Marnie
You’re ridiculous.
But I can practically see her trying not to smile when she types it.
I set down my phone and stare at the ceiling.
She texted me first tonight. Made the first move. Admitted Rodriguez isn’t her type. Told me she googled my tattoos.
And somewhere in that conversation, we crossed a line we’ve been dancing around for three weeks.
Friday can’t come fast enough, which is a problem. Because I’m starting to look forward to our sessions for all the wrong reasons. The pain is almost secondary to the excuse to be near her, to watch her work, to learn all the things she’s not telling me.
Like where she has a tattoo.
And what makes her laugh instead of just trying not to smile.
And how someone so small can make me feel both desperate and calm at the same time.
Jake’s right.
I’m completely fucked.
7
MARNIE
Week 6 of Rehabilitation - Late August
The Puckaneers’training pool at 7 AM should be my safe space. Warm water, controlled environment, Roman in swim trunks?—
Stop. Professional thoughts only.
I’ve seen him shirtless before. Multiple times. It’s fine. I’m a physical therapist and he’s an athlete and this is literally my job.
But I haven’t seen him shirtless and wet.
Water is clinging to his chest, running in rivulets down his abs, pooling in the lines of muscle I’ve been very deliberately not thinking about for six weeks. His compression shorts are plastered to his thighs in a way that should be illegal in any setting, much less a professional one. There’s a droplet sliding down from his collarbone, following the center line of his chest, and my eyes track it without permission. His mouth quirks.
Shit. He caught me staring.
My face is on fire. I can actually feel the heat crawlingup my neck, and there’s nowhere to look except at him or at the pool or literally anywhere else but I’ve already been caught so what’s the point.
“The water helps with resistance without impact,” I explain, very carefully not looking at the way the water hits just at his hip bones, or how his compression shorts are basically painted on when wet. “We’ll do range of motion work first.”
“In the shallow end?” He’s standing in four feet of water looking vaguely offended. “I’m not five.”
“No, you’re a six-foot-six hockey player with chronic shoulder instability and an inability to follow basic instructions.” I wade in wearing athletic shorts and a tank over my sports bra, trying to ignore how his eyes track the water climbing up my body. “Shallow end means you can’t cheat and use buoyancy to avoid the work.”
“I don’t cheat.”
“You literally did forty reps yesterday when I prescribed ten.”
“I can’t believe Jake told on me.”
“Jake’s protecting your career.” I move behind him in the water, hands positioned on his shoulder blade and upper arm. “Slow controlled movements. Let the water provide resistance.”
He starts the exercise, and I have to focus very hard on the biomechanics of his movement and not on the fact that wet skin is slippery and warm and my hands keep sliding across muscles that belong in an anatomy textbook.
