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“My list of clients is quite long. Jaden is an excellent physiotherapist. I just assumed it didn’t—”
“I didn’t waste an hour of my time driving to some mom-and-pop business to hang withJaden.”
Two things. First, this mom-and-pop business has created an actual sustainable life for me straight out of school, and second, his immediate attitude and disapproval towards Jaden leaves a sour taste on my tongue. I’m protective of my people.
“If this place isn’t to your liking, by all means, get the fuck out.”
His eyes finally pull away from his hands, looking up to find mine. I can’t be sure, but I’m guessing the blank look he’s giving me is one of shock. Has anyone ever talked to this “hero” in such vulgar language? The guys on the field, sure. But anyone else? Doubtful.
“I came here to meet with the therapist who got—”
“Ashton Connely back on the field in nine months.” I finish for him, bite in my tone. “I’m well aware.”
I stand there before him, all five-foot-seven of me in my oversized Northwestern sweatshirt and matching grey sweatpants, arms crossed over my chest with a scowl etched onto my face.
With his dark, piercing gaze set on mine, I can almost see the chip right there on his shoulder. As little as the look he’s giving is making me feel, I hold my head high while continuing to look down on him.
His eyes are even more radiant in person than the pictures and commercials advertise. A greyish-blue that feels cold as they sear through my physical form. He traces my frame with his gaze, going over every hidden curve, every inch of fabric, before settling on my hair. As much as I don’t want it to bother me, it does. I feel him judging me, knowing I’m not at all what he was expecting when he heard Dylan Crawford was the one to come see.
“Yep, that’s it,” he finally says. “So do your job and get me there.”
Just a quick roundhouse to the chiseled jaw, that's all. I could get away with it, couldn’t I? This hostility is burning a hole inside of me. My rage needs out.
“But you see, Lake, it’s not all about the therapist,” I begin, sarcasm ringing through. “Ashton Connely is one hell of an athlete and an even better patient. Results may vary.” I give a quick fake smile that instantly fades into a scowl.
He licks his lips, breaking out into a crooked smile. I hate how effortlessly sexy that look is for him. Looking to the left out of the gym window, he pushes up and off the floor with his palms. He braces himself with his good leg and, hobbling, stands before me.This idiot is standing on his own without crutches after a major surgery. Is he crazy?!
His length keeps growing on me. He’s definitely taller than Ashton was, and I find it insane that he’s able to hold the position that he does with his height. It’s quite exceptional that he can be so tall and simultaneously quick.
“The league doesn’t pay for variable results. They pay to get me back out on that field.” He hobbles forward, attempting to intimidate me, but I don’t back down. I stand there and stare back up at him with a bored face. “So either you’ll help me do just that, or they find someone else who will.”
We stare at one another for a moment. I need his money. He doesn’t know how badly I need his money. A physical therapist with bills upon bills, working in a small privately-owned practice, isn’t making nearly the amount as the therapists he’s used to working with in the NFL. But it appears word-of-mouth travels far when you're a useful mechanic to such expensive equipment.
“Tomorrow,” he says firmly, taking one last belittling look before finding my face again. “Be ready to work.”
Without another word, he turns and begins hobbling towards the exit. I watch as he struggles with the door, finally swinging his bad leg around it and maneuvering himself out into the parking lot.
“Did he just walk out of surgery?” Jaden asks, coming up behind me, his eyebrow arched to the ceiling.
I cross my arms over my chest as we peer out of the gym’s window at him.
“Hell if I know,” I reply, staring in fascination. “He didn’t even have crutches. He drove himself here.” I shake my head. “This is going to be a nightmare.”
Just as I say the words, Lake turns to face us, touching the handle of the large black truck before him and shooting us a glance, as if he knew we were watching. Jaden waves back as I scowl, unmoving, as I chew on the tip of my thumb.
“At least he’s not bad to look at,” he comments.
I turn my head to shoot him a glare before facing Lake again.
“Ugh. Don’t feed into the hype.”
I’d normally feel bad watching a top-tier athlete hobble away the way he is, attempting to get into his big-ass truck. It’s heartbreaking for anyone to go through such a debilitating injury, knowing the ease with which he used to move. But, the way his attitude and self-importance still linger, it appears the injury did nothing to humble him. I don’t feel sorry for arrogant, immodest individuals.
Isitontheedge of my seat, elbows against the wood beneath the heat of my cheap but effective desk lamp, sifting through files in my room. I find my ACL folder that I’ve held onto since university, and begin going through the many papers of exercises I’ve learned. Scouring the internet for more reliable sources, I search for new techniques and advances that have since come about and begin printing and collecting more data. I am putting together a brand new treatment plan for him that would require months of healing.
Just as I’m finishing up, my phone buzzes against the wood desk, slowly spinning the image of his handsome face in a half circle.
Jaden.
