Nolan leans against the couch, and Dicken jumps up, sauntering along the edge until he can rub himself on Nolan. “I’m comfortable like this, and she doesn’t care. “So you’re pissed that she has a life outside of sessions with you, which she doesn’t get paid for, unless you parading around in your underwear has somehow become a form of reimbursement?” I need to go having made progress so I can get back on the ice, and now she’s leaving me hanging!” “Because we’re supposed to have a session tonight, that’s why. Nolan’s eyebrows rise, and he smirks before he schools his expression. “A guy went into Stevie’s apartment, and he hasn’t come back out.” “I’ve walked through here three times, and you haven’t moved. “Have you moved in the past half hour?” Nolan startles me.
I wait with my eye pressed against the peephole for the guy to come back out. I make it to the peephole in time to see a guy disappear into her apartment. I hear a knock in the hallway, but it’s not my door. I grab my crutches and pull myself up, pleased with how much less it’s hurt over the past few days.
The sound of the elevator dinging puts me on alert. I messaged her more than half an hour ago, but I still haven’t heard back yet. I’m in my living room, waiting for Stevie and flipping TV channels with the sound off so I can listen for the elevator. I’m hoping that with the extra PT, I won’t miss much more than that. The season starts in a week, so I need to put some effort in with my teammates, since I won’t be on the ice for at least the first few games, and that’s me being optimistic. It means I won’t get in a PT session with Stevie. Tomorrow night is the get-together at Alex’s place. We can work on some stretches, and Stevie can massage my leg, and I’ll finish with heat and ice. I’m feeling good, and tomorrow I have a checkup with my doctor, so I want to go in all loose and limber. Tonight I’m thinking maybe once Stevie gets home, we should order in dinner and get down to the PT. So she stopped with the oversize clothes and went back to those athletic running shorts and tanks layered over sports bras.Īnd unless we’re in the private gym specifically for the people who live on the penthouse floor-which means it’s rarely ever used-I stick to my uniform of boxer briefs and sometimes basketball shorts.
If I’m in a mood-and let’s face it, I’m perpetually in a mood-she keeps pushing, dishing out the attitude the same way I give it to her.įor the first few days she wore baggy sweats, but it didn’t seem to have an impact on my physical reaction. It’s ugly, but it’s improving, and my team physiotherapist keeps praising me for all the hard work I’m obviously doing outside our sessions to help with recovery. The bruising begins to fade from the horrible black to more of a purple green with some nice yellowing patches at the edges. The daily double PT sessions are definitely helping the healing process. The week that follows is a weird form of torture.
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