Jacob nods, solemn. “I understand.”
I can see from his face that he doesn’t, not really. He just wants to be fixed, to be battle-ready. The consequences are future Jacob’s problem.
“Can I shower first?” he asks suddenly. “I came straight from practice. I’m disgusting.”
The request is so unexpectedly considerate that it throws me. “Yeah, of course.” I point to a door off the hallway. “Guest bathroom’s there. Towels in the cabinet under the sink.”
“Thanks.” He hesitates, then adds, “I appreciate this. Really.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak as he disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and a moment later I hear the water running.
Standing in the hallway, I’m frozen by the weight of what I’m about to do. This breaks every professional rule I’ve set for myself. No house calls for non-established patients. No last-minute interventions. No letting a patient’s need cloud my judgment.
But as I head to prepare my therapy room, I know I have no choice. If the difference is Jacob facing that fight tomorrow with or without my help, there’s only one option: to do my best for him, rules be damned.
5
Jacob
I lie facedown on Riley’s massage table, trying to breathe normally despite feeling completely fucking exposed. The towel barely covers my ass, and the rest of me is laid out like a specimen for examination. I focus on the padded face cradle, staring down at the hardwood floor beneath, counting the planks to distract myself from the fact that I’m naked in a stranger’s house, about to let him put his hands all over me. But this is medical, right? Professional. Nothing weird about a doctor doing his job, even if it is after hours in his apartment instead of a clinic.
“Try to relax,” Riley says from somewhere behind me, his voice calm and steady. “I’ll start with the shoulder.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one spread-eagle on a table wearing nothing but a hand towel. The room is dim, warm, and smells like eucalyptus. Professional, just like he is. The walls are a soft blue-gray, and there’s a small fountain in the corner making gentle water sounds that are supposed to be relaxing but just grate on my nerves.
I hear him rub his hands together, probably warming them up. Then they’re on me, one at the junction of my neck and right shoulder, the other cradling my shoulder blade.
“I’m going to test your range of motion first,” he explains, and then his grip tightens as he carefully manipulates my shoulder in different directions. I grit my teeth when he pushes it back slightly.
“There,” he murmurs. “That’s the spot. Tell me when it starts to hurt.”
He applies gentle pressure at first, his fingers probing into the muscle with surgical precision. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly. It’s uncomfortable, but in that way that makes me want to lean into it, like scratching an itch that’s been bothering me for weeks.
Then he hits a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
“Fuck!” The word bursts out before I can stop it.
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Six,” I lie, because it’s at least an eight, but I’ve got my pride.
“Mmm.” He makes that noncommittal sound that says he doesn’t believe me but isn’t going to argue. His fingers press in again, gentler this time, working around the tender area instead of directly on it. “This joint is inflamed, but that’s not the real problem.”
“No?” I manage, trying to sound normal despite the fact that his hands feel like they’re sending electric currents through my body.
“No. Your entire body is locked up. It’s not just your shoulder. You’re guarding everywhere.” His hands sweep down my back in one long stroke, then back up. “Your muscles are like concrete. When was the last time you properly stretched?”
I snort. “I stretch before every workout.”
“I mean really stretched. Deep tissue work, mobility exercises.”
“I don’t have time for that yoga shit.”
His hands pause for a split second, then continue their exploration. “It’s not ‘yoga shit.’ It’s basic maintenance. You can’t treat your body like a machine and expect it to run without regular maintenance.”
I want to argue, but his fingers find another knot between my shoulder blades that makes me hiss.
“This is what I mean,” he says. “I need to work your entire body to improve mobility and release the compensation patterns. Your shoulder isn’t working in isolation. Everything’s connected. You’ve been protecting it, which means other muscles are overcompensating.”