by Jamie Knight
“Hello, Sleeping Beauty,” he says and stands up.
“Fuck you,” I say. “Go away.”
“You know I can’t do that,” he says.
He comes over and places his hand on my forehead as if I have a fever.
“But when Rex comes over to live with you later today, will you be mad at him?”
I remembered Rex.
“No,” I say. “That’s different.”
“How so?”
“Because he loves me, and I love him.”
“Is that how it is?” Damien asks.
I say nothing. I just have so much resentment toward him.
“Dr. Mack,” he says.
That name pisses me off. I roll onto my right side toward the big pillows on the couch and the pain in my knee shoots through like someone just stabbed my knee with a sharp piece of glass.
Damien comes over and sits at the end of the couch.
“I know you hate me for bringing him up again.”
“I don’t hate you,” I whine.
“It’s OK, bud,” he says. He pats my butt. “Let’s talk it over.”
“The first thing you can do is not touch my butt,” I say.
“You know you like it,” he says and slaps my butt again.
“Fuck you,” I say and laugh.
I prop myself up while Damien comes over again and places the pillows behind my lower back.
“There you go, buddy,” he says and sits back down in the chair across from me.
I yawn and raise my arms and look over at him.
He smiles.
“I’m sorry,” I finally manage to spit out.
There. I said it.
“Don’t worry about it,” Damien says, as he looks out the window at my neighbor walking his dogs.
“So, what’s up?” I ask and yawn again.
I’m open to talking to him now.
Finally.
He sighs.
“You know how I said Dr. Mack could help us deal with PTSD?” he asks.
“Help you deal,” I quickly correct him. “I don’t have PTSD.”
“Yeah. Well. He really has helped me a lot. I haven’t given you an update lately, but I feel much better and am living my life pretty happily again,” he tells me.
“Good for you,” I snap.
Realizing how bad that sounds, I quickly correct myself.
“I mean, that’s great. I’m sincerely glad he’s helped you. I know you had heard good things about him and had high hopes, so I’m glad all your expectations have been met.”
He smiles contentedly, and he really does look better. I’m really happy for him. I just wish he’d stop pushing this quack therapist on me. I don’t even believe in PTSD!
“Well, he takes a limited number of patients because he’s so in demand,” Damien continues. “But I’ve asked him if he’ll still see you, if you’ve changed your mind, and he said yes.”
He looks sincerely happy about this, but I’m not.
“Well, save your referral for someone else,” I tell him. “I’m still not interested.”
“But don’t you think it might be a better way to deal with all your pent-up emotions than…”
“Than flipping out at my physical therapist?” I finish the sentence I know he probably doesn’t want to finish.
“I was actually going to say instead of beating up other guys in the ring, even though it’s hurting you physically, but, the other reason is also good,” he says.
“Fuck, man,” I tell him. “You know I like fighting.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t like you anymore,” he reminds me. “It’s no good for you. You keep having knee problems, and…”
“Look, you don’t have to remind me,” I tell him. “I get it. Let me make up my own mind, okay?”
“Okay,” he says, his hands raised in submission.
“And I do appreciate the referral to Anne. I was upset when I got Amanda instead. But I know she’s good, too, and that she can help me,” I admit, eating humble pie. “If it’s not too late to go back and see her again, I’d like help with the physical therapy. I’ll pass on the psychologist. And any invasive treatment for now, as I’ve made clear.”
“Okay,” Damien repeats, nodding his head as if the matter’s settled. “I’m sure it’ll still be possible to go back, as long as you apologize. I’ll talk to Anne for you and see what she thinks.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, meaning it.
“I gotta go,” Damien says. “I have a meeting with some new client with a huge portfolio of stocks for me to manage.”
“OK,” I say. “Thanks for your help. And good luck with that new portfolio.”
Damien brightens.
“You know what?”
“What?” I ask, as I sit myself up.
Damien props the pillows up behind my back.
I’m beginning to think he is pretty OCD.
“Why don’t you come to the veterans’ alliance?”
“That group Dr. Mack runs, for the PTSD patients?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s more low key than actual sessions with him. It includes a lot of different people from various walks of life, just talking to each other and getting support. Given everything, I completely forgot about that as an option.”
I’m skeptical.
“Given everything, I don’t feel like starting down another road.”
“C’mon, bud,” he says and touches my elbow.
I say nothing.
“Just come by tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
I look at him as he beams. I feel sorry for him and I don’t want to disappoint him. Friends like that, given our mutual background as Navy SEALs, are a brotherhood no one who has never been in it can understand. But I also don’t believe in this psychotherapy bullshit.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, but by that, I mean I’ll think about how much I don’t plan to go.
Damien claps his hands.
“Perfect!” he says and goes out the front door.
I have to laugh. Some people do really care about me, but they can’t seem to understand that I’m the type of person who likes to be left alone, rather than bothered by a bunch of different doctors and support groups and whatever other tricks Damien has up his sleeve.
I yawn and stretch and turn on the TV with the remote.
Dr. Phil is talking to some young kid and telling him pretty much to stop being a fuckup.
I can relate.
I nestle down and fall asleep as Dr. Phil dispenses his sage advice that I know I won’t take any better than the kid on his show will. I was born stubborn and I’ll die stubborn.
Chapter 5 - Amanda
I’m tired. I’ve had a lot of appointments today and my patients seem to be responding to their therapy, which is good, but it can get rather taxing.
I sit down and look at my last appointment for the day.
Lincoln Drake.
Great.
“He probably won’t even show up,” I say aloud to myself.
“Don’t be so sure about that.”
I turn around and see that it’s Anne.
“Lincoln’s a fighter who’s not used to giving up,” Anne says.
She pats me on the back. She’s always been quite touchy-feely, preferring to talk to people with her hands as much as her voice.
“For once, I wish he would,” I say and leave the room.
I need a cup of coffee.
Right next door to the clinic is the Best Baked Coffee Shop. The workers there are so nice. Right now, I need a little kindness. Not to mention something to warm me up from the cold. I order a coffee, light with cream, two sugars. I sit by the window and check my phone.
I’m in no rush. If Lincoln shows up, he can wait.
I stand up and am ready to go back to the clinic.
Then I look out the window and see Lincoln. His head
is down as he walks slowly. His knee really doesn’t seem too bad. He maintains his balance, isn’t limping, and his stride is strong. He runs his right hand through his dark hair and stretches.
What a hard-headed but hot guy he is. I know I shouldn’t think that about him, but I can’t help it.
I sit back down and sigh.
I’ll keep him waiting.
One bad behavior deserves another.
I stay for fifteen minutes and want to stay longer but I can’t.
Even though it’s Lincoln Drake, I am still a professional.
I grab his chart and enter the examination room.
“How are you today?” I ask, without looking at him.
“Good,” he says softly.
He’s sitting on the examining table.
I cross my arms and lean against the windowsill. I say nothing.
“Amanda,” he says. He scratches his right pec. “I need to apologize.”
“About what?” I ask.
“About the other day,” he says and looks past me out the window. “About the way I treated you last time I was here.”
Whatever, I think. I’m not playing his games. Hot athlete or not, I’m a trained medical professional.
I’ve given my side of the story and everyone can see that I was being the logical, rational, professional one – well, except for lusting after his hot body, but who could blame me? – and he was the one being a big baby, so why should I forgive him?
I stare at him for a moment and think.
His knee.
“You know,” I say, and walk toward him.
“What?”
“I saw you entering the clinic and your knee doesn’t really seem that bad.”
“You saw me?” he asks, and then he smiles.
Shit, I’ve given away the fact that I got a bit stalker-ish when it came to him. I saw him and I liked what I saw, so I kept looking – so sue me – but I’m not about to admit that to him.
“I was merely studying you on an objective basis.”
“Oh, I see,” he says and looks down.
“Tell you what.”
“What?”
“Why don’t we start with an old-fashioned x-ray?”
“But I’ve had an MRI and….”
“Yes, I’m well aware of your prior prognosis.”
He says nothing. Instead, he looks at me with a hangdog look. His face pleads with me.
“Come with me,” I say.
He follows me to the lab.
“Bella,” I say to the technician.
“Yes, Miss Amanda?”
“Take an x-ray of Mr. Drake’s knee here. Front and back.”
I turn to leave.
“But what if…?” Lincoln starts to say as I let the door glide to a close behind me.
Once the x-rays are developed, I go back to the examining room.
Lincoln sits there on the table, looking small and frail.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Only everything.”
“Now, now,” I say. “That’s not the spirit of a fighter. This could be the Christmas miracle you need. Try to think positively.”
He hugs himself and looks down as I insert the x-rays on the illuminated screen.
I study them for a few moments.
“Hmmm,” I say.
“What?”
“Hmmm.”
“What?”
“Look here,” I say and point to the cartilage in his knee. “Sometimes MRIs can be deceiving, but this here,” I point again with the tip of my pen, “shows me there has been some healing.”
“So, what’s that mean?” he asks and jumps off the table.
He squints at the x-ray.
I find him adorable.
“It means,” I continue, “that I think I can work with you.”
“You can?” he asks.
He places his hands behind his head and cradles it.
“Yes,” I say. “It will be intensive physical therapy but, if you agree to do it, I think we can get you in shape for the next bout.”
“Are you serious?” he asks. He laughs and grabs my shoulders. “I could kiss you right now!”
“Please don’t,” I say.
He backs off.
“Sorry.”
“That’s fine.”
It’s not that I don’t want him to. It’s that that would be bad news for my job, of course.
“So when do we start?”
“Tomorrow, nine A.M. sharp.”
“I’ll be there,” he says and turns to leave.
He places his hand on the doorknob, then turns back around.
“Thank you for helping me,” he says.
His does look truly grateful – I’ll give him that much.
“You’re welcome.”
“I just want to thank you sincerely for helping me. If I were in your shoes, I’d tell me to go fuck myself.”
“That’s OK,” I say.
“No, really,” he says. “Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “My job is to heal and not to judge. I don’t take anything personally.”
He smiles.
“And neither should I,” he pronounces, and then leaves.
No, you shouldn’t, I think to myself.
But you are quite the piece of work that I’m looking forward to wrestling with myself.
Chapter 6 - Lincoln
I meet Amanda in the gym of the physical therapy center. She’s just coming in and she looks gorgeous. She’s not wearing her scrubs but rather a t-shirt, tight shorts, sneakers, and a headband. My cock perks up as I stare at her gorgeous curves.
I know this is going to be a real workout.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I say back.
I move forward to hug her but then she steps back.
“Sorry,” I say, “I just can’t help it.”
She says nothing and motions toward one of the leg machines.
“Hop on this,” she says.
I do so and place my legs up and into position.
She adjusts the weight.
“Now start off, slowly,” she says.
She throws a white towel around her neck and studies my legs as I pump back and forth.
“This is kids’ stuff,” I say.
“Not the point,” she says, not looking at me.
I continue the exercises and don’t say much. I don’t want to offend her or be an asshole. I really like this girl. So, I keep my fuckin’ mouth shut.
Besides, she’s working. I know it’s not quite the same thing, but I feel I’m watching her like you do when you see a service dog with its vest on that says, “Please don’t pet me. I’m a working dog.”
I don’t think that would go over with her too well, but it’s really a compliment.
I mean, she’s so professional and good and I’ve been a dick to her.
I exercise in silence while she studies me for a while. I’m working hard. I really want to impress her.
Finally, she puts her hand up.
“OK, stop.”
I do so.
“Whew!” I say.
I’m not really all that spent but the ole knee is feeling tight.
“Let’s take a break.”
“OK.”
She hands me some gross veggie drink that I cringe at.
“Drink it,” she says and pushes it in my direction again.
“Gross.”
She says nothing until, “Let’s sit outside.”
The day is cool and sunny, for mid-November. It’s all baby blue skies and fast-moving clouds and the breeze. With her next to me, I feel like I’m dreaming.
I take a sip of the gross squash and Brussel sprouts drink.
“That’s fuckin’ disgusting!” I say.
She says nothing.
I look at her and smile.
“Hey,” I say.
/> “What?”
She still ain’t lookin’ at me.
“How about coffee sometime, to make up for this disgusting drink? Or maybe even lunch? At a burger joint?”
She doesn’t look at me.
“You know I can’t.” She pushes back her long dark hair behind her left ear. “That would compromise a professional relationship.”
Damn it, I think to myself. I take another sip of the disgusting drink. I’m not used to being turned down. Usually I’m the one turning down the many women who flock to me. Amanda is a tough nut to crack, that’s for sure.
But that just means that when I finally do, she’ll taste so good to eat because she’ll have been worth the wait and the effort. I haven’t even been able to look at another woman since I met her.
“I just wanted to do something for you to let you know how much I appreciate you,” I tell her, in an apologetic tone, with a fake pout on my face that I know she sees because she smiles a little bit.
I look away, across the street. A used car salesman is moving his arms up and down, pointing to a brand-new Jeep Grand Cherokee. He’s talking to some guy in a baseball hat and pink Izod shirt, with his arms crossed over his chest.
“So, it’s a no?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” she says.
I brighten.
“So, can we?” I ask.
I feel like a kindergartner pestering his teacher for recess or his mom for a snack. I remind myself to act more chill. I look over at Mr. Pink Shirt, who storms away while the salesman runs after him.
“Yes, but it would have to be professional,” she says. “I can’t date clients.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “I knew that.”
I pound down the rest of the drink. For something that’s initially so disgusting, it really isn’t that bad after a while.
“OK,” she says. “Let’s get back to work.”
I stand up.
“Sure thing.”
She starts walking back in the gym, then turns around.
“Let’s talk after tomorrow’s session.”
“Sure thing,” I say again.
I follow her in and am willing to do anything she asks me.
Especially now that I know she wants to date me, even though she claims it’s not going to be a date.
I think that that’s just talk. Both she and I know better than to pretend, but since that’s what she wants to do, that’s what I’ll do.