.”
“Yeah.” He picks up his water bottle from where he’d set it by the wall. “But you still wanted to pick me first.”
He walks out of the room and I’m standing alone in an empty conference room realizing that Roman Varga noticed exactly what I tried to hide. That he’s paying attention to things I don’t want him to notice. That the boundaries I’m trying to maintain are full of holes neither of us is acknowledging.
An hourlater I’m setting up the treatment room for his session. Fresh sheets on the table, bands organized by resistance, my tablet queued to the patient portal. And Beethoven playing through the speakers instead of my usual rotation.
The music choice is deliberate. Studies show classical music lowers heart rate and reduces muscle tension, both of which Roman needs. His heart rate spikes every time I work on that shoulder. I’vebeen tracking it, watching the way his pulse jumps in his neck when I dig into the deeper adhesions.
He shows up ten minutes early.
“That’s different,” he says, pausing in the doorway.
I don’t turn around from organizing supplies. “Beethoven. Symphony No. 7.”
“I meant different from your usual stuff.”
“Fall Out Boy doesn’t lower blood pressure. Beethoven does.” Now I do face him. “Your heart rate’s been elevated during our sessions. Need to keep you calm.”
“My heart rate’s fine.”
“It’s elevated. I’ve been monitoring it.” I gesture to the table. “Shirt off, Captain.”
His mouth quirks at the title, but he complies. I’ve seen him shirtless enough times now that it should feel routine. Clinical. Just another patient, just another body, just another session.
Except it doesn’t feel routine or clinical. And he’s definitely not just another patient.
“Face down,” I say, pulling on gloves.
He settles onto the table and I warm oil between my palms, trying to find the professional detachment I’ve spent years developing. The detachment that’s supposed to insulate me from noticing how his muscles move under his skin, from cataloging the ink that covers his back, from being aware of him as anything other than a collection of joints and tissue that need my expertise.
“This will hurt,” I warn, placing my hands on his shoulders.
“Always does.”
I start working through the adhesions in his rotator cuff, feeling the tension immediately. He’s been doing something he shouldn’t. Extra weights, probably, or pushing his range of motion past what I’ve cleared.
