“You two okay in here?” I ask, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe.
“I love it,” Benji cries. “Again! Again!”
Logan heaves a sigh and goes into the sequence again.
“If you need to go…” I say, conscious of the time. He must have finished the last couple exercises already. Whatever is happening here is on top of what I assigned.
“How long are you going to be?” Logan asks, never losing a beat in the swing, lift, squat sequence.
“Another half an hour,” I say. “I know you’re busy. Benji can play in here, or he can bring some toys into the physio room.”
“But you’d be able to concentrate better, and his mom would probably benefit more, from him being occupied, right?”
“Of course, but—”
“And she’s your last client of the day?”
I take a beat to consider the implications. “She is.”
“You meant what you said a few nights ago? About us hanging out?”
That’s a loaded question. That night, before the sexual tension was ramped up from a six to an eight or ten at any given moment, I didn’t see too much harm in spending time with him outside training. Now? There’s a red neon sign at the back of my brain screaming “danger,” impossible to ignore.
“Yeah,” I say, letting out my breath in a whoosh. “We can figure out what you want to do when I’m done.”
“All right, buddy,” Logan says, lowering Benji to the ground. “Now, you show me how one of your toys works. I showed you that exercise.”
“Oh, oh, oh,” Benji says, running to the closet where I keep the toys. “Sawee has good toys. I show you.”
Logan slides me a look that I think might be resigned amusement, and he follows him to the toys.
“He’s not very old, is he?” Matilda asks when I reenter the treatment room.
“Who?” I’m only half listening as I try to remember which stretch we left off on.
“The hockey player.”
“Twenty-one.”
“Young,” she says with a knowing smile. “You two?” She waggles her finger as though Logan is in the room and she’s toggling back and forth between us.
“Oh, no.No. I’ve been working for the Bullets. With physio. Training. That sort of thing. That’s why he’s here.” I position her into the next stretch and count in my head as she holds it.
“And after?” A sneaky grin appears. “A different sort of training after hours, I think.”
My cheeks are on fire, and I shake my head. “It’s not—”
“Good for you,” she says, squeezing my upper arm with her free hand. “Goodfor you. I never liked Dalton Worthington. He didn’t get my vote. Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”
Is it?I want to ask, but I don’t. Of course I’ve had breakups before, but this one is different. I’ve been heartbroken or defiant or indifferent, but I’ve never felt solost.
“A man who’s good with kids, especially adorable shitheads like my little Benji, is a good man. You hear his voice”—she points at the wall that separates the treatment room from the workout space—“not stressed about being left with him at all.Anyone who’s good with kids or animals is a winner. My ex? Not good with either. I saw the signs.” She grimaces. “I saw them.”
“Why do you think,” I struggle for the right words as I get her into the second last stretch, “when we see it, we don’t believe it?”
“We don’twantto believe it. Who wants to think about being in love with someone who doesn’t deserve our love? No one. We readjust those rose-colored glasses until we have no choice but to take them off.”
I run my hand over the back of my head, at the place where the bump seemed to linger for so long, tender, unseen by anyone else.
