Page 120 of Black Light: Cured

Pulling out his charts, I memorize the degrees of movement from his last appointment. Off to the

side is my small note suggesting capsular release surgery with an estimated date. Although I

remember he made it adamantly clear that surgery is the last thing he wants. Even so, I made a deal

with him. If there wasn’t marked improvement, if things kept getting worse, then he’d have to go under

my knife.

He’s a valuable asset to his team, and though he’d be down for a bit, I’d make sure he was in

rehab the very next day. When he told me he was exploring other options first, I should have known

he’d be experimenting with more holistic things. For non-athlete patients, I don’t care. But his career

—and my reputation in professional sports—is far too important to just throw away.

Reaching into my desk, I pull out the book I swiped from Lila’s apartment and look it over.

Clinical aromatherapy… it’s laughable. What could oils possibly do except smell nice or affect the

central nervous system? If a person is lucky, it might increase parasympathetic nervous activity, but

all the reports that mention that are not from reputable sources.

I shake my head and put the book back. Reading it isn’t going to give me any insight into Lila I

don’t already know. Instead, I pull up the documents I have about capsular release surgery, just to

have them on hand when he finally makes the decision to trust me with his healthcare and not someone

else. I don’t care how fantastic she is in every single way; massage just isn’t going to take the place of

good surgical care.

When the door opens, I flash him my megawatt grin and stride over to him, keeping my grip on his

hand light on account of his shoulder. But when he grabs my hand, it’s firm, strong.

“Ready to go through your paces today?” I stare at the man, looking for any hint of discomfort, but

so far, it’s nothing like when he first came to see me.

“Always Doc. I think you’ll be impressed with the results.”

Thinning my lips, I go back to my charts. “I’m sure.”

It takes no time at all to measure his degrees of movement as he rotates his arm for me, and though

there’s still a bit of issue on some movements, it’s nothing like the first time. Normally it would take

surgery to see these kinds of results so soon. Gripping his hand in mine, I switch to the passive

movement portion of the exam and watch in amazement as the joint seems to have a bit of fluidity that

wasn’t there in our last appointment.

“What do you think, Doc? Still wanna have that surgery?”