36

Marianna

*This is what you want*, a voice whispers.

No, I don't want this. I don't want—

I'm trapped in this frozen flesh-prison and someone else is driving.

I try to wake up. Try to force my eyes open, my limbs to move, my mouth to form the word *stop*. For one fraction of a second, I think I succeed—I see the ceiling, grey and familiar, Duane's guest room ceiling that I've memorized from all those nights of not-sleeping.

But I can't move. My body is lead. My arms are pinned. My legs won't respond no matter how hard I scream inside my own skull.

The hands keep moving.

I'm trapped in my own body, watching from somewhere above as it responds to things it shouldn't respond to, drowning in sensation that I never asked for and can't escape.

I wake up gasping.

The sheets are soaked with sweat. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in the places where dream-hands were touching me seconds ago.

It takes me a full minute to remember where I am. Duane's apartment. *

I check my phone. 3:47 AM. I'm not going back to sleep. I know this the way I know my own heartbeat. The dreams will come back if I close my eyes. They always come back. So I lie there in the dark, staring at the grey ceiling, and count the hours until I have to pretend to be a functional human again.

I'm dragging myself into Kinetic at 7:30 AM on approximately zero hours of real sleep, held together by coffee and mascara and the bone-deep .

The lie I whisper as I prep Recovery Suite 2 for Oliver's session. *You're fine. Nothing happened. Everything is normal.*

"Morning!"

Oliver's voice cuts through my spiral like sunshine through clouds. He bounces into the room, because apparently his legs have springs.

"Hey, Ollie." My voice comes out normal. A minor miracle.

"How are we feeling today?" He hops onto Table 1 with practiced ease. "Ready to work some magic on my tragically abused lower back?"

"Your lower back has been described as many things. 'Tragic' is a new one."

"It's very dramatic. Gets it from my mother's side."

"Let's start with some mobility assessment," I say, falling into the script of professionalism. "Any changes since Monaco?"

"Bit stiff from the flight. Nothing major." He's already moving into position, face-down on the table. "Got some sim work coming up—gotta stay fresh for Canada."

Canada. Right. The next race. I start working on his thoracolumbar fascia, using the techniques I've practiced a thousand times. My hands know what to do even when my brain feels like static.

Press. Release. Glide. Repeat.

The rhythm is soothing. Mechanical.

"You're quiet today."

Oliver's voice snaps me back. I realize I've been working in silence for at least five minutes, which is unprecedented. Usually I'm matching his energy, trading jokes, filling the space with the kind of easy banter that makes sessions fly by.

"Just tired," I say. "Didn't sleep well."

"Yeah, you look—" He stops himself. "Subdued."

Subdued.

"I'm fine."

"Are you, though?" He shifts slightly, trying to look at me over his shoulder. "Because 'fine' is what people say when they're definitely not fine. .'"

"I had a... weird day yesterday."

"Weird how?"

"There was this training session," I hear myself say. "With Dr. Hartley."

"Oh, Kevin Hartley? The textbook guy?"

I nod. My throat feels tight.

"I've heard he's brilliant," Oliver continues, oblivious to the war happening inside my skull. "Super knowledgeable. Though apparently his teaching style can be intense? Like, really hands-on. The Alpine physio did a workshop with him last year—said it was challenging but worth it."

Hands-on. The word echoes in my head like a gunshot.

"One of those types who pushes you out of your comfort zone, you know?" Oliver is still talking, still cheerful, still completely unaware. "Growing pains and all that. Is that what happened? Did he push you too hard?"

I should tell him.

I should open my mouth and say *actually, Oliver, I think something happened that wasn't okay* and let the words exist in the air between us and watch his face change from sunshine to storm.

But I look at him, at his earnest blue eyes, and I can't.

"Yeah," I say. "That's what it was. Growing pains."

Oliver nods. "It gets easier. Trust me. First time someone really challenged me on track, I thought I was going to cry. Now I thrive on it."

"Right." I return to his lower back, pressing into the QL with mechanical precision. "I'm sure you're right."

He keeps talking—about Canada, about the upgraded car, about some N*****x documentary they're filming on the team—and I make appropriate sounds at appropriate intervals.

But I'm not really there. I'm somewhere else entirely, watching myself from above.

*This is completely normal*, Dr. Hartley's voice whispers. *The body stores emotions.*

Shut up.

*If you ever want to talk about it—process what came up—my door is always open.*

Shut up shut up shut up—

"Marianna?"

I blink. Oliver is looking at me again, his session apparently over, sitting up on the table with an expression of gentle concern.

"You totally zoned out there," he says. "For like, a solid minute. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Just tired," I say again. "I'll get more sleep tonight."

Oliver studies me for a long moment. Then he nods. "Take care of yourself, yeah?" He hops off the table, rolling his shoulders. "Can't have my good luck charm burning out on me."

Good luck charm.

"I'll try," I say.

He leaves. The door closes behind him.

And I stand there in the recovery suite, surrounded by expensive equipment and soft lighting and the eucalyptus smell of professional wellness, and I feel myself dissolving at the edges.

I don't know what to do with any of it.

So I just stand there, frozen, until my next client arrives.