“Mobility, not machismo,” he adds, which is rude because I haven’t even made a poor decision yet.
“You flirting with me?” I ask, hooking the band around the post, rolling my shoulder like I’ve been taught.
“You’re not my type,” he says. “Too tragic.”
“I’m a delight,” I groan through the first rep. A burn kisses across the front of the joint—clean, mean, honest.
“You smell like shame and drugstore coffee,” he says, setting a timer on his watch.
“It’s called cologne—Eau de Quarterback at a Crossroads.”
He smirks without looking up from the clipboard. “Notes from yesterday: external rotation improved; internal still tight; scapular winging decreased. Notes for today: stop trying to win rehab. And for the love of your grandma, take it easy, Crew. You’re overdoing it.”
“Winning is a lifestyle.”
“Not when your rotator cuff is one sarcastic comment away from spitting you out like a sunflower seed.”
We work. The barn breathes with us. Band pulls, spine stacks, breath drops lower when the burn gets sharp. I close my eyes and look for the click—when the motion stops being a fight and starts being a conversation. It arrives, late and worth it, like most good things.
“How’s the lighthouse?” he asks, casual as a loaded question.
“Tall.”
“Girl?”
“Woman,” I say, automatically. “Bossy. Dangerous. Good with rope.”
“Sounds like a country song.” He tips my elbow half an inch. “You two talk?”
“Yeah.”
“Kiss?”
“No.”
He whistles low. “Voluntary?”
“There were rules,” I say. “And tea.”
“Wow. Tea. You two are wild.” He stares, not blinking. “And you didn’t die.”
“Define ‘die’.”
He raises his hands and steps back. “My bad. I’ll update your chart toAlive, reluctantly.”
We move into YTWs, and my shoulder vibrates like an overcaffeinated phone. “You ever screw up so bad you still taste it?” I ask, eyes on the rafters because I won’t hold his.
“I coach men who think pain is a proof of masculinity,” he says. “So yes. Daily. Tell her.”
“She’s not a garbage can,” I mutter.
“Right,” he says, softer. “She’s the reason your face looks ten percent less haunted.”
The next rep falters. Just barely—a tremor most people wouldn’t catch. Marcus does. He always does. He adjusts the angle of my wrist, not the man, guiding me back into the line of motion.
Something in the quiet of it pulls at a loose thread inside me.
The barn fades for a breath—not in a cinematic way, just that split-second slide into memory I never asked for.
