Chapter 8 Chapter 8
Noah's POV
I’ve been injured before. Athletes get used to it, the sprained wrists, bruised ribs, and twisted ankles. Pain was just another part of the sport. You tape it, ice it, push through it, and pretend it’s nothing. But this shoulder? This one was different because of Emily, not because of the pain.
Emily stood in the middle of the lounge as if she owned it, with her tablet in hand, her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail that somehow made her look even more serious. The groceries she ordered earlier were already stacked neatly in the fridge, and the smell of grilled chicken still lingered faintly in the apartment. I had complained the entire time she cooked, but she ignored every word.
Now she was staring at me with the same focused intensity surgeons probably used before they cut someone open. “Take your hoodie off,” she demanded.
I raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Straight to it.”
“This is a medical assessment,” she replied flatly.
I sighed dramatically but pulled the hoodie over my head anyway. The cool air hit my skin immediately. Her eyes flicked to my shoulder. And suddenly she looked… different. She was in focus mode. I could see it, like the rest of the world disappeared.
“Sit,” she demanded, gesturing to the chair.
I sat down, not sure what she was going to do. She stepped closer, and I felt something uncomfortable stir inside my chest, maybe it was a little attraction. But mostly something worse, it was vulnerability.
She was standing close enough that I could see the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose. Close enough that I noticed how her brows knit together when she was concentrating. Close enough that she noticed everything.
“Relax your arm,” she said.
“I am relaxed.”
“No, you’re guarding it.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Her fingers lightly touched my shoulder. It was professional, but my muscles still tensed. It was on instinct.
“See?” she said quietly. “Guarding.”
“I’m just… anticipating pain.”
“That’s guarding.”
I exhaled slowly and tried again.
She moved behind me.
“Lift your arm slowly.”
I did as she said.
Halfway up, the ache shot through the joint. I hid it, or at least I tried to.
“Stop.”
I lowered my arm.
“You’re compensating,” she said.
“That was the second time you have said that today.”
“Because it’s happening.”
She stepped around me again and kneeled slightly so that she was eye level with my shoulder.
“Your right deltoid is overworking,” she said, almost to herself. “Your scapular stabilizers aren’t engaging properly.”
I stared at her. “You can see that?”
She glanced up. “Yes.”
“How?” I asked.
She shrugged like it was obvious. “Muscle patterns.”
I leaned back in the chair. “That’s… creepy.”
“It’s science.” She pressed gently against my shoulder blade. “This might hurt.”
“Great,” I muttered.
She adjusted my arm slightly. Pain spiked down my shoulder like lightning.
“Ah!”
“There it is,” she said softly.
I gritted my teeth. “What?”
“Severe muscular asymmetry.”
“That sounds bad.”
“It is.”
She stood and grabbed her tablet. “You’ve been compensating for months.”
“It happened two weeks ago.”
“No. The injury happened two weeks ago. The imbalance started long before that.”
My stomach tightened. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s not.”
She turned the tablet towards me. A diagram of shoulder musculature filled the screen.
“Your dominant side is overdeveloped,” she explained, pointing to the diagram. “Your stabilizing muscles are weak in comparison.”
“So?”
“So when the impact happened during that hit, your shoulder joint didn’t have the support structure to absorb the force properly.”
I stared at the diagram. “You’re saying this was inevitable?”
“I’m saying it was preventable.” That landed harder than the injury. I ran a hand through my hair.
“Great.”
She studied me carefully. “You push your body too hard,” she said.
“It’s college sports.”
“No. It’s you.” She said gently.
Something sharp twisted inside my chest. “You don’t know me.”
“I know muscle patterns. And yours screams overtraining.”
I laughed under my breath. “That obvious?”
“Yes.”
Silence settled between us for a moment, and then she handed me a piece of paper. It was thick, covered in lines, boxes, times, and exercises. “What is this?” I asked.
“Your rehab schedule.” She replied.
I glanced down.
Morning mobility routine: 6:30 AM
Therapeutic strengthening: 9:00 AM
Ice protocol: 12:00 PM
Scapular stabilization: 3:00 PM
Recovery stretching: 8:00 PM
I looked back up slowly. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“This is my entire day.”
“Yes.”
“I have classes.”
“You can adjust times slightly.”
“I have practice.” I tried making excuses. But who was I kidding?
“You’re benched.”
I winced.
“That still hurts.”
“Good. Maybe you will follow the plan,” she said.
I stared at the schedule again. “Four sessions a day?”
“Five.”
“You’re insane,” I muttered.
“You’re injured.”
I leaned back in the chair, staring at her. “Do you do this with all your athletes?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“They must hate you.”
“Some do.” She replied nonchalantly.
“And the others?” I asked.
“They recover faster.”
I exhaled slowly. Neither of us spoke. Earlier tonight, she was the annoying intern invading my kitchen and criticizing my food. Now… She was something else.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said finally.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “What did you expect?”
“Someone softer.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts. “I can be soft.”
“I doubt that.” I scoffed.
She smirked faintly. “You would be surprised.”
I shook my head. “No, I wouldn’t.”
Her gaze lingered on my shoulder again. She stepped closer. “Stand up.” I did as she demanded. She moved behind me again, adjusting my posture with careful hands. “Pull your shoulders back.” I tried. “No, not like that. You’re forcing it.” She gently tapped the middle of my back. “Engage here.” I adjusted. “Better.” Her hands remained lightly on my shoulder blade, her hands were warm and still professional. But something about the closeness made my chest tighten. I’m not used to people touching me without expectation, tension, or... History. “You’re very tense,” she said quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I said I’m fine.” I repeated.
She stepped back. “Okay.” But the way she said it told me that she didn't believe me. And somehow… That bothered me more than it should. She handed me the schedule again. “You start tomorrow morning.”
“6:30 AM?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s illegal.”
“That’s recovery.” I groaned. She smiled slightly. The first genuine smile I’ve seen from her. It softened her face completely. For a second, I actually forget we are fake dating.
The moment passed as she gathered her tablet. “Follow the plan, and you will recover faster.” She said.
“And if I don’t?”
She paused in the doorway and looked back at me. “Then you will keep getting hurt.”
Her words landed heavier than I had expected. Because deep down… I knew she was right.
She disappeared down the hallway. I was left standing in the middle of my own apartment, staring at the schedule in my hands. Five rehab sessions a day, strict diet, posture corrections, and accountability. I shook my head slowly.
“Who the hell are you?” I muttered under my breath.
One thing was already clear. Emily wasn't like anyone I have ever met before, and that scares me more than the injury ever did.