Her tone is clipped. “We’ll start with targeted soft tissue work to release the surrounding muscles—hip flexors, quads, glutes. Then mobility drills to restore range, followed by progressive strengthening. You’ll also do neuromuscular control exercises to retrain stability, because right now, your body’s protecting the injury instead of healing it.”
I let out a low whistle. “Sounds like a lot.”
“It is,” she says simply. “But if you stick to the plan, you’ll end up even stronger than before.”
I lean back, watching her. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you’re risking your career.” Her words hang between us, and I can see a flicker of concern buried under all that detachment.
She picks up her iPad again, her tone smoothing back to neutral. “I’ll give you a plan to follow between our sessions. Three times a week with me, daily drills on your own. No shortcuts.”
I smirk, leaning back on my elbows. “So you’re saying you’re in charge?”
Her lips twitch, holding back a smile. “In the PT room, yes.” She lets the words linger, then adds, slowly, “Think you can follow orders?” A beat. “While we’re in here?”
The pause seems deliberate, a spark on dry kindling. My mind jumps straight to every other room where she wouldn’t be the one calling the shots—images I have no business entertaining—but they flare hot and fast before I shove them back down.
Heat coils low in my chest, sharp and hungry.Yeah, Trouble, I think, gripping the edge of the table to ground myself.I can follow orders.In here.
She nods toward the mat in the corner. “Stand there. I want to see how you stabilize under load.”
I step onto the mat, and she circles me, cataloging, causing my pulse to slam in my temples. A minute ago, I promised I’d follow her orders, and already, all I can think about is breaking that rule.
The way she moves—close enough for me to catch the faintest trace of her shampoo, far enough to keep me wanting—lights me up from the inside out. Ten years of buried fantasies surge back, raw and unfiltered. The urge to grab her, pin her to this mat, and finally taste what I’ve been starving for claws at me so hard, it’s almost painful.
I grit my teeth, holding myself together by a thread.
“Single-leg stance,” she says.
I lift the injured leg, balance on the other. Her eyes track every millimeter my hips try to cheat.
“Hold. Don’t let the knee cave.”
Her palm finds my inner thigh to cue the adductor—firm, precise, clinical. My brain? Not clinical. A reel I didn’t order starts playing anyway: her hand higher, my mouth on a promise I have no business making. Heat climbs fast. I stare at a ceiling sprinkler and pretend it’s my moral compass.
“Breathe,” she reminds me, crouching to check alignment. Her voice is calm, her face level with my groin, and I become a monk in real time. This is not how you think about your physical therapist. This is not how you win trust. This is how you earn a restraining order.
I count breaths. I do not flinch. I do not disgrace the franchise.
She stands, steps back, gaze sharp. “Again. This time with resistance.”
Thank fuck.
“So,” I say when she’s again marking down notes on heriPad, “what have you been up to all these years? Besides plotting my torture.”
Her focus flicks to mine, guarded. “Studying. Training. Working toward opening my own practice.”
“Nothing else? No wild adventures?“
That earns me the tiniest smirk, but she shuts it down quickly. “No. Just…work.”
“Sounds boring,” I say lightly, testing the edge.
Her jaw ticks. “It’s focused. And I like it that way.”
She has me do a few more stretches, a couple of slow lunges, then calls it. “That’s enough for today. I’ll send the office a routine for you to follow in between sessions. Don’t overdo it until I say you can.”
I grab my hoodie, slinging it over my shoulder. “Guess I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
