Downward Facing Dreamboat

by Bru Baker

  Even from that distance, Kincaid could see Owen’s biceps bulge as he pushed off and reversed the motion, ending up back in downward dog. Kincaid couldn’t stop staring. He’d been so caught up in worrying about how he’d handle his attraction to Owen during the lessons, he hadn’t even really processed how much raw strength some of the yoga poses he’d read up on required.

  As Owen flowed into downward dog, Kincaid noticed several tattoos peeking out from the back of Owen’s tank top. He’d gotten an up-close look at Owen’s sleeve last week during their consultation, but now he was desperately curious to see what other tattoos Owen had on his body.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Kincaid muttered a low curse. He had meetings scheduled all morning, and he didn’t have to check his phone to know it was one of his coworkers texting him to find out where he was. He spared one last glance through the door at Owen, who was now curved into upward facing dog, and forced himself to hustle off toward the train.

  Kincaid’s day crawled by, and he was so preoccupied with thinking about Owen that he was basically useless. He’d zoned out in every meeting he’d been in, and this afternoon he’d had to trash most of the code he’d written because it was riddled with errors.

  “Maybe you should take tomorrow off,” his cube mate said, watching with amusement as Kincaid tried to stand up while still wearing his headphones.

  “I’m fine,” Kincaid growled. He yanked the earbuds out of his ears and tossed them on the desk in disgust.

  He couldn’t really make a grand exit with the boot, but he stalked off anyway, ignoring his coworker’s laughter as he headed toward the elevator. He was due at the physical therapist’s office in fifteen minutes so he could fill out paperwork before his appointment, but it was just around the corner, so he’d be able to hobble there with time to spare. He’d chosen the place based on proximity alone. Well, that and it took his insurance.

  He didn’t know anything about physical therapy, so he’d just rolled the dice. He was seeing Dr. Behrens, who he was pretty sure the receptionist had said was a guy when he’d made the appointment. That was all he knew about him, aside from the fact he worked Tuesday and Thursday evenings until eight.

  That had been the deciding factor for scheduling an appointment with him. He was one of two physical therapists in the practice who had evening hours, and Dr. Behrens had the first opening.

  When Kincaid arrived, the guy behind the desk handed him a clipboard with a pile of paperwork, and he settled into a comfortable chair and plowed through it. Most of it was rehashing the same questions he’d answered for his orthopedist’s paperwork, which was annoying. He was still working on it when the phone rang, and a second later the guy at the desk stood up.

  “Mr. Sorens? You can bring that back with you if you’re not done,” he said. “Dr. Behrens is running a little behind finishing up with another patient, but he asked me to take you back.”

  Kincaid followed him to a small locker room.

  “Pick any open locker. You’ll bring the key out with you,” the man said. He glanced at the file in his hands and at the gym bag Kincaid held. “Ankle? It’s up to you whether or not you feel comfortable in those clothes. Today should mostly be Dr. Behrens getting a feel for the severity of the injury and talking with you about your goals for therapy. Depending on what he finds when he does his exam, you may be doing some strengthening work today. You won’t be doing any big range-of-motion exercises, but if you brought something loose I’d go with that, personally.”

  Kincaid had shorts and a T-shirt in the bag. They’d be much more comfortable than his work clothes. He had a swimsuit in his bag, too, so he could stop by the gym on the way home. Though if tonight went well, he might get the okay for the bike or an elliptical machine. He could run for days on end with no complaint, but being in the pool every day was getting monotonous. It still beat not doing any exercise at all, but he’d love a little variety.

  “I’ll meet you in the hallway after you’re done. I’m Cliff, by the way.”

  Kincaid shook his hand and picked out a locker as Cliff left. No one else was in the men’s locker room, and it looked like all the keys were in them. The office must be deserted except for him, Dr. Behrens, and Cliff.

  “All set?” Cliff asked when Kincaid wandered out. He still had Kincaid’s chart in his hands, and he used it to point to an open door halfway down the hallway.

  “Dr. Behrens will be with you shortly,” he said, leaving the chart on a desk near the door. “You can have a seat while you wait.”

  Kincaid was tired of sitting. He paced around the room instead, reading the anatomy posters on the walls and looking at the equipment. There was an exam table behind a curtain toward the back, but aside from that and the posters, it looked like a small gym—a wall of mirrors, several different cardio machines, and a large open space with thick foam mats and an assortment of weights and other tools. One of the walls had a bunch of things that looked like rubber streamers hanging from it in a jumble of colors. It looked like something out of a carnival-themed BDSM club.

  He had his back to the door when it opened, and he winced as he turned too quickly, twisting his injured foot. To make matters worse, his walking boot skidded over one of the foam mats, and Kincaid lost his balance. The doctor grabbed him before he fell, and his stomach dropped like he’d actually fallen.

  “Owen?” he asked, shocked.

  “Kincaid? Oh wow.” He got Kincaid settled back on his feet and let go of him. Owen took a big step back, his expression mirroring Kincaid’s surprise. “I didn’t realize. Wow.”

  Kincaid still felt off-balance, even though he’d regained his footing. Owen’s tattoos were completely hidden under the button-down shirt he wore, and the khakis managed to make his ass merely look nice, which was several steps down from how biteable it looked in yoga pants.

  “You’re the physical therapist?” he asked, still trying to process it.

  Owen rubbed a hand over his red face. “Shit. Yes. Sorry. This is so unprofessional, but seeing you here really threw me for a loop.”

  He wasn’t the only one.

  Owen grabbed Kincaid’s chart from the desk and paged through it for a moment before looking up again. His blush was still blazing. It even reached the tips of his ears.

  “Normally I don’t treat patients who are also yoga clients, but if you’re okay with it, we can proceed.”

  Why wouldn’t he be okay with it? Aside from the fact that his new physical therapist was the dreamboat yogi he’d been perving on for months?

  Kincaid could totally do this. He just had to ignore the fact that he found Owen ridiculously attractive. It would probably be a good idea to forget he’d ever seen him in those form-fitting yoga shorts too. He’d especially need to forget the fantasies he’d had about Owen’s flexibility. Kincaid bit his lip. He was going to have to get control of his thoughts fast or today’s session was going to be unbearably awkward.

  “It’s fine with me,” he managed to say.

  “Right. Okay,” Owen said, clearing his throat. He picked up a tablet from the desk and turned it so Kincaid could see the X-ray on the screen.

  “The bone is healing nicely,” Owen said, pointing to a spot on the image. “Our goal will be to get you doing some range-of-motion exercises to ensure that when you’re ready for weight-bearing cardio, you won’t just turn around and hurt yourself again.”

  Kincaid grinned. “Trust me, I definitely won’t ignore the warning signs next time.”

  “If you decide to make yoga part of your training, you’ll be more in tune with your body so it will be easier to spot too,” Owen said. He laughed when Kincaid wrinkled his nose. “Not in tune with your body in some mystic way. I mean actually in tune. A good yoga practice makes you really take stock of your body and how your muscles work together.”

  Kincaid could get addicted to that voice. “We’ll see how it goes.”

  Honest-to-God, those dimples made Kincaid weak in the knees. He was s
o screwed.

  “Let me break down what we’ll be doing over your physical therapy sessions, okay? Normally I’d just focus on regaining range of motion in that ankle, but since you’re an athlete, we need to make sure you not only regain function but also know how to prevent future injury. So we’ll strengthen the ankle and also work on general strengthening and stretching exercises you can continue to do after you’ve returned to running.”

  He motioned toward the table in the back corner.

  “First things first, let’s evaluate your range of motion. The boot can come off if your gait is good, so let’s give it a whirl.”

  Kincaid hoisted himself up on the table, his mouth going dry when Owen dropped into an easy crouch in front of him to unfasten the boot. Owen took it off gently and probed at his ankle, running him through a few stretches before nodding approvingly.

  “Looks good so far. I’m going to take some measurements so we have a baseline for your range of motion. Nothing I do should hurt, so let me know if it does, okay?”

  Owen wheeled over a small cart with a laptop on it and an array of measuring tools. His hands were warm as they slid over Kincaid’s ankle, and he took a moment to thank his lucky stars that Owen wasn’t wearing latex gloves so Kincaid could feel his skin.

  Owen narrated each measurement as he went, moving Kincaid’s ankle one way and then another as he tested tendons and flexibility. Kincaid was disappointed when he finished and took a step back.

  “Let’s get your other shoe off, and we’ll see how things go.”

  Kincaid had been braced for the contact when Owen examined his injured ankle, but he gasped in surprise when Owen reached out and slid his tennis shoe off. Somehow it seemed even more intimate than Owen’s hands manipulating his ankle.

  Owen frowned, his hand heavy and warm on Kincaid’s socked foot. He’d never considered himself to have any sort of foot fetish, but seeing Owen’s strong hand cupping his heel was arousing. Or maybe it was that Owen was still crouched in front of him. He’d seen a porn that started off like this once, though the actor hadn’t been nearly as gorgeous as Owen.

  “Are you having pain in this foot too? It’s not uncommon for the uninjured leg to suffer strains and sprains because of the uneven pressure and gait a boot causes.”

  “No,” Kincaid said, embarrassed. “You just caught me by surprise.”

  “Ticklish feet? I’ll keep that in mind. Are you ticklish elsewhere? Do I need to be careful about how I touch you? I may need to do some work loosening up your calf, and the tool I use for it has been known to make some people uncomfortable.”

  Nothing about Owen’s tool would make Kincaid uncomfortable. Owen’s blush had faded, but now it was Kincaid’s turn. His cheeks heated, and he ducked his head, focusing on his feet and trying to banish the thoughts racing through his head. “No. I’m good.”

  “Just checking. I’ll need to adjust your posture sometimes when you start your yoga practice too. It’s a lot easier if I can do that manually, but it’s not unworkable if that’s a no-go.”

  God. He’d fantasized about that—Owen leaning over him and touching him, moving his body into position. Of course, that had been back when he was Dreamboat Yogi, not Owen. Kincaid had been very careful not to let himself get carried away with his fantasies now that he actually knew him.

  Owen led him to the open space in the center of the room.

  “First things first, I want to see you walk. Once we do that and I check for any problems with your gait, we can get your shoes back on and run you through some stretches.” He glanced at Kincaid’s toes. “You did bring the other sneaker, right? You didn’t just come with the boot?”

  To say that Kincaid was anxious to get out of the boot was a massive understatement. Of course he’d brought his other shoe.

  “It’s over there,” Kincaid said, motioning to the chair next to the exam table. He’d felt a bit silly when he’d carried it out of the locker room, but he was glad he had.

  Owen grinned. “Excellent. All right, let’s see you in motion. Walk about ten steps away from me, and then I’ll have you turn and come back. Don’t rush. Go for a nice natural speed.”

  Self-conscious as he walked, Kincaid nearly choked when Owen called out that everything was looking good.

  His face was still burning when he turned around, but luckily Owen was focused on Kincaid’s feet, not his face.

  “Come on back. Let me know if there’s any pain.”

  Miraculously, there wasn’t. The urge to break into a run was strong, but he restrained himself. That was a good way to end up back in the boot.

  “Let’s move over to the mats, and I’ll run you through some stretches.” Owen gestured to the front of the room. “We’re going to be working on opening up that joint and making sure you have a good range of motion.”

  Kincaid followed Owen over to the mat where Owen was laying out an assortment of bands that looked like the ones on the torture wall.

  “So why do you teach yoga if you’re a doctor? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking. Do you work here full-time?”

  “I have my DPT—doctor of physical therapy—degree, but I got my yoga teaching certification because I wanted to be able to offer a more holistic approach to physical therapy. And then it seemed like a waste not to actually teach,” Owen said with a shrug. “I really enjoy it. I wish I had more time for it, actually. I spend most of my free time at the studio teaching or filling in.”

  Kincaid could relate. Most of his free time went toward training or planning travel for races.

  Owen settled him on the mat and talked him through the range-of-motion stretches. Kincaid had never used resistance bands before, but he liked the burn of the stretches—they could be helpful when he was cooling down from his long runs. The ones where he sat for five minutes and suddenly could barely move afterward.

  “How many sessions do you think I’ll need?” he asked after they’d been working for half an hour.

  The stretches and exercises were fairly simple, but he was glad Owen was there to make sure he was doing them properly. Still, this seemed like something he could easily do in his living room instead of a clinic.

  “Generally it takes three or four, though I’d recommend you continue longer if your insurance has approved you for a set number. Later we can get into more intense exercises and strategies for keeping you healthy while you run.”

  He set the bands aside and crouched beside Kincaid. “I’d like to run you through some basic yoga moves that will also help strengthen that ankle. Are you up for it?”

  Kincaid was up for pretty much anything where Owen was concerned. He nodded and got to his feet, pleased that his ankle didn’t protest.

  He nearly swallowed his tongue when Owen started unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a tight white T-shirt that clung to his pecs. Fuck, he looked good.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Owen said, motioning to himself. “Normally I’d keep the shirt on with a client, but you already know about the tattoos. It’ll be easier for you if I can demonstrate the poses, and for that I’m going to need more flexibility.”

  Kincaid tried to look like he was unaffected. “Sure, of course. I mean, you should be comfortable. I don’t know why the tattoos would bother anyone. I think they’re amazing.”

  Way to play it cool, Kincaid, he scolded himself.

  Owen laughed. “They don’t scream ‘reliable professional,’ so I keep them covered,” he explained. “I’ve been told it’s off-putting for your doctor to be inked all over.”

  All over? Kincaid’s mouth went dry. He’d seen the tats on Owen’s forearms and the one that snaked around his calf, but that must mean he had more. It was a struggle to keep himself from darting a glance at the tight white T-shirt Owen was wearing.

  “I don’t see why,” Kincaid said. “How you look doesn’t have anything to do with how well you do your job.”

  Owen shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me. I kind of like that my patients don’t have that in
sight into my real life. I get some real weirdos. Hazard of the job—a lot of patients have crushes on their doctors.”

  It was hard not to when your doctor looked like Owen, but Kincaid didn’t point that out. He was enjoying the easy conversation with him, and confessing he was one of those patients would bring their camaraderie to a screeching stop.

  “Not that I think I’m that attractive—it’s a thing all doctors deal with, especially doctors who are more hands-on and spend significant amounts of time with their patients like physical therapists do,” Owen said, looking embarrassed.

  “Oh, you are,” Kincaid blurted. Owen looked up, eyes wide, and both of them burst into laughter.

  “Sorry. But you are handsome. So I get it. I’m sure it sucks for you, though.”

  Owen wrinkled his nose. “I get middle-aged women bringing me cookies, that kind of thing. It’s never a hot guy like you making the move. Not that I could reciprocate, even if I wanted to. There are rules about that for a reason—it’s a power play, and that’s not right. I’ve seen colleagues fired for less.”

  Kincaid’s brief elation over hearing Owen say he was hot deflated. Owen was clearly onto him and was letting him down gently. And he was right—hitting on your doctor was inappropriate, but a doctor reciprocating could be viewed as much worse.

  Owen grabbed a second mat and laid it out in front of Kincaid’s. “Okay. So we’re not going to be doing any power poses because those require grounding through your feet, and I don’t want to put that kind of stress on your ankle yet.”