Silence.
“Christ.” She steps back, crossing her arms. “Not once? Not even after the first one?”
“I did some?—”
“Some doesn’t count. Some is why you’re at five dislocations instead of one.” She’s looking at me like I’m a particularly disappointing patient, and it’s more effective than any lecture. “When was your last dislocation?”
“Eight months.”
“Before that?”
“Year and a half.”
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just looks at me like I’m either the stupidest person she’s ever met or actively suicidal. “Let me guess—your medical staff has been telling you that you need surgery.”
“I need to play.”
“How’s that working out for you? Fifth dislocation suggests not great.”
The sarcasm lands exactly as intended. “I’ve managed.”
“You’ve been lucky. One bad hit and that shoulder’s done. Not injured—done. As in career-ending, never play again, spend the rest of your life unable to lift your arm above your head.” She meets my eyes directly, and there’s no sympathy there, just clinical assessment. “But you already know that, don’t you? Your orthopedic surgeon probably has a surgical slot reserved for you already.”
“They mentioned something about penciling me in for the off-season,” I mutter.
“Of course they did.” She shakes her head, and I catch frustration underneath the professional mask. “Twelve weeks of actual rehab. Not the bullshit you’ve been doing. Real rehab where you actually let it heal. That’s your alternative to surgery.”
“Twelve weeks is?—”
“A quarter of the season versus your entire career. Math seems pretty simple.”
“Most doctors?—”
“Most doctors are apparently scared of you.” She doesn’t look scared. She looks irritated, like I’m wasting her time with excuses she’s heard a thousand times before. “I’m not. If I get this job, you don’t play until that shoulder is actually fixed. Not taped together, not good enough—fixed.”
There’s a challenge in her voice that I want to argue with, but also something else. She’s telling me the truth even though it could cost her the job, even though I could tank her interview with one word to Barrett.
“You know I’m the captain, right? My opinion carries weight.”
“So I’ve just learned.” Her voice is dry. “Should I start kissing your ass now, or wait until I’m officially hired?”
Jake makes a choking sound from where he’s pretending not to listen.
“I’m asking if you want the job,” I clarify. “Given that you’d be dealing with me.”
“I want to do my job properly. If that means dealing with stubborn players who think they’re invincible, so be it.” She pauses, and there’s something almost amused in her expression now. “Even the over-built, under-brained ones.”
She’s throwing her words back at me, and I find myself almost smiling at her. “Noted.”
Barrett returns then, and I realize he probably heard most of that exchange. “Well?”
“Chronic instability that would require either surgery or intensive PT,” she reports, shifting seamlessly back into professional mode. “He’s been playing on borrowed time.”
“Recommendations?”
“Twelve weeks minimum of actual rehabilitation. No shortcuts.”
“The season—” I start.
