33

Marianna.

My brain doesn't know what to do with the information.

I didn't sleep last night. Obviously. I lay in Duane's guest bed—which now feels like a crime scene, emotionally speaking—and stared at the grey ceiling and replayed that kiss approximately nine thousand times.

His mouth. His hands. The way he tasted like coffee and something darker. The sound he made when I kissed him back, this low groan from somewhere deep in his chest that I'm going to be hearing in my dreams for the rest of my life.

And then: Your brother's coming back. This is over.

What does that even mean?

What was "this" in the first place?

I have so many questions and zero answers and approximately three hours of sleep, which is definitely the ideal mental state for my first day back at work after becoming an international meme.

The bus to Kinetic takes thirty-two minutes. I spend them scrolling through T*****r on the cracked iPhone, watching the discourse about me and Oliver slowly die down as the internet finds new things to obsess over. Someone posted a photo of a celebrity's dog wearing a sweater. The world moves on.

If only my brain would get the memo.

This is over.

But he kissed me first. He's the one who—

Stop. Stop it. You have a job to do. A career to build. A life that doesn't revolve around Duane Richter and his confusing mixed signals and his stupid perfect mouth.

Focus.

The Kinetic lobby is quiet when I arrive at 7:45. Early again, because apparently I'm still trying to prove something. The eucalyptus smell is the same, the water feature is still trickling its expensive trickle, and everything looks exactly like it did a week ago.

Except I'm different now. I've been to Monaco. I've been kissed. I've been told it's over before it even started.

Normal Tuesday stuff.

I'm heading toward the locker room when I spot the sign outside Conference Room A:

MANDATORY STAFF DEVELOPMENT SESSION 9:00 AM - 12:00 PM Guest Instructor: Dr. Kevin Hartley, DPT, OCS, CSCS "Advanced Myofascial Release Techniques for Elite Athletes"

Wait.

Kevin Hartley?

I stop so abruptly that someone behind me nearly collides with my backpack.

Kevin Hartley. The Kevin Hartley. The man who literally wrote the textbook I used in my Sports Rehabilitation Methods class—I still have it somewhere, dog-eared and highlighted within an inch of its life. He's the one who developed the Hartley Protocol for rotator cuff recovery, the treatment method that cut rehabilitation time by 40% and got adopted by half the professional sports teams in America.

I watched his TED Talk three times during finals week junior year. Not for class—just because he made fascial release sound like poetry. Like magic.

And he's here. At Kinetic. Teaching a session that I get to attend.

Okay. Maybe today won't be a complete disaster after all.

Dr. Kevin Hartley looks exactly like someone who could revolutionize an entire field and make it look effortless.

Late forties, maybe early fifties, but the kind of fit that suggests he actually practices what he preaches. He has this presence—not intimidating, but magnetic.

"Good morning, everyone." His voice is exactly like I remember from the TED Talk—calm, assured, the voice of someone who's never had to shout to be heard because people naturally want to listen. "I'm Kevin Hartley. Some of you might know my work..."

I pull out my notebook, suddenly very aware that I'm about to spend three hours learning from a legend.

At least this will be a distraction. Something to focus on besides the implosion of my personal life.

The session is everything I hoped it would be and more.

Dr. Hartley doesn't just teach techniques—he tells stories. The NFL quarterback who almost lost his career to a shoulder injury until they tried a new approach to fascial mobilization. The Olympic gymnast whose chronic back pain turned out to be a hip issue that everyone else had missed. Each case study is a puzzle, and he walks us through the solution with the patience of someone who genuinely loves what he does.

"The body never lies," he says at one point, and the way he says it makes me want to tattoo it on my forearm. "Our job is to learn its language."

I'm taking notes so furiously that my hand cramps. Filling pages with diagrams and arrows and excited annotations like THIS!! and ask about this later and holy shit.

Around 11:30, we break into small groups for hands-on practice. I'm paired with Marcus—the quiet kid from orientation who still looks vaguely terrified of everything—and we take turns practicing the cross-fiber friction techniques Dr. Hartley demonstrated.

"You're really good at this," Marcus says, sounding surprised.

"Thanks." I adjust my angle on his forearm. "I've been practicing. On myself, mostly. Which sounds sad when I say it out loud."

He laughs. It's a nice sound. Normal. The kind of interaction that doesn't make me want to crawl out of my own skin.

Dr. Hartley circulates through the room, observing, offering corrections. When he reaches our station, he watches me work for a long moment.

"Marianna, right?" He's read my name tag, but the way he says it sounds personal. Warm. "Dr. Lindholm mentioned you. Said you've got exceptional instincts."

My face heats. "I'm just—I've studied your work. The textbook. And the TED Talk."

"Your technique is impressive for someone so new to the field," he continues. "

I don't know what to say. "Thank you," I manage. "That means... a lot."

He nods, that warm smile still in place. "Keep it up. I'll be interested to see where your career goes."

And then he moves on to the next station, and I stand there feeling like I just got handed an Oscar by the Academy itself.

The session ends at noon. People start packing up, chatting, comparing notes. The energy in the room is buzzing.

I'm organizing my notebook when Dr. Hartley appears at my shoulder.

"Marianna." His voice is quiet now. Just for me. "Do you have a few minutes?"