“I enjoy keeping athletes healthy.” I turn to grab my measurement tools, mostly to break the eye contact that’s lasting about three seconds too long. “Lie back. I need to check the joint stability.”
He lies back on the table, and I try not to notice how his abs contract with the movement or the way the morning light from the window highlights the darker ink on his ribs. This is my job. I’ve worked on hundreds of athletes over the years. There’s nothing special about Roman Varga except that he’s my most high-profile patient and I need him healthy to prove Winters wrong about my methods.
I position my hands on his shoulder, one stabilizing the joint, the other testing the laxity with careful pressure in multiple directions.
“Anterior instability is significant,” I murmur, mostly to myself, falling into the familiar rhythm of assessment and documentation. “Posterior is better but still compromised.” I adjust my grip to test inferior laxity, and his breath catches audibly.
“Does that hurt?”
“No.” But his voice is rougher now, and when I glance at his face, his eyes are fixed on the ceiling with an intensity that suggests he’s thinking about something very specific. Or trying very hard not to think at all.
“Almost done.” I finish the rest of the assessmentquickly, professionally, ignoring the way my pulse picks up every time my hands make contact with his skin. “The good news is the nerve function seems intact. The bad news is you’ve got about 40% more laxity than you should.”
“In English?”
“Your shoulder is held together by hope and athletic tape.” I step back, putting the treatment table between us like it might help create actual professional distance. “Twelve weeks. Non-negotiable.”
He sits up, and I absolutely don’t watch the way his back muscles move as he does it. “What’s the protocol?”
“First three weeks: no overhead movement, basic stabilization exercises only. Weeks four through six: controlled range of motion work, starting resistance training. Weeks seven through nine: sport-specific movements, progressive strength building. Final three weeks: full contact preparation, return to play protocols.”
“That’s extremely conservative.”
“It’s safe. And it’s what’s happening.” I check my phone. 7:43. I need to wrap this up to get Mom to chemo on time. “Monday, Wednesday, Friday at 7 AM. Tuesdays and Thursdays you’ll do guided exercises with Jake.”
“Seven in the morning all summer?”
“Is that a problem?”
He’s pulling his shirt back on, and I catch him wince slightly at the movement, a micro-expression he probably thinks I didn’t see. “No problem. Your protocol, right?”
“Right.” I start gathering my papers, trying to look busy and professional instead of flustered and attracted. “And Roman? No extracurriculars. No golf, no tubing, no showing off at the gym, no proving anything to anyone. You follow the plan or you don’t play.”
“Or you’ll bench me.” He stands, and suddenly the treatment room feels about half its actual size. “You made that clear.”
“Good.” I grab my bag, needing to leave before this tension turns into something I can’t control or explain away as professional concern. “Friday. Seven AM. Don’t be late.”
I’m almost to the door when his voice stops me.
“Why so early?”
I turn back. He’s leaning against the treatment table, arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression that probably makes opposing teams nervous.
“Because the arena’s empty,” I say honestly. “No distractions. No teammates. Just the work.”
Something shifts in his face. Understanding, maybe. “No witnesses.”
The way he phrases it makes heat crawl up my neck, because he’s right and we both know it. Like he knows exactly why I don’t want witnesses to our sessions. Like he’s been thinking the same things I’ve been desperately not thinking about for two weeks.
“Friday,” I repeat, and leave before he can see the flush spreading across my cheeks.
My phone buzzesas I’m getting into my car.
Mom
Can you bring coffee? The cafe by the arena has the best flavors.
I sit in the driver’s seat for a moment, forehead against the steering wheel, trying to switch gears from PT who just spent forty minutes touching Roman Varga to daughter taking Mom to chemo. The two worlds can’t overlap. They can’t be allowed to touch each other, to contaminate each other with their completely different kinds of anxiety and need.
