27

Marianna.

The door opens.

"Knock knock!" A British accent. Cheerful. The vocal equivalent of sunshine. "Anyone home?"

I turn around.

Oliver Hale looks exactly like his photo, except somehow more... three-dimensional. Real. He's wearing Alpine team gear—a blue and pink polo that should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't—and he's got one of those smiles that makes you want to smile back despite yourself.

"Hi!" He extends his hand. "You must be Marianna? Dr. Lindholm said you'd be handling my session today."

I shake his hand. It's warm. Firm. Normal human contact that doesn't make me want to dissect every micro-expression for hidden meaning.

"That's me," I say. "Nice to meet you, Oliver."

"Oh god, please call me Ollie. Oliver makes me sound like I'm about to inherit a manor house and marry my cousin." He laughs at his own joke, completely unselfconscious. "Everyone calls me Ollie. Except my mum when she's cross, but that's a whole different situation."

I find myself smiling. Actual smiling, not the forced grimace I've been practicing in the mirror.

"Ollie it is."

He hops onto Table 1 with the kind of easy athleticism that comes from having a body that actually listens to commands. "Fair warning: I'm a terrible patient. I talk too much. Ask too many questions. Dr. Lindholm probably already warned you."

"She mentioned you like to chat."

"'Like to chat' is British for 'won't shut up.'" He grins. "But honestly, it helps. The whole lying-there-in-silence thing makes me anxious. My brain starts spiraling—like, what if I'm breathing weird? What if my back cracks and it sounds gross? What if—"

"Breathing weird is not a thing," I interrupt, pulling on gloves. "And if your back cracks, that's actually a good sign. Means we're releasing gas bubbles from the joint capsules. It's called cavitation."

"See, this is already better than my last massage. The guy just grunted at me for forty-five minutes. I wasn't sure if he was fixing my back or planning to murder me."

I laugh. Actual laughter. When was the last time I laughed at work?

"I promise not to murder you," I say. "Now, tell me about the lower back. When did it start bothering you?"

He launches into an explanation—something about the G-forces in Turn 11, the way the Miami track has that weird bump on the back straight, how his trainer thinks his hip flexors are too tight and it's causing compensatory patterns. He's animated when he talks, using his hands to demonstrate, completely lacking the cold distance that—

Stop. Not thinking about him.

I assess Ollie's lower back—erector spinae are tight as hell, quadratus lumborum is in knots, and yeah, his hip flexors are definitely pulling everything anterior. Classic pattern for someone who spends hours in a cramped racing position.

"Okay," I say. "This is going to take some work, but it's all manageable. I'm going to start with the hip flexors, then move to the QL, finish with the erectors. Sound good?"

"You're the boss." He settles onto the table, face down. "Just, uh, fair warning about the hip flexors. I'm ticklish."

"Noted."

I start working on his psoas—it's buried deep, requires real pressure to access properly—and he makes a sound that's half groan, half laugh.

"That's the spot. Jesus. How did you find that so fast?"

"Anatomy," I say. "Plus experience. I've worked on a lot of athletes with anterior pelvic tilt."

"Fancy words for 'your hips are fucked.'"

"Essentially."

We fall into an easy rhythm. I work, he talks. About the race—"P14 is shit, but at least I finished, unlike some people"—about the team—"my engineer is brilliant but has the communication skills of a very stressed potato"—about living in Monaco—"it's lovely but everyone's so bloody rich it makes you feel poor even when you're not."

He asks about me. Where I'm from—"New York, but I'm trying to forget that chapter of my life"—how I got into sports rehab—"long story involving bad career advice and a stubborn refusal to quit." He laughs at my jokes. Asks follow-up questions. Treats me like a person instead of a piece of furniture that occasionally applies pressure to his muscles.

It's... nice. Shockingly nice.

This is what therapy sessions are supposed to feel like.

"You're really good at this," Ollie says suddenly. "Like, I've had a lot of physios—team doctors, private trainers, that murder-grunt guy—and you're top three, easy."

Something warm blooms in my chest. Pride, maybe. Or just the basic human need for validation.

"Thanks," I manage. "That's... really nice to hear."

"I'm serious. My back already feels better and we're not even done." He shifts slightly, testing his range of motion. "Are you taking new clients? Because I'd love to book regular sessions while I'm in the States."

"I—" I pause, hands still on his lower back. "I just started here, actually. This is my second day."

"Bullshit."

"I'm serious."

"Well, fuck me." He laughs. "If this is you on day two, I can't wait to see what you're like with a month of experience. You're going to be unstoppable."

The session ends at 9:30. Ollie sits up, rolls his shoulders, twists his spine experimentally.

"Mate, that's incredible. I feel like a new person." He pulls out his phone. "What's your schedule like? I want to book you for next time I'm in Miami."

"You'd have to go through Dr. Lindholm," I say, already mentally preparing for the possibility that she'll assign me to someone else, someone less fun, someone who treats me like—

Stop it.

"I'll talk to her." He's typing something into his phone. "Do you have I*******m? The team likes me to post behind-the-scenes stuff—recovery sessions, training content, that sort of thing. I could tag Kinetic, tag you if you're comfortable with it. Good exposure."

I give him my handle—@marireyes23, which has exactly 847 followers and consists primarily of photos of food I've eaten and the occasional sunset—and watch him follow me in real-time.

"There. Now we're properly connected." He grins. "Fair warning: I post a lot of stupid memes. My social media manager hates me."

"I'll brace myself."

He's pulling on his jacket when he pauses, like he's just remembered something.

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You're clearly into F1, right? Working here, with the teams and everything."

I freeze. Where is this going?

"I mean, I know the technical side," I say carefully. "The biomechanics, the injury patterns. It's part of the job."

"Right, but like..." He leans against the table, completely casual. "Who do you support? What team? Everyone's got a favorite, even if they pretend to be neutral."

My mouth goes dry.

"I don't really follow the sport that closely," I lie. "I just, you know, know the basics for work purposes."

Ollie tilts his head, studying me with those blue eyes that suddenly seem a lot sharper than they did five minutes ago.

"Huh."

That's it. Just: "Huh."

But there's something in his expression. Something that makes my stomach drop.

"What?" I try to sound casual.

"Nothing." He's smiling, but it's different now. Knowing. "It's just... you seem like the kind of person who pays attention to details. Who does her research." He pushes off from the table, heading toward the door. "I bet you know more about F1 than you're letting on."

He pauses in the doorway, looking back at me.

"See you next time, Marianna. And hey—" His smile widens. "—for what it's worth? Veloce is having a great season. Richter's on fire. I'd understand why someone might be a fan."

The door closes behind him.