“But,” he continues, and the word hits like a hook, “I’m comfortable moving you into a return-to-run progression.”
My lungs forget how to work.
Mara doesn’t let me celebrate. “Straight-line only.”
“I know,” I say quickly, like I’m not a dog who just heard the wordwalk.
Trent grins. “Treadmill first. Controlled intervals.”
Dr. Mercer nods. “Walk-jog. Short bursts. Monitor swelling. Pain that’s sharp means stop. Soreness is expected.”
Run.
It isn’t full speed. It isn’t the field. It isn’t a route tree with a defender on my hip and the ball in the air.
But it’s motion.
It’s the first step back toward the version of myself I’m terrified I lost.
“Okay,” I manage, voice rough. “So what does that mean…timeline-wise?”
The question is a trap. I know it. They know it.
Dr. Mercer’s tone stays steady. “It means you’re on schedule for this injury, if not a little bit ahead. It means if a team asks you to come in for medicals, you’ll be honest about where you are. They’ll decide what they’re comfortable with.”
“Chicago.” My brain supplies immediately, like a curse I can’t stop saying.
No one says the name.
But it’s there anyway.
Trent scribbles something down. “We’ll start you on the treadmill today. Just to introduce it.”
Mara points at me. “And you don’t go home and decide you’re an elite sprinter again.”
I put a hand over my heart. “I would never.”
Her stare says she doesn’t believe me.
—
By the time I’m in my truck, the sun is too bright, and my phone feels too heavy in my pocket.
Two days until the draft.
Two days until Beck’s whole life gets ripped open in front of cameras and smiles.
And somewhere inside me, there’s a quiet, pathetic hope that my phone might ring too—even if it’s just a “come talk to us” call.
Even if it’s late.
Even if I’m limping into it.
My phone rings the second I pull out of the lot.
Beck
I answer, “Yeah.”
