Page 47 of Fight For Me

He makes a displeased noise in the back of his throat. “Trying to. I suck.”

I wait for more of an explanation, but none comes. “And why are you knitting?” I finally ask.

He looks up, mouth twisting into a smirk. “Why do you ask? Do you think there’s somethingwrongwith a guy knitting? How misogynistic of you.” God, I can’t handle him smirking and teasing like that tonight. Not when I’m already having trouble keeping my eyes off him.

“I think it’s perfectly fine for guys to knit,” I tell him. “I’ve just never seenyoudo it.”

He sighs, tossing the needles and yarn onto the table. “It’s my fucking physical therapist.”

“You started PT?”

“Beginning of the week. It’s been…not great.”

“Why not great?”

He shrugs, but his face is clouded in annoyance. “It’s just not how I thought it would be. This therapist is a pain in my ass.”

“Because he’s making you knit?”

“Because he won’t let me touch my damn piano.”

I wince. I can only imagine how hard that must be for him. It’s already been months since his doctor told him he needed to stop playing and have surgery. I’m sure it’s killing him.

“What does he have you doing instead?”

Wyatt sighs. “Stupid exercises. Not just for my hand—he has me lifting weights and all this other shit. Says it will help me if I have more strength in my arms.”

I stare at his smooth, lean bicep. At his corded forearms. Maybe his PT is crazy—his arms look damn strong to me. Strong and perfect.

Strong and perfect and attached to a guy who does not feel the same way about you,I remind myself.

I sip my tea to hide my wince at that thought. Wyatt is still going on about the therapist. “He says I have to relearn how to play the piano from scratch. Apparently, everything I’ve been doing all these years is wrong. I hold my wrists wrong, my extension is wrong, my posture is wrong, I sit on the damn bench wrong.” He glares at the mess of yarn in front of him. “And before he’ll teach me the right way to do all those things, he wants me to waste a bunch of time doing inane shit like this.”

“Poor baby,” I murmur, and his head snaps up, eyes narrowed.

“Sorry.” His voice is defensive. “I thought you were interested—since you’re the one who asked.”

“I am interested,” I shoot back. “Just didn’t think you’d be whining so much.”

“I’m not whining.” When I raise an eyebrow, he sighs. “Okay, I’m whining. But this sucks, Alex. I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. I’ve never not played for this long. Not even close.”

I soften. I know the feeling he’s describing well. Crawling out of my skin is the exact description I would use for how my body feels after a few days with next to no sleep. “Your dad found this guy, right? Because he’s a specialist in helping musicians rehab injuries?”

Wyatt nods. “Yeah. He’s supposed to be the best in the world.”

I shrug. “Then you need to trust that he knows what he’s doing. Even if it sucks.”

He runs a hand through that messy, tousled hair. “Logically, I know that. But it’s hard to make myself really believe it. Hard to actuallyfeelit, you know?”

I almost laugh out loud, his words striking a chord. Kind of like how I logically know I shouldn’t be attracted to him. Fat chance making my heart actually believe it, though. “Yeah,” I mutter drily. “I know exactly what you mean.”

His forehead wrinkles and I know he’s about to ask me questions I don’t really want to answer right now. So instead I hold out my hand. “Let me see that.”

“See what?”

“The mess you’re making with that yarn.”

He hands the bundle over to me. When he turns his wrist, I catch sight of the little uneven star tattooed there. Something warm settles into my belly. That was the first tattoo Will ever did, back when he was still training. He’s offered to fix it a dozen times but Wyatt insists he likes it just the way it is. I don’t know why, but that wonky little star does something to me.