by A. J. Pine
“Jess?” Tracy asks. “You wanna join us?”
I hurry across the room, hoping I wasn’t standing there, staring, but what else could I have been doing?
Tracy stands on Adam’s right side, so I face her from his left. Lying flat on his back, Adam turns his head in my direction.
“Since I can’t make that lap around the building, can we consider your first patient interaction as payment for my losing our bet?”
Tracy crosses her arms and looks from Adam to me.
“Don’t worry, Trace. She bet in your favor. I lost.”
She rolls her eyes.
“How long have I been your PT, Carson?”
Long enough, I think, that she can talk to him like they’re buds. I’m a definite third wheel.
“Aw, come on, Tracy. Every day with you feels like the first.”
He freaking winks at her.
“Fifteen months. And you were playing on a bad knee long before.”
This Tracy is different than the one I’ve seen with other patients. She and Adam have a history. That much is clear. She still scares the crap out of me, but something in Adam puts the tiniest dent in her rigid professional exterior. I look at the mischievous smile on his face, the lines of it disappearing into his square jaw. I admit there is a certain charm to his being who he is and being good-looking on top of it. But I never pegged Tracy as the fangirl sort.
“And thanks to you and your never-failing punctuality, I’ll be back on the court for another season.”
Now I’m the recipient of an Adam Carson wink, like we share an inside joke. I’m not sure I get it, but I try to force my smile into something that says I do.
Tracy rolls her eyes at him and leaves the table for a minute, heading to the supply closet on the far end of the room.
“You knew she wouldn’t be late,” I say, finally getting the punch line.
“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.”
“No. You knew. You just like pushing her buttons.”
He brings his hands behind his head. “What can I say? After fifteen months, you gotta keep it interesting. Besides, one of these days, I’m gonna win that bet.”
I’ve known Tracy for three weeks, but I can already say with certainty he won’t.
Before I have a chance to voice my objection, she’s back at the table with a couple of different-sized foam rollers, both small enough to fit under Adam’s ankle.
Adam’s smile falters. He knows what’s coming—pain.
“Jess, our patient here had arthroscopy of the knee. What exercise do you think we’re getting ready to do?”
Though the semester has just begun, I’ve already taken orthopedic kinesiology. It’s the class that solidified my wanting to be a physical therapist, the one that prompted me to apply to five PT doctoral programs around the country. With any luck, I’ll be getting the hell out of the Midwest by next summer.
“I’m going to say our patient is in for a round of quadriceps contractions.” I’m surprised by the confidence in my voice and immediately want to second-guess myself, but I hold firm to my answer as Tracy stares at me for several seconds.
“Show me,” she finally says, handing me both options of foam to place under Adam’s ankle. One is a full cylinder, the other a half-moon replica of the first.
Adam’s eyes, closed in concentration since Tracy came back to the table, flick open and look at me. He’s nervous, and I don’t blame him. I’ve read about this, identified every muscle, bone, and ligament in multiple human anatomy labs, but I’ve never practiced what I read. And now Tracy is giving me the reins without any demonstration, asking me to rehab a post-op patient who happens to be an Easton University celebrity.
Shit.
Tracy steps back, allowing me to reposition myself on Adam’s right side. I answer the question in his eyes.
“I’m going to start with the half-moon and see how that feels, okay?”
He nods but says nothing, and for a second I think about what it would be like to be in his position.
I’ve had surgery only once, if you can call it an actual surgery. All I remember of the ambulance ride is the metallic smell of blood and my mom sitting next to me, squeezing my hand and assuring me everything would be okay. I survived the procedure, but even now, everything is far from okay. And though I know I shouldn’t blame her, because what happened had nothing to do with her, a part of me hates my mom, for lying. For promising me something that was never in her power to promise.
My focus goes back to Adam, lying here alone, and I wonder if I could fly solo like him or if I’d prefer the hand-holding and untruths.
Whether or not he needs his hand held, from me he’ll get the truth.
“First time is always the hardest,” I say. “Before we start, I’m going to take off your shoe. Is that okay?”
His teeth skim his bottom lip before the playful grin reappears.
“You’re not going to make me dinner first?”
My face flushes.
“I don’t cook,” I say, recovering quickly, and then I pull off his shoe. It’s only now I take note of his clothes—a plain white T-shirt, worn but well-fitting jeans, and green Chucks. His dark hair and even darker eyes contrast the understated tee, and it’s hard not to notice, especially without any of his bold pretense, how attractive he really is.
Without warning, a festering ache I have not felt since the last time I bumped into Bryan threatens to send me into a tailspin. But I’m good at pushing it down, hiding it in that little corner deep inside. I know the remedy for this feeling, and I’m only hours away from finding it.
I shake my head, and with it, the feeling.
My hand slides under Adam’s heel, lifting it enough to get the half-moon under his ankle. The tension in his body radiates to where my hand meets his foot. His eyes close again, his breathing heavy but still steady.
I look up at Tracy, and she nods her approval, my cue to move on to the next step, the stretches.
I swallow.
“Are you ready?” I ask him.
“Can we skip it if I say no?”
“No.”
“Well then . . .”
He lets the rest of his response hang. I place my right hand on top of his ankle, my left under his knee. He keeps his eyes open, watching me.
“All I need you to do is press your ankle down into the foam, as far as you can. The goal is to straighten your knee as much as possible. When you’ve hit that point, hold for five seconds.”
“I don’t know. You drive a pretty hard bargain for one day post-surgery.”
Tracy backhands Adam gently on the shoulder. Can she do that?
“Consider yourself lucky, Mr. Carson. I’d have made you hold the stretch for ten. It looks like you’re in good hands, so I’m going to head over to my desk and get some paperwork done.”
“Ooh, Mr. Carson. She’s getting all formal on me. I guess I better behave.”
Tracy heads back toward her desk on the other end of the room. I try to mask my shock and slight elation at receiving my first piece of praise from her. I must not be doing a good job because Adam asks, “What’s the smile for?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
“You should do it more often.”
Great. Now I’m trying harder not to smile, which only makes me smile more. I have to remind myself this is work, that I’m a professional, and no matter how much this boy’s charm is getting to me, a girl like me has no future with a guy like him. Hell, I don’t have a future with anyone.
My smile vanishes, and I return to business as usual.
“Okay, Mr. Carson. Let’s start your first stretch.”
3
I don’t know a whole lot about basketball, only enough to get by, like players’ names and positions or the score of the last game. Easton is known for its basketball team, and I can strike up a conversation even during preseason. All I need to do is sit at the bar, wait for a guy to come order his drink, and ask him about his March Madness pre
dictions. Worked last night. Why not again tonight?
The first guy who comes up to me is cute. I look at the table where he came from, and his buddies wave. He puts an empty pitcher on the bar and looks at my half-empty pint glass.
“Can I fill you up while I wait for this?” he asks, nodding toward the pitcher as the bartender grabs it.
I shrug, unzipping my hoodie to reveal the fitted tank underneath.
“Are you here alone?” He sounds hopeful. I’ve found that it’s not that hard to attract a stranger’s attention. It has nothing to do with how I look or what I wear, though I do put extra effort in on nights like tonight. But a girl nursing a drink on her own at a bar frequented by sports loving frat guys? The odds are in my favor.
“I’m meeting someone,” I lie, knowing I’m going to need that refill to go through with this. I always do. I slide my arms out of the sweatshirt, smiling and biting the inside of my cheek at the same time, my actions always at war with my will.
“What do you study?”
Ah, yes, the dreaded small talk, but I take the bait.
“I’m a double major, biology and kinesiology. Next will be a doctorate in physical therapy. I’m thinking of specializing in PT for athletes.”
And three, two, one.
“You a sports fan?”
“Basketball, mainly,” I reply. “What do you think about our team this year?”
His face lights up, like I’ve just asked THE question he’s been waiting for all his life.
“Seriously? We can’t lose. This is our year. With Carson leading our offense, I’m telling you. Final. Four. I know he’s on the bench for a bit, but damn. Dude’s gonna kill it. He has to for his senior year!”
He waits for me to jump in, but I sit there, momentarily speechless. The mention of Adam Carson—a guy who was a complete stranger before today—ignites the same damn ache, the one that does its job to quell any semblance of hope before I let it seep in.
The bartender returns with the full pitcher, and as cute guy lifts it to give me a refill, I put my palm over the top of my glass.
“Thanks, but I’m supposed to meet my friend somewhere else in ten minutes. I’m really sorry.”
His stunned look tells me he thought this was a sure thing. And it almost was, but instead I’m bailing, out the door before he can say another word.
As I walk home, heat flares in my cheeks, anger that I want to stamp down into that place where the tears have hidden since last year. When I slam the door behind me, safe in the confines of my apartment, I lose it.
“Fuck!!!!”
At least it’s not tears, and I commend myself for the small victory.
Zoe bursts out of her room. Huh. Guess she heard that.
“Dude. You okay?”
How is she so chill? Always?
“I’m fine,” I say, stifling a maniacal laugh. “Just fucking fine.”
I look toward my room, hating the idea of going in there alone. Of waking up alone. I kick off my shoes and use my last bit of motivation to brush past Zoe and collapse onto the couch. She must think I’m insane, and she’s probably not too far off.
I expect her to ignore me, to flee the crazy girl for the safety of her room. I sure as hell would. Instead, she plops down in the big leather chair kitty-corner from me.
“Wanna talk?” she asks, absentmindedly spinning the rubber bracelets lining her wrist.
“No.”
“It’s Thursday.” She turns on the TV and brings up the guide. “Wanna watch The Vampire Diaries?”
“I don’t watch Vampire Diaries.”
“Perfect. Neither do I. We’ll just watch this show that neither of us watch and not talk. Sound good?”
I nod my assent.
We’re not friends, Zoe and me, unless you consider answering her ad for a roommate I found posted in the student union. It was last spring, after I deactivated from my sorority and basically deactivated from all previous connections in my life, which meant I had no roommate for senior year. Her terms were simple: non-smoker, non-broke, and non-freak. That’s what the ad said, and I liked it. She even double-checked when I moved in earlier this fall, and I assured her I hadn’t taken up smoking or copious spending but that she’d have to be the judge on the third one. Jury’s still out, especially since we’ve never officially hung out. Until now.
We sit in silence for the duration of the show, the tension in the air dissipating like a lifting fog.
“Those are some jealous, angry vampires,” Zoe says as the credits roll. “And I’m not gonna lie, fucking sexy too.”
I laugh, and it feels good.
“Though,” she continues, “here’s the thing. I’m not really sure I have enough information to assess whether I am team Stefan or team Damon.”
“It is on Netflix,” I say, eyebrows raised.
“It would be research. You know, to make an informed decision. Don’t you think?”
I nod, and Zoe grabs her laptop off the coffee table. She moves from the chair to the spot next to me on the couch and loads The Vampire Diaries season one.
“Are we, like, friends now?” I ask, feeling like an idiot as soon as the words come out of my mouth.
“Guess so.”
She presses Play and sets the laptop on the table facing us.
“Cool,” I say. “It’s kind of been a while.”
Zoe doesn’t say anything else after this. Neither do I. Sometime, five or so episodes later, we both fall asleep feet to feet on the couch. That’s where we wake up in the morning.
***
I don’t have any classes on Fridays, so I head to the hospital early. Two perks of studying in the hospital cafeteria as opposed to the library or union—no chance of bumping into anyone I know and free refills of shitty coffee. I have a bio exam on Monday, so I may as well get a jump start on my weekend of studying.
“Buy you a free refill?”
I’m in full study mode, so though I hear the question, I don’t realize it’s intended for me.
When I don’t look up, I hear an obnoxious display of someone clearing his throat. This gets my attention.
I look up to see Adam Carson, still sporting his crutches, standing on the other side of my table.
“It’s free refills,” I remind him. “Emphasis on the word free.”
Why does he have to be so friendly?
“I know,” he says, his devilish grin almost cracking my exterior. “That’s why I’m buying.”
I remind myself that even Tracy has fallen prey to his charm, and I fight to resist it.
“Won’t it be difficult to walk and carry a cup of coffee?”
His right hand flies to his heart while his jaw drops in exaggerated drama.
“Ouch. You’re going to mock an injured man who simply wants to buy you coffee?”
“Free coffee.”
“Technicality.”
I look at my phone. It’s only two o’clock.
“Why are you here already?” I ask, but it’s none of my business.
He pulls the crutch out from under his left arm and somehow maneuvers his long, lean body into the seat across from me.
“I could ask you the same thing. You always do your homework at the hospital? Seems a little, I don’t know, cold? Sterile?”
I flinch.
“Hey. I’m just messing with you. Did I say something wrong?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing. You’re just the first person who’s ever asked. And yes, I do study here a lot. It’s a great place to go when I don’t want to be interrupted.”
It’s the truth, but forced charm resistance or not, I didn’t intend it to come out like that.
“Sorry,” he says, his expression wavering. “I didn’t mean to bother you. Just not used to seeing people I know hanging in the caf.”
People he knows. I’m his intern, but he doesn’t know a thing about me. He doesn’t know that I choked at the bar the other night on the mere mention of his name and that the last t
hing I want is to give my subconscious ammunition to do that to me again.
“No,” I say. “It’s fine. I mean, that’s why I come here, but I wasn’t trying to say you were interrupting. Shit.”
The last word is supposed to be under my breath, or in my head, but Adam hears it, and the corners of his mouth quirk back up into that goddamn grin.
I imagine it’s hard for taller people to find comfort in a plastic cafeteria chair, but Adam looks downright miserable with his bandaged leg jutting out into the aisle. He doesn’t need to be here, and certainly not with me. But here he is wearing his green and white basketball shorts, school colors, and a black T-shirt. On his feet, again, the green Chucks. His arms cross on his chest.
“Well, only because you asked so nicely, I’m here early for a consultation. ACL repair.”
The smile that’s been threatening to appear dissipates.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “You had arthroscopy. Tracy said you’ll be good as new for the season opener.”
His hands clasp behind his head, and he lets go of a long breath, as if he’s been holding it the entire conversation. “That’s the plan, for the short term at least. My doctors do any small fixes they can to avoid the larger issue for as long as possible, hopefully until the end of the season.”
He’s already on the bench for preseason practice, and now he might not make it through his final season. This makes me sad for him, a guy I barely know, and I’m not sure what to say. I don’t know how to reconcile having any sort of emotional reaction to him when I know I can’t let myself go there.
“I’ve got other plans, you know. Besides this. I’m an elementary ed major. PE.”
I laugh. “You mean you don’t major in basketball?”
He shakes his head, smiling.
“There’s more to me than basketball, Jess.”
Adam stops, but I can tell he’s not finished. His expression softens, letting me peek through the tiniest crack in his unwavering confidence.
“I’m realistic,” he continues, his voice gentle but resolute. “I’m not going pro. I knew by the end of last season that my knee would never last. But I do want to make it through this year.”
