Updated Feb 24, 2026 • ~8 min read
POV: Blair
Week two post-surgery brought Cal’s first real PT session—not gentle range-of-motion, but full rehabilitation protocol. Blair had been preparing all week with a custom exercise plan, progressive resistance, and evidence-based protocols. Everything was perfect. Except the patient.
Cal showed up twenty minutes late, limping, scowling, and clearly in pain.
“You’re late,” Blair said.
“Traffic.”
“We’re in the team facility. You live ten minutes away. There’s no traffic.”
“I overslept.”
“Your session is at 2 PM. Try again.”
He glared at her. “Fine. I didn’t want to come. Happy now?”
“Ecstatic. Get on the table.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You’re difficult. We’re even. Table. Now.”
For a second, Blair thought he’d refuse. Then he limped to the PT table and sat down heavily, favoring the injured knee more than he should be at this stage of recovery. Blair frowned.
“How’s your pain level? Scale of one to ten.”
“Fine.”
“That’s not a number.”
“Five.”
He was lying. She could see it in the tension around his eyes. But if he wouldn’t be honest, they couldn’t work effectively. “Cal, I need accurate pain reporting. Otherwise I can’t adjust the protocol.”
“I said I’m fine. Can we just get this over with?”
Stubborn ass, Blair thought. “Fine. Lie back. We’re starting with passive range of motion.”
She positioned his leg carefully, one hand on his thigh and one hand supporting his calf. The moment she touched him, something shifted—electricity, awareness, tension that had nothing to do with the injury. Cal’s muscles tensed under her hands, and his eyes met hers. For three seconds, neither of them breathed.
Then Blair forced herself to focus. Professional. Clinical. Detached. Even though her heart was racing.
“I’m going to flex your knee. Tell me when you feel pain.”
She bent his leg slowly, carefully. At thirty degrees, Cal hissed. “There. That’s my limit.”
“That’s not enough. We need at least sixty for basic function.”
“Then I guess I’m screwed.”
“Or we work through it. Gradually. With proper technique and pain management.”
“You sound like a textbook.”
“I wrote parts of the textbook. Try to keep up.”
He almost smiled. Almost. But his knee was stiff with limited mobility and more scar tissue than expected. This was going to be harder than Blair had anticipated.
They worked for thirty minutes, and every exercise was a battle.
“Ten more reps.”
“I did ten.”
“That was seven. Ten more.”
“This is pointless.”
“This is necessary. Ten. More.”
He did them. Badly. With maximum complaint. Blair’s patience was wearing thin.
“You’re not even trying.”
“I’m doing exactly what you asked.”
“You’re half-assing it. I can see you have more range. You’re holding back.”
“Maybe this is my maximum.”
“It’s not. I know what maximum effort looks like. This isn’t it.”
“How would you know? You’re not me.”
“I’m a physical therapist. Reading bodies is literally my job. And your body is telling me you’re scared. Not incapable. Scared.”
Cal’s face hardened. “I’m not scared.”
“Everyone’s scared after a major injury. It’s normal. But fear won’t protect you. It’ll keep you broken.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me. You’re not qualified.”
“You’re right. I’m not. But I am qualified to push you through this. So stop fighting me and do the damn work.”
They stared at each other, tension crackling between them—not just anger, but something else. Something neither of them wanted to acknowledge.
“You’re my fourth therapist,” Cal said finally. “What makes you different?”
“I don’t quit. No matter how difficult you make this.”
“They all said that.”
“And they all quit. I won’t.”
“How do I know that?”
“You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.”
“I don’t trust people.”
“Then learn. Starting now.”
She extended her hand. “Deal? You do the work. I guide the process. We get you back on the ice.”
Cal looked at her hand, then at her face, searching for something—weakness maybe, doubt. He wouldn’t find it. Blair was done doubting herself.
Finally, he took her hand. His grip was firm, warm, calloused from years of hockey. The contact sent electricity up her arm. Completely inappropriate. Completely unprofessional. Completely undeniable. Cal felt it too—she could tell by the way his eyes darkened.
They dropped hands quickly.
“Okay. Deal. I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
It was a lie. She asked for more than effort. She asked for trust, honesty, vulnerability—everything Cal Montgomery had spent his career protecting.
The rest of the session was marginally better. Cal did the exercises, most of them, with less complaint. His range of motion improved slightly, from thirty degrees to forty. Small progress, but progress nonetheless.
“Good work today,” Blair said at the end.
“You’re patronizing me.”
“I’m encouraging you. There’s a difference.”
“I can’t tell anymore.”
He stood and tested weight on the injured leg, wincing but not complaining. Progress there too.
“Same time tomorrow?” Blair asked.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really. This is daily for the next three months. Minimum.”
“Great. Daily torture with the cheerful sadist.”
“That’s me. See you tomorrow, Montgomery.”
He limped toward the door, paused, and looked back. “Blair?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For not giving up. Even when I’m being an ass.”
It was the first genuine thing he’d said all session.
“You’re welcome. Now go ice that knee before it swells.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He left, and Blair sat in the empty PT room, her heart still racing from the contact, from the electricity when they touched, from the way he’d looked at her. This was a problem. A big problem. Because she wasn’t supposed to feel this—not for a patient, not for a player, not when fraternization meant losing everything.
She told herself it was nothing. Just natural chemistry. Didn’t mean anything. Could be ignored, managed, controlled. She was professional. Always had been. This wouldn’t be different.
Except it already was. She thought about him constantly—his pain, his fear, his rare smiles. The way his muscles felt under her hands during therapy. The way he trusted her even when he didn’t want to. The way her heart raced when he was near.
Sienna noticed that night over Thai takeout in their apartment. “You’re distracted.”
“Work stuff. Cal’s recovery is complicated.”
“Cal, huh? First name basis.”
“He’s my patient. I use his name.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not—”
She was. She could feel her face heating.
“Blair. Be careful. The fraternization policy—”
“I know. I signed the form. I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were stupid. But feelings don’t care about policies. And you’re clearly developing feelings.”
“I’m not. It’s professional concern. That’s all.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Blair wanted to argue but couldn’t, because maybe Sienna was right. Maybe this was more than professional. Maybe she was in trouble.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about the PT session, the way Cal’s hand felt in hers, the electricity, the awareness, the way he looked at her with those ice-blue eyes. Stop it, she told herself. He’s a patient. A player. Forbidden. This can’t happen. Won’t happen. She was stronger than this.
Except the next day, Cal showed up on time. Actually smiled when he saw her. “Morning, Doc.”
“Morning. Ready to work?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
They started the session, Blair’s hands on his leg again. The contact felt different today—more charged, more dangerous. Cal noticed too. Their eyes met during a passive stretch, and the moment extended. Three seconds. Five. Seven. Neither of them looking away.
Finally, Blair broke eye contact and focused on the knee, the injury, the work. Not the man. Never the man. Even though every cell in her body was screaming awareness.
They worked in tense silence, every touch electric, every glance loaded. This was bad. Really bad. And Blair had no idea how to fix it, how to make the attraction go away, how to stay professional when everything in her wanted to be anything but.
When the session ended, Cal lingered. “Blair—”
“Same time tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
She was cutting him off, unable to hear whatever he was going to say, unable to let this become more complicated than it already was. Cal’s jaw tightened, but he left without argument.
Good. That was good. She needed distance. Professional boundaries. Safety.
Except safe was the last thing she felt when Cal Montgomery looked at her like that, when every touch felt like fire, when breaking the rules started to seem worth the risk. This was a disaster, and they were only two weeks in. Nine to twelve months of recovery stretched ahead of them. How was she supposed to survive this? How was she supposed to keep her hands professional, her heart detached, her job secure? When Cal Montgomery made her feel things she’d never felt? When one touch could destroy everything?
She didn’t know. But she had to figure it out before this chemistry burned them both.
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