Page 43 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
About the way she’d looked when she fell asleep surrounded by research. The soft rasp of her laugh. The quiet fire in her eyes when she talked about changing the world, one bacterial compound at a time.
I should have been thinking about my comeback.
Instead, I was thinking about her.
When the meeting wrapped, I shook hands, ducked the press request for a photo, and made my way to PT—feeling something I hadn’t in months.
Hope.
“Someone looks less grumpy than usual,” Jen remarked as I entered. “Good news from the doc?”
“She says I’m ahead of schedule,” I admitted, setting my water bottle down. “Says I seem less tense.”
Jen’s mouth quirked into a smile as she prepared the electrical stimulation machine. “Really? You? The human equivalent of a clenched fist?”
“Fuck off,” I said, but there was no heat behind it.
“So what’s your secret?” She attached electrodes to my knee with practiced precision. “New meditation app? Yoga? Or does it have something to do with your new roommate?”
I tensed immediately. “What about her?”
“Oh, nothing,” Jen said, her voice innocent but her eyes dancing with amusement. “Just that you’ve been checking your phone more, occasionally smiling at texts, and now you’re healing faster. Doesn’t take a medical degree to connect those dots.”
“There are no dots to connect,” I insisted, though the image of Kate—wild-haired and brilliant, her body moving against mine—flashed through my mind.
“Uh-huh.” Jen adjusted the machine settings. “Well, whatever—or whoever—is responsible for relaxing the great Stone Callahan, I approve. Your body’s responding better to treatment.”
I stared at the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge her insinuation but unable to deny it entirely. Could Kate actually be having a physical effect on my recovery? The chaotic whirlwind who labeled my protein powders and conducted bacterial experiments in my kitchen?
The thought was as terrifying as it was intriguing.
“How’s practice going?” Jen asked, changing the subject.
“I’m still on modified ice time. No contact, no real drills.”
“But you’re skating,” she pointed out. “That’s progress, Stone.”
She was right. Three weeks ago, I couldn’t even get my skates on without pain. Now I was at least moving on the ice, even if I couldn’t do much else.
After finishing with the electrical stimulation, Jen put me through a series of strengthening exercises. To my surprise, I completed them with less discomfort than I’d felt in weeks.
“Your quad strength is improving,” she noted, making adjustments to my workout plan. “I think we can increase resistance next week.”
“Really?” I couldn’t keep the excitement from my voice.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she warned. “We’re talking small increments. But yes, you’re making progress.”
As I left the facility, my phone buzzed with a text.
Kate
Made a breakthrough with my bacteria cultures! Also, may have borrowed your fancy blender for a tiny, totally safe science experiment. (I swear the lid was secure this time.) How’s the knee?
Despite myself, I smiled. There were the dots Jen had so astutely connected.
When I unlocked the door to my apartment, I was in an uncharacteristically good mood. The doc’s news had been better than expected, and my knee felt stable in a way it hadn’t for months. I was about to call out to Kate when I spotted her sprawled across my living room floor.
Papers were everywhere—organized in what I assumed was a pattern that made sense only to her brilliant, chaotic mind. And there was Kate in the middle of it all, fast asleep, a pen still loosely held in her fingers, her hair exploding from a messy bun like a copper supernova.
