Page 22 of The Backup Plan

Because she’s right.

And because I watched her cling to composure this morning the same way I cling to denial now.

“I need complete honesty from you so I can do my best to get you back on the field at full capacity.”

“Who said I wasn’t being honest?”

“I don’t heal athletes, or men, or patients who lie about their pain, Lucas.”

I smirk. It’s reflexive. Defensive. “Good thing I don’t lie.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Then I guess you can see yourself out of my office since you’re already lying. Come back when you want to tell the truth.”

Emery

Do not react.

That’s the first rule.

The only rule.

The only way the duct tape and willpower holding me together will keep.

Because the man sitting on the exam table is the same man who carried me out of a bar last night. The man who watched me shake and vomit and insist I was fine when I absolutely was not. The man who saw me scared, drugged, vulnerable . . . everything I never let anyone see.

And now he’s here.

Fully upright. Fully composed. Fully Lucas Hale.

He took my lead and acted like last night never happened. And I want that—no I need that—so much today and yet . . . he saved me.

But I can’t show it or say it, because if I do, that might be the thing that breaks me.

And the man last night—selfless, protective, considerate—is nothing like the man Owen told me to expect. Prickly and stubborn.

The one sitting before me is neither, but he sure as hell is lying about his pain.

And that’s what I’m holding on to right now as a way to keep my composure.

The athlete before me, his pain, and my training.

He sits on the table with broad shoulders and surgery-scarred skin. His posture is loose like his body has never failed him—even though we both know differently. His medical file is a testament to that.

He sits with a confidence that says he’s untouchable when clearly, he isn’t.

He was there last night. The thought creeps in out of nowhere causing my chest to tighten and vision to blur.

Does he think less of me because of what happened? More of me? Will he tell somebody about the situation and that I was the victim?

The questions pile up fast and sharp when I should be working. I shove them down where they belong—under muscle memory and protocol and the letters after my name.

This is my exam room.

Focus on Lucas, Em. Get the job done. Overthink and break down later.

I draw in a quiet breath, set the tablet down, and turn back to Lucas to resume my assessment.

He wears pain like a badge of honor and arrogance like armor. That much is obvious as he tenses beneath my fingertips but doesn’t show so much as a grimace.