Chapter 13: Resistance Training (Sienna)

The lights went back but the connection with kaja had already went off.

I left to my room.

Day two of physical therapy was meant to establish a baseline. Instead, it was turning into an exercise in psychological warfare.

I stood in the center of the high-performance training suite, clip board tucked under my arm, watching Jaxson Vance deliberately ruin a basic hip-flexor extension. He sat on the edge of the examination table, his long legs hanging off the side. His left knee the one that had undergone full reconstructive surgery three months ago after a season ending tear was wrapped in a light compression sleeve.

Instead of smoothly lifting his knee to ninety degrees as instructed, he barely raised it two inches, let out a groan, and let his leg drop back down with a dull thump.

"Can't do it," Jaxson said, resting his elbows on his knees and looking up at me through dark, defiant eyes. "It’s stuck. My body’s telling me no."

"Your body isn't telling you no, Jaxson. Your ego is," I said, keeping my voice professional. "You completed this exact movement with forty degrees of clearance yesterday afternoon. A night's sleep didn't magically erase your range of movement.

He was too stubborn, accepting help meant accepting vulnerability. And to an NFL quarterback whose entire career hinged on invincibility, vulnerability was worse than defeat.

I set the clipboard down on the stainless steel counter and took two slow steps toward him. "First of all, I’m a certified physical therapist, not a medical doctor, as I told you yesterday. Second, sabotage won't get you out of this session. The athletic director made it clear: if you don't complete your daily protocol, you don't get cleared for field drills next month."

"Let him bench me then," Jaxson muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. "I’m not sitting here letting you push my leg around like I’m in a nursing home."

I looked at him and noticed he was terrified that his knee was broken beyond repair, and every slow, move showed how far his knee was broken.

If gentle encouragement and clinical discipline weren't going to work, I needed a different strategy. I needed to speak his language.

"Alright," I said smoothly, stepping back and folding my arms. "If you can't lift it, we’ll mark it as a fail for today.

Jaxson’s jaw tightened instantly. The smirk vanished, replaced confidence, "What did you say?"

"I just said Miller's recovery metrics were remarkable for this stage," I lied smoothly, maintaining a deadpan expression.

"He didn't complain about basic extensions. But then again, some athletes just have a higher tolerance for the process. If you want to yield the starter spot to him by draft week, that's completely your choice."

"Hand me the tension band," he said, his voice very calm.

"Are you sure?" I asked innocently. "We don't want you straining yourself."

"Give me the damn band, Sienna."

I handed him the heavy resistance loop. Jaxson snatched it from my hand, slipped it over his thighs, and slammed his back against the support pad. Without waiting for my count, he aggressively drove his leg upward, forcing his knee straight through the resistance, locking it out at full extension with brute force.

"Is that high enough for you?" he snapped, sweat already running down his face”

"Your form is sloppy because you're rushing," I replied calmly, taking a step closer to correct his alignment.

"Focus on control, not speed. You’re compensating with your lower back."

"I don't need a lecture," he gritted out. Before I could stop him, Jaxson stood up abruptly from the bench, brushing past me toward the heavy strength training equipment at the far end of the room.

"Jaxson, stop. We haven't cleared you for heavy weight loads yet," I warned, as he headed straight for the angled leg press machine.

"I’ve been doing ninety-pound presses in my sleep since high school," Jaxson said, sliding into the seat and racking two heavy plates onto the frame. "I’m not spending another twenty minutes lifting air."

"Jaxson, your graft hasn't fully integrated! If you overload the tendon under acute flexion, you risk”

"Watch me," he growled.

He released the safety latch. The weighted sled slid down toward his chest, bending his knees at a sharp, dangerous ninety-degree angle. I rushed forward, my pulse pounding against my ribs. "Jaxson, put the safety back on right now”

Ignoring me entirely, and moved upward, attempting to drive the weight back to the top through sheer, stubborn willpower.

Halfway through the extension, a sickening sound echo through the quiet room a faint, wet pop, followed instantly by Jaxson's sharp, strangled gasp.

Jaxson fell ,a brutal, agonizing groan tore from his throat as his left hand clamped frantically around his reconstructed knee.

"Jaxson!" I reached the machine in a split second, reaching over to lock the manual safety levers in place to secure the weights. "Don't move! Keep still”

"Shit..."shit , he panted, his forehead pressed against the cold metal frame, his body shaking violently.

I needed to assess the joint immediately, but he was trapped in the low seat of the machine, his leg pinned in there.

"I need you to get out of the seat," I commanded, my voice firm . "Can you swing your right leg out?"

He tried to shift, but the moment he put weight onto his left foot to push himself up, his knee buckled completely under him. He gasped out loud, a harsh, ragged sob of pain, lost his balance, and began falling sideways toward the concrete floor.

"I've got you!"

I lunged forward, catching in my arms before he hit the ground. The sudden impact of his weight crashed into me, throwing me off balance. I slammed my back against the support pillar of the machine, locking my arms around his chest and waist to absorb his weight.

Jaxson’s entire body went rigid against mine. His right arm reflexively wrapped around my shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of my scrubs with a desperate, white-knuckled grip. His heavy, shallow breaths fanned hot against the crook of my

neck.

For several seconds, neither of us moved. He was completely still, his heavy frame pressed flush against mine, entirely dependent on my strength to keep from collapsing onto the hard floor. The arrogant, untouchable star quarterback was gone; in my arms was a man terrified, breathless, and broken.

"Jaxson," I whispered, my own breath coming out ragged as I held his dead weight. "Look at me. Can you step onto your right foot?"

He didn't answer right away. His grip on my shoulder tightened until it was almost painful, his face buried into the side of my neck as he fought through a tidal wave of agony.

Then, slowly, his head shifted. He pulled back just enough to look down at me. His dark eyes were wide, slick with unshed tears of agony, staring into mine, a stare that made my chest ache.

"Sienna..." he rasped, his voice trembling so hard it barely carried. "I can't feel my foot."