I twist the paper towel in my hands before tossing it. Deep breath. Shoulders back. Keep it moving.
This isn’t new. I’ve rehabbed hotshot rookies, aging bruisers clinging to one more season, and one ultra-marathoner whotried to train through a stress fracture. I’ve been snapped at, stared down, even puked on once after a guy insisted on doing push-ups with a strained hip flexor.
So yeah. I’m not new to pushback.
Rehab makes people defensive. They’re scared, frustrated, in pain. I get it.
Declan Tremayne is something else entirely.
He didn’t yell. Didn’t push back physically. He followed my instructions—begrudgingly—but every second with him felt like knocking on a door, only to be met with silence.
Except the door is six-foot-three, impossibly judgmental, and built like a refrigerator.
And still unfairly attractive.
Ugh. Nope. Not the point.
I re-center my focus on the screen, pulling up Patel’s MRI report. He’s listed the expected Phase 1 protocol: quad activation, soft tissue decompression, controlled passive range of motion. Nothing I haven’t run a hundred times.
And yet, knowing I have to do it all again tomorrow—withhim—makes my jaw twitch.
Declan Tremayne doesn’t trust easily. That much is obvious. But if I let his attitude get under my skin, this whole recovery process gets harder. For both of us.
I won’t let that happen.
I adjust the Ice Foxes quarter-zip at my throat and click the chart closed. The wrap job was solid. His brace was set. The note’s in Patel’s folder.
I’ve done my job, even if he clearly hated every second of it.
Still, he showed up. He let me work. That counts for something.
And yeah, he was difficult. But no one’s at their best when they’re scared.
I’ll earn his trust. One rep at a time.
Tomorrow’s a fresh start.
And I’m good at those.
I pull the door closed behind me, tablet tucked under one arm and a fresh sense of resolve settling between my shoulders.
A voice calls from down the hall just as I step out.
“Was he horrible?”
David’s already grinning when he reaches me.
I glance over my shoulder and smile. “Define horrible.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I roll my eyes and lean back against the cool metal door. “He glared through half of it, grunted through the rest, and nearly pulled a hamstring trying to prove he didn’t need me.”
David snorts. “So, a normal Tuesday for Declan.”
I smile, but it fades almost immediately. “I know he’s frustrated. I would be too. But it’s not just that. He’s held together with duct tape and discipline right now. Like if he lets himself show even one crack, the whole thing’s gonna come down.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That tracks.”
