They start with the basics—range of motion, quick checks around the knee, palpating places that make me flinch even when I try not to.
“Swelling?” Dr. Mercer asks.
“Mostly controlled,” I say. “If I overdo it, it gets tight.”
Mara’s eyes sharpen. “Overdo it how?”
I hesitate, because the truth is, I don’t always know where the line is until I’ve crossed it.
“Longer sessions,” I admit. “Extra sets.”
Trent snorts. “We love an overachiever.”
Mara doesn’t. She gives him a look that could kill hope.
Dr. Mercer tests stability, then sits back on his heels, calm in that annoying way doctors get to be when it’s your life on the line and their coffee is still hot.
“Okay,” he says. “Strength numbers are improving. Your quad is coming back. Your gait is cleaner. That’s good progress.”
My chest loosens slightly.
Good progress is not the same as good enough, but I’ll take it.
Mara pulls up my last testing sheet. “Single-leg squat.”
I glare. “I hate you.”
She smiles. “No, you don’t.”
I step onto the mat and lower into the single-leg squat. Controlled. Slow. I can feel every tiny stabilizer firing like it’s trying to prove it deserves to exist.
Halfway down, my knee wobbles.
Mara snaps, “Don’t let it dive.”
I correct. Hold. Rise.
It’s clean.
Trent claps once like I’m a toddler who just learned the alphabet. “Atta boy.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but my mouth twitches.
They run me through a short circuit—step-downs, balance work, banded walks, the stuff that looks unimpressive until you realize it’s the foundation for everything else. The unsexy, boring pieces that make the sexy parts possible.
By the time I’m finished, sweat slicks my back, and my quad feels like it’s vibrating.
Dr. Mercer checks his notes, then looks up.
My stomach drops anyway.
“Here’s where you are,” he says. “You’re still not cleared for full-force cutting, reactive agility, or contact. No hard routes. No sharp change of direction.”
I nod, jaw tight.
Because that’s what I want. That’s the point. That’s what makes me me.
And I can’t have it yet.
