Her words are a revelation and a challenge all at once. This isn’t the girl who used to trail after me on the beach. This is a woman who knows exactly what she wants.
And if the past is any proof, it isn’t me.
The thought slams into me before I can stop it: If I’d had the guts back then, if I’d just taken the chance, maybe things would be different now.
The past snaps into focus. I had chances. I didn’t take them. Summer after summer, she slipped away.
How foolish was that? I breathe deeply, chiding myself.
Stop it, asshole. She’s Leo’s little sister. Your PT. Don’t get any stupid fucking ideas.
She gently straightens my leg and steps back, scribbling notes on her iPad again. For a second, I watch her. The way she moves—calm, precise, in total control—is nothing like the girl who used to leap off lifeguard stands with her hair flying.
She sets the iPad aside, arms crossing as that cool blue gaze sweeps over me, having mapped out every weakness.
“I want to try something.”
Her hands settle lightly at the base of my skull, fingers tracing along the ridge before cradling my head. It’s so unexpected I freeze.
My mouth quirks. “Pretty sure my hip’s a long way from there.”
Her gaze flicks to mine, unfazed. “Your body doesn’t work in pieces, Russo. Hip’s screaming because everything else is locked down. Nervous system included.” She adjusts her touch, barely any pressure, and for a second I can’t figure out what’s happening.
Heat curls low in my gut, a response I can’t shut off. “Feels like you’re trying to read my mind.”
Her lips twitch. “Not exactly. Your craniosacral rhythm.”
“Sounds made up.”
“It’s not.” Her tone is patient. “Athletes under stress holdtension everywhere. If your system doesn’t release, your hip won’t either.”
I shut up, because she’s right, and because whatever she’s doing makes the noise in my head drop a notch. The ache in my hip doesn’t vanish, but there’s a shift. My whole body unclenches.
When she finally lets go, I blink against the overhead light, dazed in a way no PT session’s ever left me. She steps back, arms folding. “How do you feel?”
I push up slowly. “Different.”
Her brow arches. “Good different?”
I nod once, reluctant to admit more. “Yeah. Good different. So tell me, what’s going on with my hip?”
“You’ve got an adductor strain and probably a small tear where the hip flexor attaches. That’s why every push-off and split feels like hell—you’re overcompensating. But I’m sure your trainers have told you as much.”
I cock a brow. “And you’re going to fix me?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Six to eight weeks,” she replies, clipped and certain. “If you do exactly what I tell you and stick to the plan, you’ll hit the playoffs ready.”
So she knows about hockey. I want to ask if she’s been watching, if she’s been there more than once, but I bite the words back.
“Does Leo know you’re treating me?” I ask instead.
“I just found out an hour ago.” She laughs. “And I’m not allowed to tell him or anyone else anyway.” I look at her blankly. “The NDA I signed?” Her mouth curves, then she redirects. “You are free to tell him if you want to, though. But as for the two us now, let’s focus on your treatment, shall we?”
“And what does that look like?”
