Page 18 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
She just studies, then lifts my arm, careful with the rotation.
“Where’s the pain?”
“Here,” I say, as her fingers slide up to the edge of my scapula.
“Let it go loose,” she instructs, voice gentler now.
I do. I let her manipulate the arm, let her stretch and test the range. Her hands are small but precise.
When she hits the knot, I grunt, but I don’t pull away.
She works it, careful but not coddling.
The pain is real, but so is the relief.
She finishes with a quick tape job, then steps back, appraising her work.
“You could have told me it was this bad,” she says. “I’d have fixed it sooner.”
I shrug the arm, surprised by how much better it feels.
“Didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.”
She rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth flick up.
“You’re a piece of work, Sorensen.”
“So are you,” I say. This time the smile comes easy, and it stays.
She grabs the clipboard, marks something, then holds it up. “You passed.”
“Of course I did.”
She lingers at the door, one foot on the threshold.
“Next time, maybe try trusting someone before you implode.”
I watch her go, the words sticking like pine tar.
I sit on the mat until my heart slows down, rolling the memory of her hands over the pain like a lucky coin.
Maybe I was wrong about her.
Maybe the only thing that scares me more than letting someone in is what happens when I actually do.
I stay until the lights dim, the echoes of her challenge still ringing in the cage of my chest.
Then I slide into the conference room, where the comms guy Dylan has asked us all to meet him.
I take the back wall, standing, arms crossed.
Most of the guys are already there, half in and half out of their street clothes, every posture a study in practiced boredom.
McTavish is texting under the table.
Kingston’s up front, shoes off, grinning.
Dylan paces behind the podium, hair shellacked to a perfect swoop. “Okay, people,” he booms, too loud for the hour. “This is important, so let’s try something new: focus.”
