He's Back

I'd learned to spot damaged knees from across the room.

A gift, really. Eight years of physical therapy had trained my eyes to catch the slight hesitation in a gait, the way someone favored one leg, the micro-adjustments people made when they thought no one was watching.

So when the clinic door opened at 3:47 PM on a Tuesday, I noticed the limp before I noticed the face.

Then I noticed the face.

My clipboard hit the floor.

Garrett King stood in the doorway of Rhodes Physical Therapy like he hadn't spent the last eight years becoming a stranger. Like he hadn't been on magazine covers and sports networks and every football broadcast for almost a decade.

Like he hadn't broken my heart in a high school parking lot and driven away without looking back.

"Hey, Callie."

Two words. Eight years of silence.

I bent down to retrieve my clipboard, using the movement to compose myself. When I straightened, my professional mask was firmly in place.

"Mr. King." My voice was ice. "Your intake forms are at the front desk."

"Mr. King?" His mouth quirked. That same half-smile that used to make me weak. "Really?"

"Really."

The reception area suddenly felt very small. Maya, my assistant, had frozen at her desk, gaze bouncing between us like she was courtside at Wimbledon. I'd told her about Garrett exactly once, after too much wine at a work dinner. She knew enough.

"Your appointment isn't until four." I nodded toward the waiting area. "The chairs."

"Callie..."

"The chairs, Mr. King."

He studied me. Whatever he found made his shoulders drop.

"Okay," he said quietly. "The chairs."

I retreated to my office and closed the door.

Hands flat on my desk. Slow inhale. Controlled exhale. The same breathing exercises I taught patients with anxiety.

Garrett King.

Here. In my clinic. In my town. In the space I'd built from nothing after he left.

I'd known this was possible, of course. When Dr. Howard had called about a referral, "Career-ending knee injury, needs the experimental protocol, he's your kind of challenge," I'd asked for the name twice. The connection had been bad. All I'd heard was "professional athlete" and "King."

I'd assumed it was Marcus King from the Seahawks.

I should have asked more questions.

At four o'clock exactly, I walked to the treatment room.

He was already there, sitting on the examination table. Without the jacket, I could see the brace on his right knee, heavy-duty, the kind that meant serious damage. His right leg stretched out awkwardly, muscles visibly atrophied compared to the left.

"ACL tear?" I asked, pulling up his digital file on my tablet.

"ACL, MCL, and some cartilage." His voice was flat. "Surgeon said I'm lucky I can still walk."

"Dr. Howard's notes say you were referred for the intensive protocol."

"Best in the region, apparently." He looked at me. "Didn't know it was you."

"Would it have mattered?"

His expression tightened, then smoothed. "Maybe."

I put the tablet aside. Pulled on examination gloves. Approached the table with the clinical detachment I'd spent years perfecting.

"I'm going to assess your range of motion. Tell me when it hurts."

"It always hurts."

"Tell me when it hurts more."

I took his knee in my hands. Felt the swelling, the scar tissue, the damage that no amount of surgery could fully repair. His leg was warm through the brace, muscles tense under my fingers.

Once, I'd known this body intimately. Once, we'd spent hours in his truck after football games, learning each other's geography.

Now I was just another medical professional cataloging his injuries.

"Flex," I instructed.

He tried. Made it about forty degrees before his face pinched with pain.

"Extend."

Slightly better, but not by much.

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"Seven. Maybe eight."

I recorded the measurements. Moved to the lateral assessments. Tried not to notice the way he was watching me, like he was searching for something, cataloging his own observations.

"Your rehabilitation will take approximately twelve weeks," I said, stepping back. "Three sessions per week minimum, with at-home exercises daily. The experimental protocol involves..."

"Callie."

"involves progressive resistance training combined with..."

"Callie." His hand caught my wrist. Gentle, but firm.

I looked down at his fingers. Large, familiar, wrapped around my arm like they had a thousand times before.

"Let go."

He did. Immediately. But his gaze stayed on mine.

"Can we at least acknowledge this is weird?"

"There's nothing to acknowledge." I stepped back, putting professional distance between us. "You're a patient. I'm your therapist. That's the only relationship that exists in this room."

"And outside this room?"

"Outside this room, we're strangers." I picked up my tablet. "Your first real session is Thursday at nine. Don't be late."

I didn't go home until seven.

Partly because I had paperwork. Mostly because I needed the clinic to be empty before I let myself feel anything.

When Maya finally left, with a worried look and an offer to bring me wine, I locked the door and sat in the dark.

Eight years.

Eight years since prom night. Since the parking lot. Since his words that had carved themselves into my bones.

"I can't take you with me, Cal. You'd hold me back."

I'd cried in my car until I couldn't breathe. He'd been in Pennsylvania by morning, starting his new life, becoming the Garrett King the world knew now.

Super Bowl champion. Sports Illustrated cover. Every girl's dream.

And I'd stayed here. Built this clinic. Made a life. A good one.

I didn't need Garrett King.

I hadn't needed him for eight years.

My phone buzzed. Jenny.

heard garrett king is back in town. don't do anything stupid.

I typed back: Nothing to do. He's just a patient.

Her response was immediate: sure he is. wine tomorrow?

Make it Friday. I'll need it by then.

I turned off my phone. Gathered my things. Locked the clinic.

The high school football field was visible from the parking lot, the same lights where Garrett used to play. Where I'd watched from the stands. Where I'd believed we had a future.

I'd stopped noticing the field years ago. Or told myself I had.

Tomorrow, I'd have to face him again. And Thursday. And every session after that for the next twelve weeks.

Twelve weeks of pretending the last eight years hadn't happened.

Twelve weeks of professional distance.

Twelve weeks of looking at the man who'd broken me and acting like it didn't matter.

Twelve weeks. That was all.

I'd survived worse.

I'd survived him leaving.

I could handle him coming back.