She attached the electrodes to his naked thigh without either of them speaking and without making eye contact. They were strictly doctor and patient. He understood exactly why boundaries were important to her and wouldn’t jeopardize her ethics.
Once everything was attached and the machine set up, Dr. Morgan smoothed down the front of her white doctor’s coat. “Relax. Close your eyes or listen to some music. Don’t get on the phone or start texting.” She handed him a remote control. “You can watch TV if you’d like. I’ll be back in 20 minutes.” And then she left the room and shut the door.
He opted to stick his earbuds in and listen to music. The first song that blasted through his head was “Adrenaline Rush” by Immortal Angel. His brother’s punk rock band wasn’t exactly music to relax to, so he clicked on the TV instead. As he played with the remote, he realized it also controlled the lights, so he lowered them. A button on the side of the recliner put him in a more comfortable position, and the next thing he knew, a woman in blue scrubs turned up the light.
“Time’s up, Mr. Blade. Sorry to wake you. I’ll have all this disconnected in a minute, and you can be on your way.”
Robert stretched lazily, unaware that he’d fallen asleep. Every part of him felt like mush, and his leg felt great. He looked through the open door for Amber but didn’t see her. “Where’s Dr. Morgan?”
“She’s with another patient. We have an instruction sheet for you at the front desk and your therapy schedule for the next two weeks. Dr. Morgan is a wonderful therapist. She’ll have you back on your feet in no time. You’ll see.”
Once he changed back into his clothes, he texted Manny to come get him. Then he picked up the paperwork that Amber left for him and waited in front of the building.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he told Manny the second he got into the car.
“Whatever it is, it sounds like good news. You’re walking a lot better than you were yesterday. Does that mean my days as a chauffeur are coming to an end?”
“Yeah. My leg feels a little better. I think I can start driving. But that’s not what I meant.” He turned in his seat to face Manny. “Dr. Morgan, my physical therapist, is Amber. The chick with the darts who I met at Last Call. Can you believe it?”
“The pretty blond with the pouty mouth?”
Robert raised his brows at Manny’s assessment of her and the way his friend’s face lit up. “You met her for two minutes. You remember all that?”
“You don’t forget a girl as pretty as her. Wait. She’s your physical therapist?”
“Yeah. Only she looks totally different. With glasses and her hair tied up. Like a super smart version of the girl I met.” His smile wilted because he remembered that Amber said girls who looked like her weren’t taken seriously or generally considered smart, and he hated the stereotype. “I meant, she’s smart and educated. Her credentials are very impressive.”
“I bet they are,” Manny said, with a lecherous laugh.
It was innocent, and Manny didn’t mean anything by it, but Robert couldn’t laugh with his friend. “I’m serious. She has degrees all over the walls and copies of articles written about her and articles that she’s published in prominent medical journals. And she knows what she’s doing.” He straightened out his leg, something he couldn’t do this morning without cringing.
“You got yourself a beautiful girl who’s got brains? And she’s a doctor? We should all be so lucky. So, when are you taking her out?”
“I’m not. She’s a professional. She can’t date one of her patients. It’s unethical.”
“You better hurry up and get better then. When’s your next appointment?”
Robert looked through the papers in his hands. “Tomorrow.” He had therapy five days a week, which meant he’d see Dr. Morgan nine more times. Then he’d be free to see Amber.
When Robert woke the next morning, his leg seemed marginally better, but after the first few steps to the bathroom, he reconsidered. His right quad felt tight, and a twinge pulled at the muscle behind his knee. At least his limp was less prominent, and he was able to walk without the cane.
He got through a shower and whipped up breakfast without too much effort. While he ate at the kitchen island, he scrolled through the feed on his phone. It was filled with text messages from his dad, his teammates, and Coach offering encouragement after his first session of physical therapy. He replied to all of them, touched at the outpouring of support for a minor injury.
Coach required a return phone call, though.
“How’s my favorite player?” Coach barked in greeting.
“I’m doing great. Thanks for keeping the guys up to date with everything. It was cool to see so many messages this morning.”
“Glad to hear it. Everyone was asking for you yesterday. Especially Martinez. He said he’s gotta constantly look over his shoulder. I told him Sandler and Villalobos got him covered, but he said, and I quote, ‘They’re not Blade.’ I told him, no one is. You’re one in a million. I wish I had a dozen players like you. Not only do you have strength and stamina, you got heart.”
Coach massaged egos. That’s what he did. But he didn’t talk the talk for the sake of the game. If he showered you with praise, you better believe you earned it and that he meant every single word of it. He wasn’t a man that spoke lightly. Everything he said packed a punch, and you could always feel the sincerity behind his words, whether in the form of praise or criticism. There were plenty of times that the team’s leader ripped the guys a new one and made them feel like shit—Robert included—but it was all for the betterment of the sport.
“Thanks, Coach. I can’t wait to get back, but I’m following doctor’s orders.”
“You better. I don’t want you re-injuring that leg or busting that knee.”
“Dr. Mendelson sent me to a new physical therapist. I was really impressed.”
