Page 43 of Hat Trick

“You’re going to keep both legs straight, squeeze your buttocks as tightly as possible, then hold for five seconds.”

“And why am I doing this?”

“Because I said so,” I answer flippantly. I’m not in the mood to be challenged today, and I refuse to buy into the bitterness he’s throwing my way. “We’re going to do ten reps.”

Riley uncurls his arms and rests them by his sides. His fingers dig into the leather, and a labored breath escapes him when he tightens his glutes.

“This fucking hurts,” he grits out, and I move so I’m standing by his shoulders.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” I ask, and he gives me a curt nod. I put a hand right below his collarbone, applying the slightest bit of pressure so he can’t move his upper body. “Keep your spine on the table. You’re lifting your shoulders, and that’s going to cause pain in your lower back.”

“I don’t fucking understand.”

“Squeeze here.” I slip my other hand under his leg, a palm flat on the hem of his gym shorts as I tap his glutes. “And don’t lift this,” I add, drumming my fingers against his chest.

I’ve worked around men throughout my career, and I’m used to athlete’s bodies. I’ve become desensitized to the masculine parts of them when they step into the training room, noticing muscles and ligaments rather than a figure I could be attracted to.

The last thing I need is someone assuming there are sexual undertones to my job. I don’t want people to think I get pleasure out of touching a nearly naked man when he’s under my care, and it’s a very thin line women in my field have to toe at risk of allegations about ulterior motives running rampant.

But when Riley opens his eyes and locks his gaze with mine, I realize howintimatethis position is. It’s not injury prevention stretching. I’m not diagnosing a knee or calf wound sustained on the ice that involves a quick, sterile check. I’m touching him. I’m guiding him, lifting his glutes off the table, holding him there, and easing him back into the recovery position while he lets out a soft groan.

“Feel the difference?” I ask. The skin under his gym shorts is warm, and I clear my throat in hopes it also clears the fog in my head. “There should be less pain.”

“I guess. It doesn’t feel like this exercise is doing anything.”

“It might not be right now, but these movements are building blocks. They’re necessary if you want to regain your stability and prevent any further injuries.”

“Too late for that.” Riley finishes his ten reps, and I pull my hands away. “What now?”

“We’re going to take a minute to let your body recover in between sets.”

“Don’t want to do that. I want to get this over with.”

He’s usually tense during our sessions, but his anxiousness is next level today. Something must be bothering him, and I take a deep breath. “Okay. We’ll move to hip flexions. Do you want to start with your right or left?”

Riley turns onto his left side and bends his left leg, a decision made. “Now what?”

“I want you to lift your right thigh slightly, then bring it as close to your chest as you can. After, you’re going to push your leg backward as far as you can. Think of it as a pendulum.”

His eyes screw shut as his right thigh lifts an inch off his left leg. When he tries to swing his residual limb forward, he falls onto his back.

“Goddammit.” He yanks off his glasses and pushes the heel of his palm into his eye. “I can’t fucking do it.”

“Riley. It was one time. We’ll try again and?—”

“I don’t want to try again. I’m not good at any of this. I’m tired. My entire fucking body hurts. My brain fucking hurts.”

“Failing is part of the process, and?—”

“I don’t want to go through a process.” He shoves his glasses back up his nose and rolls his hips until he’s sitting up. “I don’t want to do anything.”

“We could?—”

“No,” he says, cutting me off. He reaches for his prosthetic, and I sigh, passing it over to him. “I’m done for today.”

“Okay. Do you want me to get you a water?”

“I want you to give me my right leg back so I don’t have to be humiliated day after day after fucking day.”

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