“Oh. Uh, sure.”
The door flies open, banging against the rubber stopper, and a student from the soccer team enters. She’s holding her shoulder, grass stains on her uniform. “Oh, sorry,” the kid mumbles.
“It’s okay.” Devin waves her in, immediately switching into caregiver mode. “Come on over. Rochelle will be here soon.”
I step away from the table, my attention lingering on Devin. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Her eyes sparkle for just a moment, something warm flickering there, and then swiftly dim before she looks away.
Trying not to read into it, I head out the door.
I’ll talk to her when we see each other again. Tomorrow. Ten a.m.
Even though my gut is twisting from anxiety, I’ll still be counting down the minutes.
The next morning, I’m at the clinic fifteen minutes early, sitting in my car with the engine running and heat blasting against the January cold. My hands grip the steering wheel as I stare at Devin’s clinic. It’s right on the edge of the water, waves lapping against the rocky shore, facing the mainland with a dock extended into the restless waves. Though it’s clearly an old building, the paint is a fresh blue, and there are benches and umbrellas out front, currently covered in frost.
As welcoming as the clinic is, I struggle to get out of my car. The morning so far has been spent trying to figure out how to bring up the kiss. The best I can come up with is just saying “I’m sorry about the other night.”
Simple enough, right? Even if the task feels gargantuan.
My phone says nine fifty-eight a.m. Time to stop being a coward.
In the clinic, warmth hits me immediately, along with lavender and something medicinal but not unpleasant. I don’t have time to check in at the front desk. Devin appears at the mouth of a hallway like she was waiting. She’s dressed in khakis and a polo shirt with the logo “Pine Island Physical Therapy” embroidered over the pocket. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, leaving wisps around her face, drawing attention to her perfect facial structure.
“Hey,” she says, and her voice does something to my insides. “Come on back.”
I nod and follow her down the hallway decorated with photographs of nature—Pine Island in different seasons. Summer beaches, autumn forests, winter shores. The room she takes me to is just as pleasant as the rest of the clinic, with a comfy couch in the corner and calm music softly playing. Some kind of instrumental that makes me think of rain on leaves. It’s the opposite of the PT clinic for the teams’, which felt sterile and more like a lab than anything else.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she says, gesturing to the padded table.
I sit on the edge, the paper crinkling under me, and my gaze catches on a framed photo on a bookshelf. It shows Devin standing in front of this clinic, a big red bow across the doorway, and her family—her sister Jemma, their mom, and her dads—around her. Everyone’s smiling except Jemma, who’s looking at something off-camera.
“Was that opening day?” I nod at the photo.
She turns around to glance at it, her ponytail swinging. “Yeah.” A smile flits across her face, but it’s brief.
I don’t know what she’s thinking about, but seeing a picture of her family reminds me of the first time I met them. The week leading up to it had been brutal—double practices and a scrimmage where I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. Whatever I said to them—something defensive about their “concerns”—definitely rubbed them the wrong way. Every time after that, Jemma and their mom barely spoke to me. They even made occasional comments about Devin’s high school crush, Billy.
Not that I needed a reminder that Devin was too good for me. I always thought hockey success would make me worthy. Multimillion-dollar contract, billboard ads, the works. Still wasn’t happy. Nothing filled the hole.
Ironically, it took losing everything to see that.
“Dev—”
“What exercises have you been doing?” She cuts me off so quickly I don’t think she even heard me speaking. But there’s something in the way she fumbles with her clipboard, dropping it before catching it against her thigh, that tells me she’s not as composed as she seems.
“Oh. Uh. I can show you.”
I demonstrate the routine: tendon glides that feel like razor wire, nerve flossing that sends electricity up my arm, isometric holds that make my whole forearm shake after three seconds.Devin watches with a slight frown, occasionally saying “Okay, that’s enough” when my face must give away the pain level.
“Stop when you feel pain,” she says firmly. “You want to work your way up to that strength and mobility, not force it. These exercises are too advanced for where you are right now. Go ahead and stand up, and we can take a look at your whole-body alignment.”
I stand, feeling oddly vulnerable under her assessing gaze. She steps back, surveying me with a critical eye.
“Make sure you watch your posture. Not just when you’re doing the exercises, but all the time. It’s not about keeping your shoulders back, like we were always told.” She moves closer. “Raise your chest to the sky… Yeah, like that.”
Her hand briefly touches my chest, adjusting my position, and I have to focus on breathing normally.
