For a whole week, I try my best to ignore Maddie.
The day after her incident at the ballet studio, I give her a list of safe exercises and take another look at her ankle, but everything seems normal.
I’m glad she called me, but I shouldn’t have suggested going to her apartment with her, seeing her space, and I shouldn’t have hugged her back. Because, a week later, I can still feel those arms around my body, around my cold heart, and I can’t stand it.
But it ends today.
As always, she’s my first appointment of the day. I get to the clinic ten minutes earlier than usual, unable to stay at home for another second. In a little over an hour, I won’t have to see her ever again.
This is our last session.
I could get one of my colleagues to oversee her checkups, and if I have to do it myself, at least a whole month would’ve passed. A month in which she’ll move on to do other things, and I’ll try my hardest to get her out of my system.
Maybe it’s because this is the last time I’m seeing her, but when I woke up at 5:00 a.m. today, my brain decided it’s had enough of pretending to conceal what I’ve known for a while—I’m attracted to her.
I shouldn’t, and it feels right and wrong all at once, but there’s no point in trying to deny the truth anymore.
Maddie sparks something in me, a strange kind of feeling I don’t think I’ve ever experienced. I’ve had girlfriends in the past—although I’ll admit I haven’t for a while—but I still remember vividly how they made me feel.
It wasn’t like this.
I’m not battling the kind of attraction that urges me to take her on my office desk, even if I’d spread those beautiful legs and feast on her in a heartbeat. But that’s not exactly what I feel, hence why it’s so confusing.
With her…it’s something else.
I finally put a finger on it when I carried her in my arms out of the studio and she told the guy at the reception desk that she felt safe with me. It wasn’t the first time I felt those goddamn tingles. No, I felt them when she broke down in my office after I told her she couldn’t go back to professional ballet right away; when I felt like I’d die if I didn’t wait until the end of her shift to drive her home; when I urged that creep away from the parking lot, scared out of my mind he’d do or say something to Maddie.
It’s taken me too long to realize what I feel for her is a strong, deep-rooted sense of admiration and protection.
Because I see myself in her.
Because the darkness in my heart recognizes hers.
I was nineteen when a leg injury ended my NFL career before it even began.
For as long as I live, I will regret not giving it my all during that college game. Many insisted that it was an accident—an opponent who hit me too hard—and that I could’ve done nothing to prevent it, but it didn’t matter.
I didn’t make the NFL draft a few months later, and the two people I thought would support me forever proved to be my most ardent enemies.
After a doctor told me I was at risk of losing all mobility in my right leg if I played again, I spiraled.
I dropped out of college, and for the following few months, alcohol became my best friend. It raised every alarm in my parents’ heads since I’d never gotten drunk before. Thankfully, they managed to pull me out of it before it was too late.
Seeing a therapist for a while helped me learn how to have a healthier relationship with alcohol and with myself. I’m okay now—I know my limits and when to stop. I can enjoy a drink without becoming a danger to myself or others.
When Maddie told me about her ruined dream of joining the ballet company, I saw myself in her struggle. At the same time, though, I didn’t.
Because, even today, I could only dream of being as strong and brave as her. She thinks she’s defeated, but a broken person wouldn’t buzz with energy at the prospect of going back to their craft, and her eyes wouldn’t shine with such raw determination.
I’m sure she thinks her future is over, but I’ve seen enough of her to know she’ll rise. And that’s what makes me want to shelter her from all the bad around her, what makes me run at the faintest mention of Maddie being in trouble.
Because, unlike me, she’s strong, her heart is kind, and her sheer determination will get her anything she wants.
I smile at the memory of calling her a brat. Her brother might call her “princess,” and she might have grown up a little spoiled, but hell—I’d spoil her, too, if I could.
And those dangerous thoughts, that shit, ends right now.
Maddie knocks on the already open door and walks in without her crutches, a shy smile on those beautiful lips. “Hey, Doc.”
One last day. Just one more.
“Ready for our last session?”
She hesitates, and I find myself not having an answer either.
Eventually she nods and gets ready to start.
“This is going to sound crazy,” she says as she unties her shoe, “but these past six weeks have gone by so quickly. I can’t believe I’m fully healed just like that.”
My back is to her, and I take advantage of that fact to allow myself a small smile. “That’s medical science for you.”
She chuckles, and her laughter wraps around my lungs and squeezes so damn hard I can barely breathe. It’ll be over in an hour. Just hold yourself together until then.
“I suppose you’re right.” Still with that easy smile on her lips, she walks over to our exercising mat for the last time. “I just thought…” When she bites down on her lower lip, I turn around to check on whatever random papers I can find on my desk. Jesus. “I thought I would never recover.”
The sudden turn in her voice, from playful to somber, makes me glance at her. “I didn’t have any doubts that you’d make a full recovery, Maddie.”
At my words, she gives me another smile. It doesn’t escape me I didn’t call her Miss Stevens.
“Even after I went out when I should’ve been resting?”
I don’t hesitate. “Yes. Even then.”
“Mm…”
I adjust my glasses just to do something with my hands. “Let’s get started.”
For the next hour, we do some stretches and jumping exercises, and I observe, to my satisfaction, that her ankle is responding well. I still don’t think she should risk going back to professional ballet for a few months—and I tell her that—but I’m not worried about it getting worse.
She stays focused on her movements and my instructions and fires question after question about the care instructions. It’s obvious she’s nervous she’ll have to handle the rest of her recovery by herself, so I tell her, “I’ll email you a guide and some videos with quick exercises you can do at home every day.” And then, because I love torturing myself, I add, “If you ever have any questions or concerns, you know where to find me.”
Maddie nods quickly, gratitude written all over her face, and we continue until the alarm on my watch goes off, indicating the end of our very last session of physical rehabilitation.
It’s strange. After our hug last week, I’d been craving the relief this moment would bring, the comforting knowledge that my feelings for Maddie would have an expiration date.
But now that the day has finally come, all I feel is this immense confusion and a twinge of bittersweet disappointment.
And it hits me—I’m going to miss her.
For whatever fucked-up reason, I’m going to miss seeing my twenty-one-year-old patient every day—her constant questions and her strong will to get better.
While I’m pretty sure I’m crumbling inside, Maddie looks unfazed as she puts her shoes back on. I busy myself updating her file on the computer and try not to think too hard about the fact that at this time tomorrow morning, I’ll be saying goodbye to a completely different patient.
Just like always, you moron.
Yes, patients come and go, and I don’t care if I ever see them again. I wish them well, don’t get me wrong, but Maddie is different. And it’s taken me a very long time to admit it to myself.
She clears her throat, snapping me out of my thoughts. “I thought it would be appropriate to say goodbye with one last mandala.”
I look up just in time to see her holding out another one of her impressive drawings. Carefully, I take it as if it were an original Picasso. For me, it has even more value.
“Thank you,” I say sincerely, observing all the intricate details. This mandala comes in the shape of a ballerina, and it chokes me up.
“Thank you.” Her smile could blind the sun and the stars. “I know this is what you do for a living, but I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me. Not just my ankle, but…everything else too.”
She doesn’t need to elaborate. I know exactly what she’s talking about because going out of my way for her is what turned me into a mess in the first place.
She picks up her bag, getting ready to leave, and I almost stop her until I realize how insane that would be. What excuse could I possibly use?
Hey, Maddie, I know I’ve been cold to you, but it’s only because you were my patient and I was having some pretty conflicting thoughts about you. Do you wanna go out for a drink tonight?
Instead, I choose to be professional and say, “It was my pleasure, Maddie. I’m glad you’re happy with the results.” I even give her a smile that doesn’t hurt too much.
She wasn’t supposed to have this effect on me, damn it.
And with one last smile and a curt nod, she walks away. I clench my fists under the table to keep me from reaching out to her and count to ten in my head.
Only, instead of numbers, they are reminders.
She’s too young for you.
She’d think you’re a pervert.
You are a fucking pervert.
She only sees you as a helpful professional.
Don’t ruin this at the last second.
You’re not ready to—
“James?”
Fuck.
I unclench my fists. “Yes, Maddie?”
Her fingers are already wrapped around the door handle, but she doesn’t turn it. Her hazel eyes scan my face with uncertainty, and when she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, I’m positive she wants to kill me.
“I know you’re only doing your job, but you’ve done so much more for me, and I…” She stops, takes a deep breath, and her voice sounds so much steadier when she speaks next. “I’m working at the bar tonight, and I wanted to offer you a free dinner. On the house. If you can’t make it tonight, or ever, I’ll understand, but it would mean a lot to me if you said yes.”
My heart stops, and I can’t help but blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Dinner with you?”
Her eyes widen, and I immediately realize my mistake. She said she was working. She’s obviously not going to have dinner with me.
But then she nods, and heat climbs up my skin. “Yes, with me. I’m sure I can take a break from washing all the dishes.”
“I don’t want to cause any problems.”
She waves me off. “Monica won’t mind. I have a twenty-minute break at around eight, so it’ll be a short dinner, but I’ll be there.”
I should say no. God knows it, I know it, the whole world knows it, but every single fiber in my body is begging me to accept.
It’s just dinner in a crowded bar on her break, for only twenty minutes. I couldn’t possibly fuck this up in that time.
I swear I can feel the ground shifting beneath my feet as I say, “You don’t have to, but thank you. I’ll be there tonight.”
When she gives me that beautiful smile again, I know I’m in trouble.
