15

Marianna.

I wake up to the specific kind of silence that only exists after you've done something catastrophically embarrassing.

The grey ceiling stares down at me. I stare back. We have a moment.

You hugged him, my brain supplies helpfully.

I roll over and check the cracked iPhone. 7:23 AM. Monday.

God.

I need to talk to him. Apologize. Explain that I'm not usually a nightmare-having, chest-burying lunatic who throws herself at men in the middle of the night. That it was a momentary lapse in judgment brought on by stress and sleep deprivation and the general catastrophe that is my existence.

I need to look him in the eye and prove that I'm fine.

I can do this.

Probably.

I find him in the gym.

He's facing away from the door, standing in front of the mirror wall, and for a second I just... watch. Like a creep. Like the pathetic creature I apparently am.

He's shirtless again—because why would he ever wear a shirt, why would he make anything easier for me—and there's a bruise blooming across his left shoulder blade. Purple and angry, spreading across his skin like spilled wine on white linen.

The crash.

He's trying to rotate his left shoulder. Trying, and failing. I can see it in the way his trapezius seizes up, the way his scapula hitches instead of gliding smoothly. He gets maybe forty degrees of external rotation before his whole body tenses and he stops, jaw tight, breathing controlled.

Something's wrong with his rotator cuff. Or his posterior deltoid. Maybe both—whiplash from a high-G impact can mess up the entire kinetic chain from cervical spine to shoulder girdle. The trapezius overcompensates, the levator scapulae locks up, and suddenly you can't lift your arm without feeling like someone's stabbing you with a hot poker.

I know this. This is literally what I went to school for.

He tries again. Gets slightly less range this time. Makes a sound—barely audible, more exhale than anything—that sounds like frustration distilled into its purest form.

"You're going to make it worse."

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

Duane's eyes find mine in the mirror. Dark. Unreadable.

"Did I ask for your opinion?"

"No." I step into the room. My bare feet are silent on the padded floor. "But you're compensating with your upper trap, which means you're probably dealing with some posterior capsule tightness, and if you keep forcing it you're going to end up with impingement syndrome on top of whatever soft tissue damage you already have."

He turns around slowly. Faces me directly for the first time since last night, since go back to sleep, since I threw myself at him like a drowning person grabbing for a life raft.

His expression is exactly as cold as I expected. Colder, maybe.

"The team has physios," he says finally.

"I'm sure they do. And I'm sure they're excellent. But they're not here right now, are they?" I take another step closer. Professional mode. Clinical mode. Don't think about his bare chest, don't think about the way his abs look in this light, don't think about— "When did you last have someone work on it?"

"Yesterday. After the medical checks."

"And it's worse today?"

The slight tightening of his jaw is answer enough.

"That's normal," I say. "Soft tissue inflammation peaks at 24-48 hours post-trauma. The initial treatment probably helped, but you need ongoing management. Especially if you're planning to drive again this week."

His eyes narrow. "There's a test session on Wednesday."

"Then you definitely need someone to work on that shoulder." I'm close enough now to see the individual fibers of the bruise, the way the purple bleeds into green at the edges. Close enough to smell him—sweat and that woody cologne and something underneath that's just... him. "Let me help. Consider it payment for letting me crash here."

He doesn't move. Doesn't agree or disagree. Just stands there, a statue made of muscle and distrust and terrible emotional availability.

"Fine," I say, suddenly exhausted by the effort of existing in his presence. "Don't let me help. Keep forcing the range of motion until you tear something. I'm sure your team will love explaining to the sponsors why their star driver is out for the season because he was too proud to let someone—"

"Fine."

I blink. "What?"

"I said fine." He turns back toward the mirror, presenting me with the landscape of his back—the bruise, the tension locked in his muscles, the rigid line of his spine. "Do whatever you need to do."

Oh.

Oh no.

I didn't actually think he'd say yes.

Here's the thing about touching someone professionally: it's supposed to be clinical. Detached. You're assessing tissue quality, looking for adhesions, identifying trigger points. The body under your hands is just a body—a collection of muscles and tendons and fascia that need to be manipulated in specific ways to achieve specific outcomes.

That's what I tell myself as I position myself behind Duane Richter.

That's what I repeat like a prayer as I place my hands on his shoulders for the first time.

Clinical. Professional. You are a healthcare provider performing a therapeutic intervention.

His skin is warm. Warmer than I expected, radiating heat like he's running at a slightly higher temperature than normal humans. Underneath, I can feel the density of muscle—the kind that comes from years of specific training, the neck and shoulder strength required to withstand G-forces that would make normal people pass out.

"I'm going to palpate the area first," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Tell me if anything is particularly painful."