Page 41 of Revive Me

Another rough swallow, but this time, I nod. I don’t want to tell her about how gait training was the trigger for my biggest meltdown last year, and the thing that made me lose all hope that I would ever walk again. It was what put me in the black hole that Lily found me in a few weeks ago. Because when I failed as miserably as I did withassistedwalking, I came face to face with the knowledge that I was never going to be able to walk again. I couldn’t treat it as amaybe one dayanymore.

And I’m terrified that it’s going to happen again.

“I should probably focus a little more on lifting,” I tell her, not making eye contact. “I’d feel better if I was stronger.”

Lily studies me in my periphery, and I can senseshe’s about to push me.

My body tenses in preparation. I’m about to lash out at her, I know I am. I’m notreadyfor this shit.

“Okay. I understand. But I want to do some calves next time, instead.”

My head snaps up. “What?”

She shrugs. “I said okay. You know your body better than I do. The last thing I want to do is tell you what you are or aren’t ready for.”

Eyes narrowing in her direction, my tone is skeptical as I ask, “Who are you and what have you done with my tough love PT.”

Lily smiles, and I wonder if that was a flash of relief in her eyes just now. “She’s on vacation today, but she’ll be back next week.” Her gaze slides down to my legs. “She’d probably tell you to do another two sets on the leg extension machine if she were here. But since she’s not”—she throws a towel at me that I catch—“you’re officially done for the day.”

“I feel like this is a setup,” I mutter, dragging the towel down my sweaty face. “I swear to God, if you make me do double the reps next week?—”

Lily’s laugh is a sweet, tinkling sound I can’t get enough of. “It’s not, I swear. I just know you’re pretty sore and don’t want to push you any harder. My old trainer told me it’s better to be 90% trained than 101% overtrained.”

“Remind me to introduce you to my old boxing coaches,” I say with a snort as I transfer over to my wheelchair. “They’ll dissuade you of that mentality real quick.”

She shrugs, still smiling. “Maybe. But I’m coming from a place of health. In my experience, high-level pro athletes trample all over health as a priority when their goal is world domination.”

I don’t respond, too stuck on Lily’s experience with high-level pro athletes.Has she ever worked with a fighter? Is shecurrentlyworking with a fighter? What if I know who he is? What if?—

“Case in point,” Lily says, interrupting my train of thought as she steps closer to me. “You’re sore everywhere, aren’t you? You’ve been working out a lot.Toomuch.”

She gets her answer when she squeezes my shoulder muscle, and I can’t hide my wince.

“I knew it. Your movements have all been stiff today.” Shifting to stand behind me, her other hand also drops to my shoulder. When she starts to knead the muscle, the deepest groan I’ve ever heard rumbles out of my chest.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” Lily murmurs, digging even harder into the muscle. “Is this all from pull-ups? How many did you do, a million?”

I don’t know if she’s actually waiting for an answer. Even if she was, I couldn’t assemble one, lost to everything that isn’t this massage.

Fuck,it hurts. Clearly, Lily knows what she’s doing, because this is equal parts pain and relief.

“Holy shit, that feels good,” I groan, my head dropping forward to give her more surface area to massage. “Fuck being a psychologist, you could be a masseuse.”

“We had to take a massage course in school,” Lily explains, but she sounds distracted. When she moves to the area between my shoulder blades and kneads twice as hard, I let out another groan of pain.

Her hands leave my body, and I lift my head to protest her stopping. But when I catch sight of her reflection in the mirror, I realize she’s only pulling her sleeves up, a determined look on her face. Then she returns to punishing my muscles.

“Okay, note to self,” she grunts after a few minutes of massaging—and several groans later. “Put limits on your strength training homework. These knots areinsane,Roman.”

I let out a half-assed sound of agreement, barely listening. In only a few minutes, her hands have rubbed out most of the knots, and now the massage has melted into that pleasant kind that people pay hundreds of dollars for as stress relief.

“Seriously. No more pull-ups for you,” she grumbles. Shifting to the side of my wheelchair, she starts to work on my arms now, her thumbs digging into my tricep.

“Whatever you say, Doc,” I slur, turning my head to watch her motions.

By the time she’s massaging my forearms, I’ve become mesmerized by her hands. They’re smooth and blemish-free, and her short nails are the cutest shade of pale pink. But it’s the way they move that really draws my attention. She’s so skilled, and the firm way in which she grips me makes me feel like putty beneath her touch. I’ve never felt like?—

Suddenly, her movements stop. When she pulls her hands back, I look up at her in confusion, only to see she’s avoiding my eyes and awkwardly rubbing her thighs.

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