“This guy is special.” He pressed his hands together, almost as if in prayer.
“How many times have I heard this?” She crossed her arms, fighting to keep all those bad feelings that had developed over the previous six months from seeping in. “They’re all special to you.”
“But this guy…” Drake’s gaze went distant and his hands floated out to his sides in a helpless gesture. “He’s just different. He’s one of the good ones. Like you and me.”
“For God’s sake.” She put both hands up in a stop gesture. “I’m not even touching that.
”
“He’s got so much talent, so much charisma, even has business sense. This guy is going places.”
“I was going places too, until I crossed paths with one of your bad apples.”
“I know.” He took a step forward, leaning into the conversation. Julia knew him well enough to feel the sales pitch coming. “And I think I’ve finally found a way to make it up to you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That was high and ridiculously outside. How’d you ever pitch three world series?”
“Just hear me out—”
“The last time I heard you out, I…got…fired.”
“I’m telling you, this guy is amazing. Top shelf—”
“Great, then you don’t need me.”
“He took a bad fall in the very first event of the season in France in September—”
“Poor baby.” She crossed her arms, tiring quickly of a man she used to be able to chat with for hours.
“And missed out on everything this season since then,” Drake continued. “He’s had to bail on all the big tours: Tailgate, the USASA Nationals, the Freeride World Tour, the—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Disbelief tightened her forehead. “A snowboarder? You’re coming to me for a favor involving a snowboarder at my new job?” She threw her hands up again. “Dude,” she said, in an imitation of every snowboarder’s favorite word, “Strike three. Get out.”
“Julia, please, just listen—”
“I don’t do snowboarders. I don’t speak their language. I can’t even freaking understand what they’re saying most of the time. They’re too young, too stupid, too—”
“He’s not that young, and he’s definitely not stupid. He’s seasoned. He’s professional.”
“Professional and snowboarder do not belong in the same sentence.” She opened her hand and started ticking off the annoying habits of every snowboarder, skateboarder, and surfer she’d ever known. “Cocky, reckless, lazy—”
“Okay, yeah, he’s cocky. And, maybe a little reckless. But he’s not lazy. And he’s savvy and real and funny and generous—”
“Sounds like you’re crushing on the guy. In case you hadn’t noticed”—she gestured to the room where patients had slowly drifted out—“I have a job. This may not look exciting to you, but it…”
It what, exactly? It barely paid her bills. It sure didn’t excite her. It didn’t even challenge or engage her.
“I’m making a difference in these people’s lives,” she said, floundering for something meaningful, but the statement rang so hollow, she felt it echo inside her. She might be making a difference, but no bigger than any physical therapist right out of school. “I don’t need or want the aggravation your kind of clients bring. And I don’t want that lifestyle anymore either. I’m happy here.”
Drake’s expression screamed bullshit. “You’re happy moving a few limbs around so your patients can get to the toilet in time?”
“Watch it,” she warned. “We all get old, and that kind of karma is going to come back to bite you in the ass someday.”
“Come on, Jules, I know you. I know you miss standing on the sidelines at the NBA finals, the Stanley Cup, the Olympics, cheering on your patients, watching them set new world records. You can’t tell me you don’t.”
“What the hell difference does it make to you?”
He met her gaze steadily. “I thought we were friends.”