Goddammit. How did this all get so fucked up? I run faster, pounding all the anger into the grass under my feet. There’s nothing else I can do.
Not for me, not for Chloe, not for anyone.
Chapter 13
Chloe
I drive to the stadium, figuring he might be there. Probably working with a new physical therapist. I can’t leave him hanging. If they’ve assigned him somebody else, I should at the very least brief the new PT on what I’ve been doing and what Austin needs. Hopefully Austin will talk to me. Let me apologize. I don’t want to leave things the way we did.
None of this has really been his fault. As far as the relationship and the feelings that led me to send him that damn picture in the first place, we made that together. Maybe I shouldn’t have let it happen, but the thought it might be over makes me inexpressibly sad.
Determined not to let my emotions get the better of me, I head toward the stadium. I don’t want to lose him. It’s not fair. If we’d met under other circumstances, none of this would have happened.
Approaching the locker room, I hear voices long before I get there. So practice is still on the same schedule Austin gave me when we started working together. A paranoid part of me wondered if they’d change it just so I wouldn’t be able to show up uninvited.
I enter cautiously, aware I’m technically not supposed to be there. When the players see me, though, they smile and wave, though they look sympathetic.
Orrin approaches me. From what I’ve seen of him, he’s a good guy and a pretty good friend of Austin’s. He looks cautious, maybe even a little nervous.
“Hey. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t.” I glance around; I don’t see Austin or any of the other PTs from the practice. “I assume they sent somebody else to work with Austin?”
He shrugs. “I guess. If they did, we haven’t seen him here. Or her,” he adds belatedly. “Actually, they told us not to let you in if you came by.”
“Wow, really?”
He shrugs as if the decree embarrasses him. “Yeah. Nobody here’s going to throw you out though. We all feel pretty bad about what happened.”
I nod, but I don’t want to give him an opening to chat about it. “Is Austin here?”
“He was.” Now he looks vaguely sheepish, and suddenly I know what he’s going to tell me. “He went out to the field. He seemed pretty upset.”
Shit. “He went into the field?”
“Yeah. In uniform and everything. Looked like he was going to go practice on his own.”
“Dammit.” He’s not ready to practice, especially on his own and unsupervised. “He’s going to wreck that knee.”
“That’s what I told him—” Orrin starts, but I’m already on my way out to the field.
Sure enough, he’s out there, pounding his way through a series of blocking dummies. He’s not holding back, either; I can see the intensity of every step, every contact. He’s not even wearing a knee brace.
Of all the things that have happened over the last few days, this is the one that feels the most like a gut punch. I’ve spent so much time convincing myself the picture wasn’t his fault, the fact I got fired wasn’t his fault. Which is true—he didn’t make either of those things happen. It was just bad luck, poor timing, and an asshole coworker.
But this? This is all on him. And it’s the biggest betrayal of all. He knows what Mason did—how he ignored my instructions and threw me under the bus. This is the same thing. He’s doing whatever he wants again, with no regard or respect for me.
When I was just his PT, him pushing the boundaries was just irritating. But now, it’s more than just an annoyance. It tells me everything I need to know about how he feels about me. About what kind of person he is.
At this moment, he might as well be Mason Carter. He might as well have cheated on me with every groupie, every cheerleader, every halfway attractive girl who crossed his path after we got involved. These are his true colors—complete disregard for me and my career, for me as a physical therapist, and for me as a human being. He’s not cheating on me with another woman, but he’s cheating, just the same.
I feel the tears overflowing, hot and silent. I thought he was different.
He isn’t.
Turning away, I head back toward the stadium. I hear his voice behind me calling my name. I don’t turn back around. I refuse to. I can’t even look at him right now.
“Chloe!”
I speed up. He’s faster, of course, and a second later his hand closes on my arm and pulls me around. I jerk free of his grip and face him. His expression is stricken, almost as if he understands why I’m so upset.
“Chloe…I just needed to get my head clear.”
“At the expense of your leg?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I gave you explicit instructions to avoid weight-bearing exercise until you got the go-ahead from either me or the team doctor. Did the team doctor give you permission? Because I know I damn sure didn’t. You have no respect for me or my position as your therapist.” I can barely grate the words out—they physically hurt as they emerge.
“That’s not true!”
“Don’t want to hear it.” I spin and keep walking, heading for the parking lot. I hear him galumphing along behind me, his cleats making obnoxious noises on the tile.
“I’m sorry! I just needed something to get myself back on an even keel.”
“Try meditating,” I snap back.
I’ve had it. The tears are flowing freely, but it’s just that—no chokes, no sobs. I’m furious, and getting more furious by the second.
“You never listened to a goddamn thing I said, Austin. From day one you were pushing it, like you didn’t want to get better at all.”
“I did—”
“You didn’t.”
“I was just trying to get a rise out of you then.”
I barely restrain the urge to wheel on him again and just keep walking. “It worked.”
“I was being careful—”
This time I do spin. “No, you weren’t. You were running.”
“Chloe—” He reaches a hand out toward me. I back away and then start walking again. Fast.
“No. We’re done, Austin.”
I’m at the door by now and I shove through it, scoping out my car as quickly as I can. Thank God for reserved parking; otherwise I’d have to walk across half the parking lot, undoubtedly with him trailing behind me trying to convince me to not be utterly, thoroughly enraged.
“I don’t know why I thought you’d be any different.” I dig my car keys out of my pocket and click the fob to unlock the doors. “You’re all the same. Think you’re hot shit—don’t have to listen to anyone. Not even your goddamn doctor.”
I jerk the door open. “I’m done. I’m just…” The sobs finally break through. “I’m just fucking done.”
Sliding into the car, I slam the door behind me and peel out of the parking lot, sobbing, while he stands there, alone between the cars, devastation on his face and his helmet in his hands.
Over the next couple of days, I get several texts from Austin. I ignore them. Delete them. I’d burn them if I could. He even tries calling a few times; I ignore that too.
It’s over.
I have no clients, no potential boyfriend. No job. I may never work in the physical therapy field again. Word will get around, and I’ll be blackballed.
I know I should be trying to look for a new job. There are bills to pay, after all, and I don't have a huge amount of money in savings. If I get started right away, maybe I can land a position before everybody hears about what a horrible person I am. But I just can’t muster up the energy. Instead I find myself wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, drinking coffee and hot chocolate and watching Netflix for hours upon hours.
I refuse to think about Austin, but Austin is all I can think about. Things are supposed to work out when you’re in love with someone, aren’t they? Like on all those romantic comedies I keep watching, one after the other, to remind myself that everyone in the movies gets a happy ending. Why don’t I?
I’m finishing up an all-day Julia Roberts marathon when my phone rings. I figure it’s Austin again, so I ignore it at first, but then I glance at the caller ID. It’s not Austin’s number. I pick it up.
“Chloe?”
It takes me a second for my mope-impaired brain to recognize the voice. When it clicks, I let my forehead fall onto my free hand.
“Dr. Richards?”
“You don’t sound good, Chloe. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Fine and dandy. How else would I be after you fired me, idiot?
“Good, because I want you back at work. As soon as possible.”
I don’t even know what to say to that, so for several long seconds—maybe as long as a minute—I don’t say anything at all. Finally Dr. Richards’ voice emerges again from the phone. “Chloe? Did you hear me? I want you back at work?”
I lift my head from my palm and stare morosely at the ceiling. “Why?”
“We need you back.” He clears his throat; he sounds awkward as hell, like he’s asking me to prom. “We all miss you.”