AGAINST the ODDS

Chapter 10: The Stubborn Patient

(Lillian's POV – His rehab begins, and he's the worst patient she's ever had.)

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I've worked with professional athletes long enough to know that rehab is just as much a mental battle as a physical one.

But Jaxon Reid?

He's turning it into war.

And I am this close to throwing my clipboard at his stubborn, infuriating head.

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Day One: The Storm Arrives

The first official rehab session is scheduled for early morning, but when I arrive at the facility, Jaxon is already there—seated in the therapy room with his arms crossed, jaw set, looking like he's ready to take on a linebacker rather than a resistance band.

He's still moving slow from surgery, the stiffness in his leg evident even though he tries to hide it. His brace is locked to limit movement, but I can tell he hates every second of being restrained.

"Morning," I say, setting my clipboard down on the table next to him.

He grunts.

Grunts.

I inhale slowly, ignoring the urge to roll my eyes. "How's the pain today?"

"Fine."

That's a lie. His face is tight, his fingers digging into the chair's armrest. But of course, admitting he's in pain would be too logical, too human.

I shake my head and reach for the therapy bands. "Alright, let's get started. We're focusing on mobility today—baby steps."

His eyes narrow. "Baby steps?"

I arch a brow. "Would you rather take no steps?"

His jaw clenches, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he watches as I loop the band around his foot, instructing him on simple isometric exercises to engage his quadriceps without putting stress on the torn ligament.

It's a basic exercise, something I give to every post-op patient in their first session.

Jaxon looks at it like I just handed him a damn coloring book.

"This is it?" he asks, unimpressed.

I let out a slow breath. "This is necessary. We're rebuilding strength from the ground up. You have to trust the process."

He shakes his head. "I can do more."

I give him a hard look. "And if you do more too soon, you'll tear it again."

His nostrils flare. I can see the war happening behind his eyes—his body telling him to slow down, his pride refusing to listen.

I've seen it before.

But never this bad.

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The Standoff

He's tense the entire session. Short with his responses. Irritated by every movement I make.

At one point, I try adjusting his brace to make him more comfortable, and he flinches—just a small, involuntary movement, but enough for me to notice.

"Jaxon," I say carefully. "You need to let me do my job."

His eyes flick to mine, sharp and challenging. "I am."

"No, you're fighting me every step of the way."

He presses his lips together, his hands balling into fists at his sides. I can tell he's barely holding on to his patience.

And I don't care.

Because I am barely holding on to mine.

I cross my arms. "Look, if you want to make this harder on yourself, be my guest. But I don't have time to deal with ego problems. Either you listen to me, or you can waste your time with another therapist."

His jaw ticks.

For a long second, he just stares at me, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.

Then, finally, he mutters, "Fine."

I blink. "Fine?"

He exhales sharply, like he's swallowing down every complaint he wants to make. "I'll do it your way."

I nod, satisfied. "Good."

But I don't miss the way his shoulders are still stiff, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to punch something.

Jaxon Reid may have said he'll listen.

But I'm not convinced he means it.

⸻

Day Three: The Breaking Point

By the third day of rehab, I have confirmed one very important thing.

Jaxon Reid is a nightmare patient.

He complains about every exercise. Pushes harder than I tell him to. Glares at me like I personally took his career away.

I knew he'd be difficult, but I didn't expect him to actively make my job harder.

"I'm fine," he snaps when I warn him—again—to slow down.

I glare. "You're not fine, Jaxon. You're recovering from major surgery."

"It doesn't even hurt."

I fold my arms. "Liar."

He grits his teeth. "It's not that bad."

"Oh, so it's just 'a little' bad? Wow, what a miracle, let's throw out the entire recovery plan and put you back on the field tomorrow."

His glare sharpens. "You're real funny, you know that?"

"I have to be," I deadpan. "Otherwise, I'd go insane dealing with you."

His mouth opens, like he's about to fire back, but then something happens.

He stops.

And to my utter surprise, he lets out a short, rough laugh.

It's not much—just a quick exhale of amusement—but it throws me completely off guard.

Jaxon Reid just laughed.

At me.

I blink at him, suspicious. "Was that... was that an actual laugh?"

He shakes his head, still smirking. "You're impossible."

I cross my arms. "And you're stubborn."

"I get that a lot."

"Shocking."

His smirk fades slightly, and for the first time in three days, I see something else in his expression—something real.

Not frustration.

Not anger.

Just tiredness.

He runs a hand down his face, exhaling. "I just... I don't know how to do this."

My chest tightens.

I've spent the last few days ready to strangle him, but right now, he just looks... lost.

Like he's realizing, for the first time, that this isn't something he can fight his way through.

And I get it.

Because rehab isn't just about getting stronger. It's about accepting where you are.

And Jaxon?

He's never had to do that before.

I soften my tone, just a little. "That's why I'm here."

His gaze meets mine, unreadable.

For a second, the air between us shifts.

But I pull back before it can settle into something dangerous.

"Now," I say, clearing my throat. "Are you ready to stop being the worst patient I've ever had?"

His smirk is back, just barely. "No promises."

I roll my eyes, but for the first time, I think we might actually be getting somewhere.