Page 6 of Climb Me Maybe
“Wow,” she mutters.“Youarewound tighter than a fiddle string.”
“Duh.”I chuckle, and she laughs.“Okay, wise guy.”
Her following touch is warm and sure, fingers moving along the edge of my shoulder blade with practiced deliberation.I work to keep my breathing steady, to stay neutral, but there's something about her tiny hands on my back that makes it hard to think straight.
"Just breathe normally," she says, working down my spine."Tell me if anything feels tender."
She begins rolling her thumbs into muscle knots I didn’t know existed.
Pain blazes, sharp and bright, but her voice softens: “That’s tender, huh?Tell me these things.Now, breathe into it for a second.Don’t fight me.”
Her hands arestrong.Small but relentless, working a little deeper with each breath.My eyes drift shut against my will.
“There you go,” she murmurs.“Your Erector Spinae are pissed.It’s all these muscles that run along the length of your spine.”She continues her movements.Her touch is clinical but reverent, tracing the topography of my back.“Your years of climbing show.The angular fibers here—” her thumb slides over a sensitive spot near my spine, “—indicate repetitive overhead engagement.Your rhomboids are compensating.”
Her fingertips chart territories no one’s mapped before.
I swallow hard.
She kneads a knot near my scapula.“Do you everstopworking?”
“No.”
“Shocker.”She prods a tender spot.“This hurt?”
“N-no.”I bite back a groan.
Her hands still.“Hey.”Softer now.“You’re allowed to feel things, you know.”
My jaw flexes.“I’m fine.”
She spends a moment exploring the area, and every touch sends heat racing through me despite the professional nature of what she's doing.
"This is definitely inflamed.And these muscles up here—" her hands move to my upper back"—are doing double duty.You're probably getting headaches too."
I am, but I don't want to admit how right she is abouteverything.
She sighs but resumes working, quieter.Her thumbs press waves into my lower back, each stroke pulling tension like rotten roots from soil.Against my will, my body succumbs—shoulders dropping, breath deepening.
I panic.
Too intimate.Too close.Too much.
“I think that’s enough.”I step away abruptly out of her reach and turn to face her.
She blinks, hands frozen mid-air.“Did I hurt?—”
“No, I…” I keep my head down and start pulling on my shirt.“Should get going.”
Her brow furrows but she nods.“Okay, then.”
She busies herself with notes while I dress, my fingers trembling on my buttons.My skin smells like her now—eucalyptus and jasmine clinging to me.
When I'm dressed again, she turns to me."You need help," she says simply."The good news is that most of this is soft tissue restriction.Very treatable with the right approach."
"And the bad news?"
"It's going to get worse if you ignore it.You're already compensating in ways that are putting stress on other areas.Give it another month and you'll be looking at more serious issues."
