AGAINST the ODDS

Chapter 11: Resistance

(Jaxon's POV – He fights against her orders but can't ignore her presence.)

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Rehab is hell.

Not just because of the pain, though that's bad enough. Not just because my knee feels like it doesn't belong to me anymore, stiff and weak and unreliable.

No, the worst part is her.

Dr. Lillian Carter.

The most infuriating, relentless, and frustratingly competent person I've ever met.

She doesn't take my crap. Doesn't let me push past my limits. Doesn't let me suffer in silence, either. And the more she tells me what to do, the more I want to do the opposite—just to prove that I still have some control over my own damn body.

The problem?

I can't ignore her.

No matter how much I try.

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Stubborn Meets Stubborn

I show up to my session already in a mood, my knee aching from last night when I—against her orders—tried to do extra exercises in my hotel room. I thought if I worked harder, I'd speed up the process.

Instead, I woke up barely able to bend my leg.

Lillian notices the limp the second I walk in.

"You overdid it." It's not a question.

I grit my teeth, lowering myself onto the therapy table. "I'm fine."

Her lips press into a thin line. "Funny, I feel like I've heard that before. Oh right—every single day since we started."

I don't respond.

She sighs, grabbing the therapy band. "Alright, we'll modify today. No weight-bearing exercises."

"No."

Her head snaps up. "Excuse me?"

I lean forward. "I'm not going backwards. I can do weight-bearing."

"Not today, you can't."

"Lillian—"

She cuts me off. "No. You made your knee worse by pushing too hard, so today we're scaling back. That's my call, not yours."

I glare at her, my jaw tight. "It's my body."

She meets my stare, completely unfazed. "And my job."

Silence stretches between us, thick and tense.

I should let it go. Just do the exercises.

But something about the way she says it—so damn confident, so sure she's right—makes me want to fight her even more.

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Losing the Battle

I go through the session half-heartedly, doing the movements but putting in the bare minimum. I expect her to get frustrated, to snap at me, to push me harder.

She doesn't.

She just watches.

Calm. Patient.

Like she's waiting for me to burn out my own defiance.

It pisses me off even more.

By the time we're halfway through, my leg is trembling, sweat dampening the back of my shirt. I want to pretend it's easy, that I could do more if I really wanted to.

But I know she sees through it.

She always does.

When we finish, she hands me a towel and steps back, arms crossed. "You're fighting the wrong battle, Jaxon."

I exhale sharply, wiping my face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She tilts her head slightly. "You think pushing yourself harder makes you stronger. But the real strength? It's in knowing when to step back. When to trust the process instead of forcing it."

I scoff. "Sounds like a nice motivational speech. You print that on T-shirts for your patients?"

She doesn't laugh. "You don't have to listen to me, Jaxon. But if you keep fighting me just for the sake of fighting, you're going to lose more than just a season."

I clench my jaw, looking away.

I hate that she's right.

I hate that she knows exactly what's going on in my head.

But what I hate the most?

That I actually care what she thinks.

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The Problem With Lillian Carter

Lillian isn't like the other trainers or therapists I've worked with.

They usually tiptoe around me, afraid to push too hard, afraid to say something that might set me off. Because I'm Jaxon Reid—star quarterback, media darling, the guy who always finds a way to win.

She doesn't give a damn about any of that.

She treats me like a patient. Like a challenge. Like a person she refuses to let self-destruct.

And as much as I want to hate her for it...

I can't stop thinking about her.

Not just in the therapy room, but after.

When I'm in my hotel, staring at my reflection, trying to figure out who the hell I am without football.

When I'm lying awake at night, my knee throbbing, my mind racing.

She's there.

In my head. In my space.

And I don't know how to deal with it.

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A Shift in the Air

A few days later, I walk into the therapy room expecting the same routine—exercises, frustration, and another round of me pretending I'm fine.

Instead, I find Lillian standing by the table, arms crossed, watching me.

There's something different about her expression today. Less strict. More... observant.

Like she's trying to figure me out.

"What?" I ask, dropping my bag.

She shrugs. "Just wondering when you're going to stop fighting me and actually let me help you."

I huff a laugh. "You're helping."

"No," she says softly. "I'm treating you. That's different."

I pause, caught off guard.

She steps closer, lowering her voice. "You think if you give in to this process, you're admitting weakness. But that's not what this is, Jaxon."

I swallow hard, her presence suddenly too close, too consuming.

She smells like something fresh, something warm. Her hair is tied back, but a few loose strands frame her face, and I catch myself looking too long, too closely.

Damn it.

This isn't supposed to happen.

I force a smirk, deflecting. "So what, you're my therapist and my life coach now?"

She rolls her eyes but doesn't step back. "I'm just saying... you don't have to do this alone."

The words hit something deep inside me, something I'm not ready to acknowledge.

So instead of answering, I nod and move toward the table.

Lillian doesn't push.

She just watches, quiet and knowing.

And for the first time since this injury, I don't feel like I'm drowning alone.