Page 28 of Deking at Love
She’d dragged far more out of him than she’d expected, though, which gave her a new perspective on her patient and former friend.But she had to check herself.How far was she willing to cross that professional-personal line?Had she dug into other patients’ lives to this degree?Did she offer to helpthemwith their billing problems?
She’d answer the thorny question later.Maybe.
The soft clicks and hums of equipment filled the air, like crickets singing in the distance on a warm summer night.
She held out her palm for the stress ball.“I’m sorry, Sam.”It was all she had, as lame as the sentiment sounded.
“You and me both.”He dropped the elephant into her palm, then softly brushed her chin with his knuckles—sort of miming a friendly punch.Here’s looking at you, kid.Did it mean they were back on even ground again?Maybe … as long as she could stick to the professional side of that line.
She walked him to the door and let him out.“I’m telling Celia to change the combo in the morning,” she teased.
He glanced at her over his broad shoulder and grinned—a genuine one this time that lit up her insides in ways it shouldn’t have.“You gotta do you, Ange.”
She leaned against the door frame.“And you gotta do you.I’m sure you’ll figure out a different way to sneak in and run your own therapy sessions.”
He shook his head, and his tousled curls bounced.“Nah, I’m done with breaking and entering.I realized tonight I don’t know shit about taking care of my own goddamn ankle and that I need to let the pros do their job.That’s the quickest way I’m gonna get to where I need to be, and if that means missing the playoffs, then so be it.”
She shot upright.“I don’t believe what I’m hearing!”
“Yeah, yeah.A breakthrough.One point for Team Angelina, a big goose egg for Team Sam.”
“What will you do if you end up missing the playoffs?”
“Same as I’ve always done.I’ll figure out a way.I don’t want you worrying about me.That’s one more stress I just can’t handle right now, okay?I give myself over to your capable hands, and I’ll follow your instructions.G’night.”
“I’ll email you next week’s schedule.”
His back to her, he grunted an acknowledgment.She watched him limp his way down the hallway.When the elevator doors whooshed open, he turned and gave her a bob of his head before punching a button and disappearing behind the stainless-steel doors.
With a resigned sigh, Angie closed and locked the door behind her and headed for her desk, where she plopped down and stared at Sam’s chart, tapping her pen against the margin.After scheduling his sessions over the next few weeks, she copied them into her own calendar and emailed them to him.Then she reread her notes from their last official PT session.
Tonight didn’t count, she’d decided, because she had been off the clock and his exercising had been his own call—plus, he hadn’t really been here, had he?Besides, if she wrote what had unfolded truthfully, minus the scorching-hot kiss, she would have to add that he’d sneaked in, which would serve no purpose besides getting Sam in trouble—and whomever he’d conned the code out of.Angie would also have to report that he had suffered a mishap that might have set him back.
She returned to her notes, skimming them once more.
Swelling continues to improve.Full plantar flexion achieved.Limited dorsiflexion with pain.Instability during single-leg stance.
All true and already logged.Still, she paused, chewing the end of her pen.On paper, it wasn’t bad.In reality, it wasn’t good enough.
The truth was that his ankle still wobbled under stress.His upper body overcompensated.The ligament was holding, but barely.And he masked discomfort like it was a competition.
She flipped back to her earlier notes, each day a snapshot of her optimism.Estimated recovery: six weeks.She sighed.Optimism had a way of sounding like certainty when you said it to a patient who needed to believe in a miracle, and Angie had screwed up when she hadn’t shut down the hope offourweeks.Wasn’t it better to underpromise and overdeliver?He’d just looked so hopeful and helpless, and her sappy heart had rushed to comfort him.Again.
Look how that turned out last time.When will you stop trying to pick up Sam Durbin’s pieces?
“You’re only making it worse,” she muttered aloud.
She dropped her head into her hands.Maybe he only needed seven weeks.
Her pen hovered, then she wrote quietly in the margin:Re-evaluate timeline at Week 3.
She closed the chart, leaned back in her chair, and exhaled.He’d take the news badly when the time came.But better he be angry with her now than sidelined for months later.Even after his little speech tonight, did she believe he’d truly had a “breakthrough” and would kowtow to her orders?
Not a chance.
Wouldn’t it be fabulous if he actually made it in six weeks?If the team was still in the hunt, they’d be at the end of round two.He could make it back, andshecould be the one to give him the good news.How sweet would that be?
Oh, to see his smile when she told him he was good to go!If only.
