Riley
“You’ve made changes in the therapy sessions without confirming with the board.”
The words hit like ice through the speaker. I was standing in the middle of my room, halfway through tying my ponytail, getting ready to head into Lucas’s session. My phone buzzed with an unknown number, and I’d answered, thinking maybe it was the board finally signing off on the next rehab phase. Instead, it was this.
I sat down on the edge of my bed, hard, the air knocking out of my chest. “Excuse me?” I said, gripping the phone tighter.
Jenny Patel. That’s what she said her name was when she introduced herself—calm, clipped, like she was reading from a corporate handbook. “Why did you do that?”
My mouth was dry. I swallowed, trying to hold my voice steady. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve been informed there are some inconsistencies in the sessions,” she said smoothly. “Your notes do not match recent footage or the updates reported to the League. You’ve been slowing the progression, haven’t you?”
I blinked. How the hell did they know?
“I’ve been doing the same therapy sessions I submitted—the ones that got approved,” I lied, weakly, knowing my voice didn’t carry the confidence I needed it to.
“Lying is not ethical, Dr. Morgan,” she replied coldly. “We’ve heard you are no longer following the original plan. Why is that?”
I stood, pacing now. My hand was shaking slightly. “I am following it,” I snapped. “I just don’t—pressure him anymore. I don’t force a recovery timeline that his body isn’t ready for.”
“That’s not for you to decide,” she said. “We need Rivera at the top of his performance by the next big game. Your current pace won’t get him there. If you continue making emotional adjustments instead of clinical ones, you won’t align with what this league needs from its athletes.”
I stopped pacing. My voice dropped. “I’m doing what is right for Mr. Rivera—as his physical therapist. Not what looks best on a league brochure.”
“That’s still not your call, Dr. Morgan,” she snapped. “Regardless, you’ve been summoned for an official ethics review. Tomorrow morning.”
I stopped breathing. “For what?”
“You’ll hear that tomorrow.”
Click.
The line went dead.
I stood there in the middle of my room, stunned, my phone still pressed to my ear. My chest rose and fell too fast.
An ethics review.
This wasn’t just a slap on the wrist. This could ruin everything. My research credibility. My entire clinical record. And if the International Research Institute got wind of it? They could pull their offer. Just like that.
The letter from the Institute sat folded neatly on my desk. It had felt like a dream when I first opened it—finally, a breakthrough, proof that everything I worked for meant something. That I meant something.
Now? That dream was slipping. The news about Lucas had reached the Institute. They’d requested a “clarifying statement” about my involvement, and whether my research had been compromised by our… “personal association.”
I stared at the sentence, reading it over and over again, like it might suddenly change.
I looked up at the clock.
Lucas’s session was in fifteen minutes.
How was I supposed to walk in there and act like my career wasn’t unraveling underneath me?
The door burst open—early.
Lucas stepped in, hood over his head, jaw locked. His eyes scanned the room like it was already annoying him. He didn’t even look at me as he dropped his bag by the wall.
“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered.
I blinked. “Good afternoon to you, too.”
He tugged his hoodie off. “Sorry. It’s just… it’s been a morning.”
I walked over with my clipboard. “Same here. You ready to get started?”
He sat on the bench but didn’t move. “Actually, no. I’m not.”
“Lucas…”
“I can’t do this today, Riley.” His voice was sharp, defensive. “I just came to say I’m skipping.”
I frowned. “You’ve never skipped a session. What’s going on?”
He stood, his fingers raking through his hair. “Everything is going on! I’ve got sponsors threatening to pull out. My coach is treating me like a liability. And the press? They’re printing every version of the truth but the real one.”
I crossed my arms. “You think I’m not dealing with fallout too? People on the board want a statement. They think I’m sleeping with my subject.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
I shook the paper at him. “They think my research is compromised. That I’ve lost objectivity.”
His face tightened. “That’s insane. You’ve done nothing but fight for me.”
“And that’s exactly the problem, apparently.”
Lucas looked away, pacing toward the wall. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“No, you just showed up in my life again and lit the whole thing on fire,” I snapped.
His hands curled into fists. “I didn’t mean to mess up your perfect little research plan.”
“Don’t you dare—” I stepped toward him, voice rising. “You think this is about a plan? This is my life’s work, Lucas.”
“Well maybe I’m not the only one under pressure!” he shouted. “But I’m not going to sit here and be poked and stretched like a science project today.”
He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder.
“Lucas—wait—” My voice broke.
He paused at the door, hand on the knob. “You’re the one who said this was just therapy, right?”
I nodded stiffly.
“Then let it be therapy,” he said coldly. “And today, the patient’s not showing up.”
He walked out.
The door shut hard behind him.
And just like that, the silence swallowed everything.
I stood there, frozen, with the letter still clutched in my hand. My chest ached—not just from the fight, but from everything that had been building for days. Weeks.
I wasn’t sure what stung more.
The fact that he walked out.
Or the fact that a part of me still wanted to run after him.