Page 5 of Climb Me Maybe
The way she says 'intimate' sends heat shooting down my spine.
"The thing is," she continues, "climbers like you develop very specific tension patterns.Your lats, rhomboids, the deep muscles around your spine—they're probably locked up like Fort Knox.That demonstration yesterday probably just triggered something that's been building for months."
She's right, and we both know it.I've been waking up stiff for weeks, taking longer to warm up before climbs, favoring my left side without really admitting it.
She steps closer, and I register her height—or lack thereof.The top of her head reaches my sternum.
"What’s this consultation involve?"I ask.
"Just assessment.I ask you to move in certain ways, maybe do some basic range of motion tests.If you’re okay with it, I can do some diagnostic palpation—just feeling for areas of tension or restriction.”She smiles.“No oils, or Enya, or pressure to do anything you don’t want to do."
I smile, despite nerves.
"It’s only to try to understand what's going on with your body."
What's going on with my bodyis that it’s attracted to her in a way that goes beyond a professional consultation.
But I need help, and she clearly knows what she's talking about.
"Okay," I hear myself say."What do you need me to do?"
Her face lights up."Just some basic movement first."
She has me bend forward, twist left and right, reach overhead.Her eyes track every movement like the pro that she is, but I can't shake the feeling that she's seeing more than just muscle mechanics.
But that’s probably just wishful thinking.
"Your left side is definitely restricted," she says."Hip flexors are tight, probably compensating for whatever's going on in your lower back.Would you be comfortable if I did some light palpation?Just through your shirt?"
"Would it be easier if I took my shirt off?"I ask, then immediately wonder where that came from.
She blinks."Yes, actually.But only if you're cool with that."
It's just a professional assessment, right?
Before I can reconsider, I pull the Henley over my head and fold it, setting it on the chair.When I turn back, I watch her gaze travel over my torso.
“Those tattoos are beautiful,” she says, eying the traditional Japanese artwork that covers me.For a heartbeat, her lips part, fingers flexing like she wants to trace the ink curling over my shoulders.
Then she shakes her head, and it’s back to business.“Okay, turn around for me.”
I do as she says.The air’s cold on my bare skin.
Her silence prickles.
“Holy shit,” she breathes.
“What?”
“Your latissimus dorsi.They’re…Jesus, they’reart.”
“They’re muscles,” I reply, but some pride creeps in.
“Masterpiecemuscles.Development in those is really rare.Amazing work.”
“Thanks,” I say, unsure how to respond to that kind of compliment.
Her fingertips brush my trapezius, and I nearly gasp in a full-body shiver.
