Deciding to leave him to it, I retreated, taking my coffee up to my room to shower.
Lane was obviously lying to himself about his feelings, and I wasn’t about to get caught up in whatever drama he had with Addie.
I’d suffered enough.
fourteen
. . .
LANE
“We’re goingto put you through a series of strength tests,” my physical therapist, Don, said. We were in the PT room at the hospital, and to say I was nervous was an understatement.
How things went today would determine when I got to go back to work, and I was desperately hoping I’d get the all clear before I left.
Don directed me to the bench press and had me lay down while he loaded the barbell with plates.
“I know before your accident, you were capable of doing a lot more than this, but we’re going to start small, okay? No sense in setting yourself back.”
I nodded as I settled onto the bench, feet flat on the floor, bar directly overhead. A few weeks ago, he’d given me the go ahead to start lifting again in my basement, but he’d also provided me with a very strict routine I had to follow so as to not overdo it. It had taken all my willpower to not push myself beyond his instructions.
Honestly, I knew I wasn’t back to full strength, and I wouldn’t be for a bit yet. The important thing was this guy andmy doctor thinking I was at least strong enough to return to work.
Once he was satisfied with the weight he’d added, he indicated I should go ahead, moving behind the bench to spot me should things go awry.
He didn’t need to worry.
“How much is this?” I asked, easily raising and lowering the bar over my chest. I feltgood. There was no tightness, no soreness to push through, no ache in my shoulder joint or at the place on my pec where the bullet had pierced my flesh.
“One twenty,” he said.
“I can do more,” I told him once I finished the set and racked the bar again.
Don laughed. “I’m sure you can.”
Still, he made no move to add more. In fact, he had me get up and move over to the cable machine, where he worked me through a set of pull-down exercises including lats and triceps extensions.
“Final test,” he said nearly an hour later. I’d hardly broken a sweat, but my limbs were warm from the exertion, a sensation I’d sorely missed.
“Put your arms out straight and hold them at shoulder height. I’m going to test your dexterity and strength. Keep your core as still as possible.”
Nodding that I understood, he began his ministrations, pulling down on my arms, pushing them back and forth, rotating my shoulder, palpating my chest around my scar. The whole time, he asked a constant stream of questions.
Any pain?
Any tightness? Numbness? Weakness?
The answer was “no” every time.
“Well, Mr. Lawless,” he said, dusting his hands off then propping his fists on his hips to study me. “It’s going to be my recommendation that you’re cleared to return to duty.”
A grin broke out across my face, and I stupidly pumped my fists into the air, feeling a little like Rocky at the top of the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps.
“Fuck yeah!” I yelled, dropping my head back and letting my eyes fall closed, basking in the moment.
Until Don burst my bubble.
“I get you’re excited, and I would be too, but Doc still has to clear you.”
