He holds up his hands, backing away with a grin that’s too familiar. “Just saying.”
The rhythm settles. Joy takes over the gym corner, turning balance drills into choreography. Kira cycles a new kid onto her table every thirty minutes without a pause, and each one floats out glassy-eyed and blissed—first massage magic. The hockey boys start trying—really trying—once the dancers nail clean lines. Parents finally lower their phones and just watch.
I’m adjusting a girl’s hamstring stretch when a dad laughs—loud, sharp, a laugh meant to own the room. It lands, a slap, and the clinic drops away. I’m nineteen at a party. That same laugh cuts the air while I fight to stand, the room tilting, everything wrong…
My hands freeze on the girl’s leg. The room goes distant and tiny, like I’m underwater. My therapist’s voice echoes: “Ground yourself. Five things you can see.”
Treatment table. Girl’s purple socks. Nate handing out water bottles. Joy demonstrating turnout. Parents watching their kids.
“Four things you can hear.”
Music from the speakers. Joy calling out instructions. A different parent laughing, softer, kinder. My own heartbeat, too loud.
“Miss Eden?” The girl’s voice pulls me back. “Are you okay?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at nothing for who knows how long. “Sorry. Just...checking your alignment.” I finish the stretch with shaking hands, then excuse myself to the bathroom.
In the mirror, I look pale and rattled. I splash cold water on my face, grip the sink until my knuckles go white, breathe until the panic recedes. When I return, Nate’s eyes find mine immediately. He doesn’t say anything, but I catch him watching me more closely after that.
By the time the last family leaves, I’m running on fumes. The clinic feels too quiet after all the noise and energy.
“Good turnout,” Joy declares, packing up her speaker. “The Peterson kid actually asked about scheduling regular sessions.”
“Really?” That surprises me. He’d whined through every drill.
“Teenagers. They complain louder when they’re impressed.” She shoulders her bag. “Same time next month? Can I bring a few more of my girls?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
After Joy and Kira leave, it’s just me and Nate. He’s stacking chairs without being asked, movements efficient and quiet.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks without looking up.
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever happened during that girl’s stretch that made you white as a ghost.”
I consider lying, then decide I’m too tired. “Flashback. That dad’s laugh triggered it. Happens sometimes.”
Nate’s hands still on the chair. “You alright now?”
“Getting there.” I appreciate that he doesn’t push or try to fix it. Just nods and goes back to stacking.
We finish tidying up in silence. “You hungry?” he asks as we walk toward the door. “There’s a place around the corner I saw on my way here. Want to check it out?”
I should say no. Go home, take a bath, try to decompress from the day. Instead, “Okay.”
Two blocks down, we slip into a tiny Italian spot wedged between a laundromat and a bodega. Red checks on the tables, fogged glass, walls packed with family photos, a chalkboard of specials, and the soft, steady perfume of garlic and tomato. The kind of place where the pasta is made by someone’s nonna bossing the kitchen.
We order without much fuss. Him a lean sirloin—“macros,” he says with a half-shrug—me thecacio e pepe. I eye his plate and thank the universe I treat athletes instead of being one. The day’s exhaustion settles between us, easy and warm.
“The clinic went well,” he says finally.
“It was messy.”
“All the good things are.” He leans back, studying me. “You know what I saw today? A PT who knew exactly what she was doing. Kids who felt safe with you. Parents who trusted you with their children.” His voice drops. “That’s not nothing, Eden.”
The food arrives, giving me an excuse to look away. We eat mostly in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s two people finding their rhythm again.
