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To be honest, he saved me back.
I was brand new to Florida, moving to Miami to accept my first PT job before the NFL job was on the horizon.
We must be a pair. I’m slight. I call myself “hobbit size” because I practically am. I’m five-one and totally count that one. If Kyle were to stand and place his paws on my shoulders, he’d easily tower over me by a foot or more. He could also rip my arm out of socket if he felt like it. He’s got more than sixty pounds on me and is all muscle.
I latch his leash onto his collar, and we head out into the morning sunshine. Kyle needs to burn some energy before I leave for the day.
He’s well trained. He has to be. A sweet gangly puppy is darling. But a full-grown dog with that energy and size would be heck on wheels if not properly trained. So, I worked with him. Now, at almost sixteen months, he’s incredibly disciplined. He’s also wholly spoiled. I take credit for both.
Aside from a few quirks like chipped paint on corners in the house from his tail whipping, scuff marks on furniture, and all the other things that a giant breed brings to the table, he’s practically perfect. We won’t discuss my dog food bill.
We stroll the neighborhood. I walk. He practically struts. Within thirty minutes, he’s worn out. Giant breeds are like that—churn and burn, and then hours of lazy recovery.
I shower and get ready for my day. “Have a great day, Kyle. Stay off the counters.” The last part is just for me. There’s evidence he does whatever he darn well pleases while I’m gone. If it bothered me, I’d care, but he’s a good boy and loves me well, so I overlook some things that wouldn’t work for others.
I head into the office and try my sister while en route. The call rings once and gets sent to voicemail. “You’ve reached the voicemail of Natalia Morgan. Please leave your name, number, and the nature of your call, and I, or someone on my team, will return your call as quickly as we’re able. Text messages will not be returned.”
“Tally, it’s Livy. I heard you made partner. I’m so happy for you and so proud of you. I’d love to catch up when you have time.” I’ll try her again in a week. No doubt it’ll take almost a month to have a five-minute chat about her latest promotion.
When the team needed a PT, they didn’t put it on the job boards. The industry is tight, and poor hires, especially when it comes to team health, can be disastrous. A friend of mine in private practice heard about it through a client of hers who plays in the league and encouraged me to apply.
The wreckage and testosterone of this kind of clientele didn’t seem like my thing, but in my three months here, I’ve come to love it. I can truly help. The clients all want to be better and are willing to put in the hard work.
Besides, I won’t admit it to anyone except my bestie, but there aren’t fifty physical therapists on staff with the league, so it’s a small, rather elite fraternity of individuals. I’m proud of landing the role and even more proud of the work I’m doing here.
I go through files and correspondence with the athletic training team and medical staff and send appointment reminder texts out for meetings this afternoon.
Imagine my surprise when I arrive at morning yoga to find Layton Ranger already there, mat rolled out, and waiting.
* * *
Layton
I’m an idiot.
Or a sucker.
Or both.
Am I really to believe that the pocket-sized PT and her stretches can make me run faster?
“I need to have my head examined.”
“I already know that. But why today?” Marshall says as he enters the room.
“For falling for this.” I wave my hand around the room stopping on the roll-out mat to emphasize my point.
“Don’t laugh, okay?”
“You know me better than that, Marsh.”
“This loosens up my hips. I never said this and I’ll deny it if you repeat it, but I’ve been doing yoga and Pilates, and—”
“What?” I bark out a laugh.
“Fuck you, Ranger. I’ll say this. I’m off the line faster, and my Monday recovery doesn’t hurt the way it used to.”
“You believe that shit?”
