Page 23 of The Backup Plan

He must come from the weakness only gives people ammunition crowd. That’s not going to do either of us any good if I’m trying to help him.

I keep my hands steady and deliberate as I move around him, cataloging every subtle hitch in movement he thinks he’s hiding or contraction beneath the skin he can’t help. This—this is what I do. Bodies don’t lie, even when people do.

But still, it doesn’t matter how hard I focus on him, on his shoulder, on the wince he offers before clearing it away, because I keep seeing him this morning, standing in the doorway. Holding my hair back . . . caring when he didn’t have to.

I’ve never had a patient see me at my worst before. Never had to wonder if professionalism alone could erase someone’s memory.

“This time I want you to resist me,” I say.

“Didn’t we just do this?” he asks.

“Yes. But I want to do it again now that we both know you’re lying.” I smile. “Resist,” I say as he presses against my hand, and it takes considerable effort to fend him off. “Good. That’s great.”

He’s definitely strong, exceptionally so, but he’s also compensating for the pain.

I press along his shoulder blade and feel him tense. Tenderness is to be expected, but if my fingertips cause a wince, what will fifty throws in a football game do to it?

“You enjoy this?” he asks.

“Watching you pretend like nothing hurts when it clearly does? It’s the highlight of my day,” I say drolly.

He laughs. The sound is low and easy and fills the clinical space with warmth somehow. “You don’t strike me as someone who likes easy patients, Doc.”

“You’re right—”

“Well, today’s your lucky day.”

“—I like honest ones.”

His eyes flick to my mouth. Not my hands. My mouth.

The awareness is immediate and unwelcome, and yet, my pulse kicks up a notch.

I ignore all of it.

I’ve got you.

Especially that. This is not last night. This is not a bar. This is not a hotel room at dawn.

I swallow and relax my shoulders.

This is my first day of my dream job, and I will not let one moment of weakness rewrite that.

“Lift again,” I say.

He does and his jaw tightens.

There it is. Just as I’d expect with this injury and this far along in rehab.

“Pain level?” I ask.

“Manageable.”

“Lucas.” I sigh.

“What?”

“I get that your previous doctor and PT cleared you for game-speed throws, but pain and tenderness mean you might be pushing yourself too fast. Pushing through pain is one thing, but we need to decipher if the pain is from the recovery or if something else is wrong. The last thing you want is another setback.”