Page 83 of For a Goode Time Call…
“No, it was impressive, full stop. The fall was beyond your control. I wouldn’t have advised you to try that until you knew your leg could take the weight, but it was impressive as hell.”
He grabbed my leg and massaged the muscles around the scarring, which hurt like an absolute bitch, yet somehow still felt good.
“Number one, Cass,” he said, still manipulating and massaging my leg, “you need to give yourself grace. Give yourself the permission to just understand, mentally, emotionally, and physically, that you suffered a motherfucker of a trauma. The muscles, tendons, and joints in your entire left leg were seriously fucked over. You won’t get anywhere if you force unrealistic expectations on yourself, or on your poor fucked-up leg.”
I felt my teeth clench. “I get it, okay? My leg is fucked up. You don’t need to keep hammering it home.”
He kept massaging. And despite the fact that he was gorgeous in a superhero, pro wrestler, rugged, I-eat-mountains-for-breakfast kind of way, I wasn’t attracted to him at all. At least not beyond an objective sense of understanding that he was an incredibly attractive man. Not my type, for one thing, and two, knowing he was happily and dedicatedly married cut anything else off at the pass. Besides that, attraction just wasn’t possible. My entire capacity for attraction was focused solely on Ink.
But I wasn’t thinking about him right now.
Bax met my eyes, his deep brown eyes serious, for once. “Your leg is absolutely fucked. You can barely put weight on it. You ought to have a cane, honestly. It’s so fucked up it’s a miracle you’re able to walk at all.”
“I get it!” I snapped.
“Fucked up, fucked up,” he sang, “your leg is fucked up!”
I yanked free of him and rolled away, tears pricking. “Shut up!”
He stayed with me. “Accept it. Stop fighting it. Stop thinking you have to be okay.”
“And you’re going to get me there by ramming home how fucked up I am?”
“Yep.” He popped the “P” sound. “You’re still trying to insist on things not being as bad as they are. You want to hope some miracle will happen to take it all away.”
I ground my teeth. Hissed through them. “Shut the fuck up, Baxter. You don’t know shit about me.”
“Sure I do. I’ve trained all sorts of people. Started out helping MMA and UFC guys get into condition, and I still do that. Moved into the PT field, helping athletes rehab injuries. I also specialize in helping elite military combat veterans with injuries and people with loss of limbs learn how to regain their mobility, independence, and give them the ability to hit the gym like they used to.” He let that sink in. “You fall into the category of injured athlete.”
I eyed him. “So you consider dancing a sport?” I asked, skepticism rife in my tone.
“Fuck, yes! Dancers, especially of your caliber, are some of the most elite and impressive athletes out there.” A shrug. “Anything that puts strain on your body and requires physical conditioning to perform is a sport. Dancing sure as shit falls into that category.”
“So you’re going to get me back on the stage?”
He winced. “I don’t know about that. I’m always a hundred percent honest with my clients about that—they have to manage their expectations. Knowing that, ninety-nine percent of the time, the greatest limitation on a person is himself or herself. I helped a SEAL who lost his leg from the knee down get back out into the field as a capable operative. It required him to do a shitload of work along with an unimaginable amount of dedication and suffering, along with a truly intense ferocity of spirit, but he did it, because he refused to accept anything else. So could you get back to professional dance? If you want it bad enough. If you’re willing to do whatever it takes. I won’t bullshit you—that would be brutally hard—especially since it looks like you’re missing parts of the muscle in your outer quad.”
I nodded. “It was one of the worst breaks they’d ever seen. Just…destroyed.”
“I can tell.” He held my gaze. “Here’s what I’ll promise you. Stick with me, give me a hundred percent effort, have your specific, predetermined goal written down, and I’ll get you wherever that is. I won’t let you give up on yourself, and I won’t let you give less than a hundred percent effort, every session, every day. I will get you there. More importantly, what I’ll really do is help you getyourselfthere. You just have to know wherethereis.” A pause. “Look inside and don’t answer this question until you know the real, true answer, the truth as it exists in your bones, in your blood, in your gut, in your muscles, in your balls.”
I snorted. “Female, here, remember?”
“Metaphorical balls. I could say ovaries, if that makes you feel better.”
I laughed. “Nah. Just giving you shit.” I sighed then turned serious. “So. What’s your question?”
“What is it you want? What’s your goal? What am I helping you achieve?” A hesitation. “That’s one question phrased three different ways.”
I blinked hard. “I…I don’t know.”
He nodded. “That’s why I’m asking. Think about it.” Another short, but intense silence. “Be real with yourself, Cassie. What do you want? I ain’t a shrink, I ain’t a psychotherapist, I’m just a muscle-head who likes helping people overcome physical obstacles. But in my experience helping clients who have suffered injuries like yours and worse, answering that question—what do you want?—often requires looking at more than just the physical. It’s more than just walking normally again. If that’s your goal, just walking without a limp, we can get you there. If it’s dancing again, but not professionally, we’ll get you there. If it’s getting you back to your dance company as a pro dancer, we can get you there.” His fingertip tapped the end of my nose. “You just have to know what your goal is.”
I started talking, and it was as if my brain and soul took over. “I want to run. I love running. I want to dance. I need the movement, the expression.” I felt tears, and didn’t bother stopping them. “I don’t want to dance professionally anymore. I don’t. I lost that—that part of me died in that car, I think. I just…I don’t have the will to do that any longer. And…” I sobbed, a hiccup. “And that’s okay. I have to grieve it. I have to be okay without that. I just…I don’t know what it means for me. Dance is who I am, who I’ve been my whole life. But what do I want now? I want to put the accident behind me. I want to move normally, like I used to. Run, dance, jump, all of it. That’s what I want.”
He nodded. “I’ll have you walking without a limp, or much less of one, in a couple weeks. Running short distances a few weeks after that. By fall, you’ll be dancing and the past’ll all be a bad memory.” He smiled at me, and something about him just…encouraged me. “Focus on that, on those goalposts. By the time you get there I think you’ll know what you want, long term.”
Two weeks passed,and I missed Ink worse than I thought it was possible to miss anyone.
