Page 17 of Spring Tide

Sweat breaks out across my brow. My hand shoots out, grabbing hold of her wrist before I can stop myself. “Fucking hell, Harper.”

“I’m sorry!” She withdraws both arms, frantically shaking them in front of her chest. “I’m all done now.”

My spine stiffens, eyes downcast. “Did I hurt you?”

“No! I was just surprised. DidIhurtyou?” Her voice is low, frantic, and stilted as she rambles on. “Shoot, that was a silly question. Of course I hurt you. Um, is there ... is there ever a time when the pain disappears for you?”

“Directly after an ice bath, when everything else is fucking numb.”

“Hmm,” she murmurs.

“Look, I did my own research, and I’m fairly certain this is just an MCL tear.”

“You’re right, Luca.” She flashes me an impressed smile, one brow slightly raised. “It’s definitely an MCL tear, probably a grade two partial. You’ll need to tread lightly for at least three more weeks.”

My head snaps up, determination steeling my resolve. “Not possible.”

“If you don’t, you could end up needing surgical intervention.” She’s shifted away from me now, hands stuffed under her pockets. “Then you’d be out for, like, six months.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I know this must suck, Luca.” Her shoulder twitches, and I know she’s itching to reach out. Harper uses physical touch as a source of comfort, that much is clear. But she’s trapped her hands beneath her thighs now—almost as if she needs a physical reminder, a clear-set barrier, to stop herself tonight.

“Yeah,” I mutter.

“I honestly can’t imagine what you’re going through. Unfortunately, this is just the reality of the situation. I’ll help you with your rehab, but you need to take it easy, or there’s not much I can do.”

“I need to keep showing face at practice.” A heavy sigh pushes through my lips. “And I need to be on the field to generate a top-quality highlight reel.”

“Okay, how about this: when it’s not practice or game time, you just stay off your knee completely.” She pulls her hands free, eagerly clasping them together as if she’s made a grand discovery. “Then you can rest and rehab whenever you’re off the field.”

“That’s all well and good, but I also have to go to work.”

“Luca, you can’t have it all. You have to give up something here and—”

“No.”

She pushes off the bed, hands perched on her hips as she stands before me. “No? Just no?”

“I can do this. All of it,” I insist. “Give me the exercises and your recommendations. I’ll make everything else work.”

Her eyes narrow as she assesses me. There’s a long silent pause, a soft shrug, and then, “Okay.”

“Where do we start?”

“For tonight, we’ll do some massage and gentle stretching. Then I can write you a tailored home program and just ... just do your best to rest when you can, I guess.”

“Then let’s get started.”

“Could you please lie on your back and bridge your knees?”

An odd feeling passes through me at her request. There’s a sudden realization that I’m sitting alone on a woman’s bed in my underwear, but I push through my discomfort and carefully lie back. This is what I asked for, after all.

As I shift my hips, awkwardly wriggling into place amongst her sea of pillows, Harper manages to flash me an easy grin. For some inexplicable reason, her complete lack of concern puts me at ease. She barely bats an eye as I release a strained moan, the pain in my knee reverberating through my body.

“Okay, Luca.” She moves into place beside me. “I’m going to press my hand against the side of your hip here”—her fingertips graze my outer thigh—“to massage your TFL.”

“TFL?”

---