Page 49 of The Backup Plan

“Yes?”

“Not you,” he says, already turning back toward the door as my heart fucking stops. “I want you to stay in here with the doc.” He finds Emery and nods. “Put him through the paces. I want a renewed assessment.”

The protest on my tongue is there instinctively. Immediately. A rebuke I don’t voice. I’m still new in this organization, still feeling him and his methods out.

I swallow the protest. “Sure thing,” I say instead.

My tone is easy—cooperative and professional—but my jaw is clenched.

I have a feeling that this might be a permanent state moving forward.

Emery

The treatment room smells like antiseptic, electricity, and . . . lingering testosterone from the athletes who just exited to the locker room to grab their gear.

It’s a great space with its dim lights and filled with the soft hums of machines. The rhythmic pulse of stimulation units cycling muscles on and off while the few already strained muscles wait for improvement before the season starts.

My plans for charting the other players I’d worked on this morning are now out the window with Coach’s request.

Did he see something in Lucas’s performance yesterday that I missed? A flinch or grimace? A week isn’t much time to make a difference in a player’s ability, so a reassessment seems premature.

But what the coach wants, the coach gets.

“Let’s get set up over here,” I say to Lucas with a glance over my shoulder to where he’s sitting.

I pretend to ignore that his demeanor has changed in the past five minutes. From playful and upbeat with Lamar to downright off-putting. His jaw is tight. His shoulders are high, and everything about him screams frustration.

And impatience.

He doesn’t acknowledge me but rather just sits down on the table with what could be construed as a growl and a body that’s already tense.

“Okay, let’s start with the new exercises I gave you. Are any of them giving you problems? Does it feel like your shoulder is catching as you move it? Is there any pain—”

“I’m fine,” he bites out.

We’re back to this again? It’s been six days since my first evaluation of him. Five days of morning runs. Why does it feel like the man I thought I was getting to know has now shut down?

“You want to explain why you’re so pissed off?” I ask glancing at my tablet as if his mood is just another data point for me to note.

“No reason,” he says flatly.

I hum, unimpressed and gesture for him to lift his arm up. “Already lying to me and we haven’t even started yet.”

He does as I instruct but with an undeniable attitude. I step closer and press my fingers along his rotator cuff, but he’s so damn tense that all I feel is resistance. I push harder and he flinches, causing me to take my hands off.

“Don’t fucking coddle me,” he snaps. “I don’t need that. Do it again.”

I don’t react or bristle. I just meet the eyes of one of the physical therapists across the room and give him a subtle nod that says it’s fine. He nods and turns back to the player he’s tending to.

I return my attention to Lucas, voice lowered, resolve unwavering. “I don’t coddle. I assess.”

“Well, it feels like—”

“Like what?” I ask, fingers still firm, still precise as I begin to move his arm. “Like someone’s not letting you power through?” His nostrils flare. “Not letting you push your healing shoulder so you overdo it?” I adjust my rotation of his shoulder but can feel the tension radiating off him. I drop his arm and make a show of stepping back. “Might as well head to the locker room, grab your shit, and head home. I can’t do anything for you when you’re this wound up.”

His teeth grit. “I said, don’t fucking coddle me.”

“And I said don’t be an asshole because it’s not going to get you a complete clearance any faster.” I meet his eyes and motion to his shoulder. “Now, are you going to relax so I can get this muscle to release or—”