Page 71 of The Backup Plan

“No, you don’t.” Why am I so mad at him? I move toward the opposite side of my office to be as far as possible from him.

“Yes. I do,” he states, pulling on both ends of the towel hanging from his neck.

“I have an appointment with Nixon coming up.” I set my stuff down and open my laptop to find my schedule and staff admin updates . . . “Lucas Hale – 10 a.m.” He’s before James Nixon. “It’s in fifteen minutes.”

“It was a late add from this morning,” he says, eyes holding mine. The scent of his soap and shampoo cling to the air in the room and cloud my thoughts, making me angry at myself. “This won’t be long.”

“Is something wrong?” My eyes narrow as I scroll through my emails on my computer to see if there are any from Coach or Owen about Lucas and his shoulder. “I don’t see anything from Coach about it—”

“There won’t be. I made the appointment myself.”

I lift my eyebrows. “You hurt it during weights?” I ask, concern edging out my self-proclaimed need for distance. Just like him to not tell anyone and hide it. “Let’s get you into the PT room.” I motion to the door, mind racing over the many possibilities that could have happened to his shoulder while lifting, and walk out, keenly aware that he’s following behind me.

When we reach the PT room, I move us toward the back corner room and point to the table. He sits without speaking, brows knit and eyes on me.

“Tell me what happened during weights,” I say as my hands move to his shoulder to start an assessment.

“What’s wrong, Doc?” he asks in a steady, even tone.

“That’s what you’re supposed to tell me.” I palpate the top part of the joint as I move his arm, feeling for the rotator cuff and the telltale sign of inflammation.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

But I’m so lost in the routine in my mind of assess and observe, that I don’t really hear him. “Pain?” I ask.

“No.”

I rotate his arm gently, feeling a slight click, but I’m not overly concerned about that. “Here?”

“No.”

I readjust my stance and my hold on his bicep as I manipulate his arm’s position. “Any here?”

“No.”

I stop and meet his eyes that I’m now realizing haven’t left my face once. “If there’s no pain in your shoulder . . . where are you hurting?” I ask.

“I never said I was.”

Missed you on our runs the past few mornings.

It’s then his greeting in my office hits my ears again. “This isn’t about your shoulder, is it?” I ask and glance around outside of the PT room to make sure there’s no one there.

His mouth curves slightly. “No. It’s about why you’re avoiding me.”

My breath hitches briefly and my hands relax on his shoulder. And then as if I realize what I’m doing—not being professional—I step back and force a swallow. “I’m not avoiding you,” I state.

“No?”

“No. I’m keeping this where it needs to be kept.”

“That’s a word salad if ever I’ve heard one.” He chuckles and I hate how I’m so keenly aware of the sound and the warmth in it. “And not running with me in the morning is keeping this where it needs to be kept?” He angles his head to the side and studies me.

“It’s not the runs. It was the . . .” The words don’t want to come. The fear of me assuming he wanted to kiss me when maybe he didn’t, has me stuttering over my words. “This—you making an appointment to call me out during office hours when you know damn well it’s not the time nor place is why.”

He nods. “Got it.”

“I don’t think you do.”