Jason pats the bars. “We’re gonna load it.”
My stomach tightens. “We have been loading it.”
Jason tilts his head. “You’ve beendipping your toesin loading it. Today we’re getting in the pool.”
I exhale slowly through my nose, the way he’s taught me when my brain starts spiraling.
My knee aches even before I move. It’s the kind of ache that’s half physical, half memory. My body remembers the moment it failed me. It remembers the pop and the collapse and the sickening instant where my senior season stopped being a story and turned into a question mark.
Jason steps closer, voice dropping into that calm, coaching tone. “Look at me, Brooks.”
I do.
“You’re safe,” he says. “You’re controlled. You’re strong enough. Now, let’s do it.”
I nod once because anything else would be admitting I’m scared.
He positions my feet, hands light but confident. “Weight shift,” he instructs. “Left to right. Right to left. Let it accept you.”
Let it accept you.
Like my leg is a person I have to convince to stay.
I shift.
My quad trembles immediately.
The muscles in my hip tighten like they’re bracing for betrayal.
Pain flashes—sharp, bright—then settles into a deep burn that makes my vision narrow.
“Good,” Jason says. “That’s your body waking up.”
My jaw clenches.
“Now,” he says, tapping the floor with his finger, “step.”
I swallow.
No crutches inside the bars. No safety net besides metal and Jason’s hands.
My brain tries to bargain.
One more week.
One more day.
Just keep it simple.
But my body has been living simply for too long.
I lift my right foot.
My left leg takes the weight.
It shakes.
It holds.
