The next morningafter I see Mom off at the airport, I'm lying on a treatment table in the medical wing while Dr. Burke runs an ultrasound wand over my knee. The gel has gone cold, and the my knee is tender, but I've grown used to discomfort over the past month. It's become my constant companion.
“The swelling has gone down,” Dr. Burke says, his eyes on the monitor. “That's good news.”
I grunt in response. Good news is relative. My knee still feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone broken.
The door opens, and Ken Wagner walks in. He's the Director of Physical Therapy and my least favorite person in the building right now. Every time I see him, he's got another plan, another timeline, or another reminder of how far I have to go.
“Ethan.” He nods at me. “How are you holding up?”
“Fantastic,” I say. “Living the dream.”
Ken ignores my sarcasm. He pulls up a chair and sits down like we're about to have a heart-to-heart. I already don't like where this is going.
“I wanted to talk to you about your new physical therapist,” he says. “Natalie Cross. She starts today.”
“I've met her.”
Ken raises an eyebrow.
“She lives in my building. Damn near knocked me over yesterday.”
“Well, that's one way to break the ice.” Ken chuckles. “She comes highly recommended. She spent three years at Premier Medical Center in Charlotte, one of the top orthopedic rehabilitation programs in the Southeast. Post-surgical recovery, complex knee reconstructions, that sort of thing. Her patient outcomes are impressive. We're lucky to have her.”
I stare at the ceiling. “I don't want to work with her.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get someone else.”
Ken is quiet for a moment. Dr. Burke clears his throat awkwardly and excuses himself from the room, muttering something about checking on another patient.
“You haven't even had a session with her,” Ken says once we're alone.
“I don't need a session. I can already tell she's not going to work out.”
“Based on what exactly?”
I can't tell him the truth. I can't say that she's too pretty and that my body reacted to her like she’s a woman I want to fuck.
“She's too soft,” I say instead. “She won't last a week.”
Ken leans back in his chair. “The last two therapists we assigned to you didn't last a week either. And that wasn't because they were soft.”
I clench my jaw.
“Ethan.” Ken's voice drops, and the casual friendliness disappears. “I'm going to be straight with you. Management is getting frustrated. We can't keep switching therapists every time you decide you don't like someone. It's costing time and money, and frankly, it's costing you.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Your contract is up for renewal at the beginning of next season.”
I tense. I knew my contract was coming up, but I hadn't let myself think about it. Not with everything else going on.
“The front office is going to be looking very closely at your progress over the next few months,” Ken continues. “They need to see that you're committed to recovery and that you can work with the team we've put in place. They need to know that you're not a liability.”
“I'm not a liability,” I say with barely contained anger.
I’m well aware of how things work. A player is valuable as long as they’re helping the team win. When you get injured, you become a liability. Right now, no one cares that I helped my team win the Stanley Cup. That’s now old news. Onto next season.
