I gaped. “I—you—I—”
“Three.” He spoke over me. “Weakness is the illness, and I’m the doctor. We’re here to heal, so don’t hide your weakness. Defeat it. Don’t be ashamed of it. Don’t mistake laziness or lack of will as weakness—they ain’t the same thing. I can fix weak, I can’t fix lazy.”
I glanced at Mom. “Did you tell—”
“Four, and last, judgment or criticism is utterly verboten. Talk some unkind shit about someone else, and we’ll have problems.” Another grin. “That’s it. Welcome to paradise.”
I shook my head. “You have some nerve, Baxter.”
He just laughed. “You’re here, ain’t you? Gotta know what I expect so we can make this work.” He jutted his chin at me. “Goals and expectations.”
I blinked. “What?”
He snorted. “We’re establishing baselines, here, babe, keep up.” He glanced at Mom. “She always this slow on the uptake?”
“Listen here, gorilla man—” I started.
Mom just patted me on the shoulder. “Go all in, Cassie-Lassie. Give this all you’ve got. And trust him.” And then she left.
What?
“What?” I echoed my own thought out loud. “Mom?”
She waved as she exited the doors. “And have fun!”
I watched her drive away. “Now, what the fuck?”
Bax tilted his head. “She did tell you where she was taking you, did she not?”
I nodded. “To meet you. I didn’t know we’d…I don’t know. Start before we’d even said hello.”
Bax reached out, took my hand, and shook it. “Name is Baxter Badd. Call me Bax. I’m your new trainer and rehab coach. You’re Cassandra Goode, car wreck survivor, bum leg as a souvenir, dancer and, apparently, dumb blonde.”
I yanked my hand out of his grip and reached out to smack him.
Or, intended to. He caught my hand with a strong but gentle grip, a playful grin on his face. “Ah, ah, ah. We’re not in the ring. No hitting.”
“You—you—!”
“Just joking. Making sure you’re paying attention.”
I put my face close to his. “Call me dumb blonde again and I’ll rip your dick off.”
His grin widened. “Ooh, baby. Talk dirty to me.” He frowned. “Well, actually, don’t. I’m married, and I love my wife. But, for real, that’s how you play the game around here.” He clapped his hands together. “So, let’s get started.”
I sighed, flapped my arms out wide and let them slap against my thighs. “Alright, might as well just go with it. Work your magic, Mr. Badd.”
He squatted in front of me, glanced up at me with his hands hovering around my bad leg, but not touching. “Quick look, in a purely professional and therapeutic way. So, you know, don’t knee me in the face when I touch your leg, ‘kay?”
I shot him a sour look. “I’m not a prude, Bax.”
“You’re plenty touchy, so you never know.” He spoke absently, his fingers now prodding my scar tissue, kneading the muscle.
I frowned. “Touchy? I’m not touchy.”
“You’re uptight as fuck, babe.” He grabbed my wrist and placed it on his shoulder, which felt like putting my hand on a marble statue. “Balance on your good leg, please. Need to test your range of motion.”
I rolled my eyes and balanced, without his shoulder, without so much as a wobble. Glad to know I’ve still got that much left, at least.
“Nice,” he muttered. “Solid core foundation.”
I snorted. “Mom may have told you I was a dancer, but I’m not sure she qualified it quite correctly. It wasn’t a hobby, it was a profession.”
I demonstrated, by extending my bad leg in front of me, lifting it toward the ceiling, arching over backward into a full backbend, into a handstand, held there for a beat, and then continued forward, landing on both feet…
And promptly falling sideways as my bad leg collapsed, dumping me onto the mat.
“Well, that was impressive,” Baxter said, plopping onto his butt next to me.
“Until I fell,” I muttered, staying where I was, lying awkwardly.
“No, it was impressive, full stop. The fall was beyond your control. I wouldn’t have advised you to try that until you knew your leg could take the weight, but it was impressive as hell.”
He grabbed my leg and massaged the muscles around the scarring, which hurt like an absolute bitch, yet somehow still felt good.
“Number one, Cass,” he said, still manipulating and massaging my leg, “you need to give yourself grace. Give yourself the permission to just understand, mentally, emotionally, and physically, that you suffered a motherfucker of a trauma. The muscles, tendons, and joints in your entire left leg were seriously fucked over. You won’t get anywhere if you force unrealistic expectations on yourself, or on your poor fucked-up leg.”
I felt my teeth clench. “I get it, okay? My leg is fucked up. You don’t need to keep hammering it home.”
He kept massaging. And despite the fact that he was gorgeous in a superhero, pro wrestler, rugged, I-eat-mountains-for-breakfast kind of way, I wasn’t attracted to him at all. At least not beyond an objective sense of understanding that he was an incredibly attractive man. Not my type, for one thing, and two, knowing he was happily and dedicatedly married cut anything else off at the pass. Besides that, attraction just wasn’t possible. My entire capacity for attraction was focused solely on Ink.
But I wasn’t thinking about him right now.
Bax met my eyes, his deep brown eyes serious, for once. “Your leg is absolutely fucked. You can barely put weight on it. You ought to have a cane, honestly. It’s so fucked up it’s a miracle you’re able to walk at all.”
“I get it!” I snapped.
“Fucked up, fucked up,” he sang, “your leg is fucked up!”
I yanked free of him and rolled away, tears pricking. “Shut up!”
He stayed with me. “Accept it. Stop fighting it. Stop thinking you have to be okay.”
“And you’re going to get me there by ramming home how fucked up I am?”
“Yep.” He popped the “P” sound. “You’re still trying to insist on things not being as bad as they are. You want to hope some miracle will happen to take it all away.”
I ground my teeth. Hissed through them. “Shut the fuck up, Baxter. You don’t know shit about me.”
“Sure I do. I’ve trained all sorts of people. Started out helping MMA and UFC guys get into condition, and I still do that. Moved into the PT field, helping athletes rehab injuries. I also specialize in helping elite military combat veterans with injuries and people with loss of limbs learn how to regain their mobility, independence, and give them the ability to hit the gym like they used to.” He let that sink in. “You fall into the category of injured athlete.”
I eyed him. “So you consider dancing a sport?” I asked, skepticism rife in my tone.
“Fuck, yes! Dancers, especially of your caliber, are some of the most elite and impressive athletes out there.” A shrug. “Anything that puts strain on your body and requires physical conditioning to perform is a sport. Dancing sure as shit falls into that category.”