We start with weight shifts between the parallel bars. Simple on paper. Shift weight onto the injured leg. Hold. Breathe. Don’t cheat.
The moment I put real weight down, my quad starts to tremble like it doesn’t recognize the demand.
“Good,” Jason says calmly. “That’s the muscle waking up.”
Four weeks ago, I was waking up from surgery with my leg wrapped tight and numb, the joint reconstructed with grafts and hardware, my body held together by things I couldn’t see.
This is better than that. But it sure as fuck doesn’t feel better in the moment.
We move to single-leg balance. I step onto the mat, carefully placing my foot, trying not to think about how automatic this used to be. My knee wobbles almost immediately.
“Reset,” Jason says. “Again.”
“I did it.”
“You survived it,” he corrects. “Now do it again.”
Sweat gathers at the back of my neck. My jaw locks as I try again.
Wide receivers don’t get hurt running straight.
We get hurt on cuts. On sharp breaks. On trusting one foot to plant hard while the rest of the body explodes the other way without hesitation.
That trust is gone.
Now everything feels calculated. Measured. Slower than it should be.
We add lateral movement. Small shuffles. Controlled steps. Cones placed just far enough apart to make me think.
I hesitate before the first plant.
Jason notices immediately. “That pause?” he says. “That’s fear. That’s not pain; that’s your brain worrying that moving wrong is going to hurt you again.”
I don’t argue, because he’s right.
Halfway through the set, my leg gives out completely. I drop back onto the mat, breath leaving my lungs in a sharp rush as the room tilts.
I wait for the frustration. The anger. The familiar urge to punch something and push harder.
It doesn’t come.
There’s just this hollow quiet instead.
Jason kneels, checks my knee, adjusts the brace. “You push like this is life or death.”
“That’s football,” I say.
“No,” he replies evenly. “That’s pride. Rehab’s different.”
I nod once.
By the end of the session, my leg feels foreign, swollen, heavy, unreliable. My shirt clings to my back, hands shaking as I lock the brace back into place.
Jason hands me a printout. “New schedule. These aren’t optional.”
“When does it stop feeling like this?” I ask.
He meets my eyes. “It doesn’t. You just get stronger.”
