Holding my arm out straight, palm facing up, I use the other hand to pull my fingers back toward my body. I’ve barely started when pain races through my injured wrist.
Hissing in pain and frustration, I stop the exercise. The sound echoes off the empty walls of the physical therapy room. It shouldn’t be this hard. Why is it so damn hard?!
I switch to wrist circles—five clockwise, five counter—but can only manage two before the grinding sensation makes me stop. Next attempt: squeezing the stress ball. My fingers barely dent the foam that a toddler could probably flatten. And carrying a bag of groceries or a hockey bag? Forget about it. Last week, I dropped a half-gallon of milk because my grip just gave out. The explosion of white across my kitchen floor felt like a metaphor for my entire life.
I feel like such a failure, half of a man. What can I offer anyone if I can’t even carry five pounds?
The door to the physical therapy room opens, and Devincomes in. The fluorescent lights catch the highlights in her hair, and for a second I forget everything except how beautiful she is. Then reality crashes back. I open my mouth to say something—maybe hello, maybe an explanation for why I’m here—but shame keeps my tongue frozen. I’m sitting on the edge of the table, obviously in the middle of exercises, sweat beading at my temples from the effort of movements that shouldn’t even qualify as a warm-up. This isn’t how I want anyone to be seeing me. Especially not Devin.
“Sorry.” She freezes in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. “I can?—”
“No, it’s fine. I’m done.” The lie comes out rougher than I intended. I slide off the table, the movement jarring my wrist enough to make me bite back another curse. I avoid her eyes, focusing instead on the anatomy poster behind her left shoulder. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other since that kiss three days ago—three days, fourteen hours, but who’s counting—and I still have no clue what to say to her.
I can feel her eyeing me, though, her gaze tracking over my face like she’s looking for something. “How is the physical therapy going?”
“Uh, pretty shitty. Actually.” The admission escapes before I can stop it. “All of the exercises are painful.” I feel like a little bitch complaining, heat crawling up my neck, and I’m not sure why I’m being so honest with her. Maybe because lying to her feels worse than admitting weakness.
“Really?” She comes closer, the scent of her body wash—Ocean-something, isn’t it? I guess she still uses it—filling the air between us. “Have you told your physical therapist?”
“Uh… No. I don’t really have a physical therapist right now. The one I was seeing is the teams’, and since I left…” I trail off and shrug.
“Ah. So you’re in the market for a new physical therapist inthe area?”
Now I can’t help but look at her, really look at her. This time in surprise. Her eyes are steady on mine, professional but with something else underneath. Is she offering to be my physical therapist? After she ran away from me in the alley?
I’m trying my hardest to make sense of things, but it’s a challenge when up is down and down is up.
“I can create an individualized program,” she goes on, her voice taking on that clinical tone. “Something that’s tailored to your needs.”
That makes my face heat up, defensiveness rising like bile. “Are you saying that I can’t handle a normal program?”
“No,” she says slowly and evenly, the way you’d talk to a spooked horse. “There is no normal in recovery. Everyone is different, and whoever told you otherwise wasn’t being professional.”
I already feel bad for speaking to her that way, but her cool response makes me feel even shittier. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. What you’re going through, it isn’t easy.”
My inhale burns my throat. “I didn’t think it would still be this hard. The doctors said my career was over, but a part of me… I thought maybe they were wrong.”
She says nothing, just stands there. The afternoon sun slants through the window, highlighting dust motes floating between us.
It wasn’t a physical therapist or a doctor who told me my recovery isn’t normal. It was my mom, her voice sharp with disappointment over the phone last week. According to her, my brothers are back in the game only weeks after injuries, so why isn’t it the same for me?
Forget that none of them have shattered a wrist.
“Do you still think they could have been wrong?” Devin eventually asks, her voice soft.
My wrist hangs at my side, so innocuous looking yet so troublesome. The scars have faded to thin white lines, but thedamage underneath runs deep. How many times since that game have I wished to have a different body? Mine seems to have failed me in the biggest way possible.
“I think… that false hope won’t get me anywhere.” I look her square in the face, trying to inject conviction into my voice. “I’m happy coaching. I’m happy on Pine Island.”
I’m happy when I’m with you.
The thought hits me like a slap shot to the chest. Yearning fills me. I want to apologize for the other day, to let her know I’m sorry for taking things too far. I want—no, need—her to understand that she’s on my mind day and night.
If she’ll give me another chance, I’ll do everything to make sure I don’t misstep.
“My ten a.m. tomorrow morning just canceled,” she says, before I can say any of that. Her words come out rushed. “Can you come to the clinic then?”
