Page 22 of Opening Strain

“Bennett, I’m not a groupie. I’m a trained physical therapist trying to do a job. Now lie still.”

She repeats her exploration, touching the pull and causing me to cry out. Her hands spring from my legs. After a minute, they return to complete her palpation. What a word. Palpation. Should bepalpitationbecause when she touched the pull, it sent me into one. I focus on the throbbing centered around my injury rather than the woman who caused it.

She tugs my T-shirt down, skimming her fingers over my abs. I would make a crude comment about this, but my leg hurts too damn much. The sound of her pen scribbling provides background noise while I calm the fuck down.

“You can sit up now. I only have one more test I’d like to do if you’re up to it?”

Like I have a choice. I come to a sitting position and my legs, once again, dangle over the side of the table. At least there’s no pain in this position.

She points to the floor. “For this load test, I need you to get off the table and lie down on the floor on your left side, with your right leg stretched out. Place your left foot in front of you.”

I try to get into the proper position, but her head tilt indicates something’s off. The next thing I know, she moves my legs to her liking. Good thing I’m wearing sweats.

“Everything good?”

I query my body. “Yeah. No pain.”

“Good.” She offers a small smile. “What’s going to happen is I’ll ask you to hold your right leg up, then I’m going to press down. Your job is to use your inner thigh muscle and not to let me move your leg. Got it?”

My lips purse. “You want me to hold up my bad leg?”

“Yes.”

With reluctance, I lift my leg. The pull reminds me it’s there.

“How’s the pain level?”

“I’d give it about a three.”

“Alright. Now I’m pressing down. Don’t let me move your leg.”

Pressure is applied to my leg, to which I counteract for a moment. Then the injury roars to life loud and clear, and I let my leg drop. I turn onto my stomach and will the pain to stop.

A hand smooths my T-shirt, which I didn’t realize had ridden up. “You did it. Good job.”

I lifted my leg for maybe five seconds. Without moving my head, I murmur, “You need to hang out with other people. Your bar for what constitutes a good job is so low a worm could get a trophy.”

“Your injury is a low level grade three pull, which means we have a lot of work ahead of us to get you performance-worthy.” She helps me sit up on the floor and joins me with her clipboard.

For the first time, doubt creeps in. If I can’t take the stage, will UC replace me with a new lead singer?Not. An. Option. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

“Good.” She reaches behind her head and tightens her ponytail. “Here’s the plan. You need to come here twice a day for a couple of hours, at eight and again at six or so.”

I swallow. This is no joke. Will she be able to fix me?

Unaware of my inner turmoil—or ignoring it—she continues, “We’ll work on exercises, sometimes using weights, but also give you massages, heat, and ice. When you’re not here, I’ll need you to rest and elevate your leg, and ice it at least once a day.”

“Gotcha.” I crack my knuckles like Luke does. Gotta drop the pussy act. “I’m ready.”

“I see your doctor prescribed pain medication.” Her grey eyes shift from the papers to me.How did I not realize before how expressive they are?

I blink. “Which I refused. Luke has the script. Over-the-counter stuff is fine.”

Her breathing shallows. “I understand.”

I know she does, probably more than any other person on earth. Still, I feel the need to explain. “After what happened with Darren, the band agreed never to be tempted with that stuff again. I’m not going back on my word.”

“Thank you.”

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