“That's why you practice,” he says softly. “Start with someone who already knows you're worth it.”
I swallow and force a laugh to break the tension. “You volunteering as tribute, Grimaldi?”
His smile tilts, playful again. “Depends on what the job description looks like.”
It's the second time he's mentioned helping me. And I think I'm going to take him up on it.
eight
. . .
Brandon
I sitin the sterile examination room, trying not to fidget as Dr. Cohen reviews my chart. The paper crinkles under me every time I shift on the table, and the fluorescent lights overhead make everything feel harsh and clinical. Not exactly the ideal setting I was going for today.
“So, Brandon,” he says, looking up with that easy smile that's made him my go-to doctor for the past five years. “I finally saw theRoadhouseremake. That bar fight sequence was incredible. How many takes did that final throw take?”
I grin, relaxing slightly. “Seven. The first six, I kept landing about two inches off my mark.”
“Jesus.” Shaking his head, he makes notes on his tablet. “I don't know how you do it. I get winded walking up two flights of stairs.”
“Practice and a very expensive chiropractor,” I say, rolling my shoulders experimentally. The left one gives a small protest, like it always does these days, but nothing dramatic. “Speaking of which, this should be pretty routine today, right? I've got a Marvel audition coming up, and they need the physical submitted pretty soon.”
“Should be.” He sets down his tablet and pulls on latex gloves. “Let's start with the basics and see how everything looks.”
The first part goes exactly as expected. Blood pressure, heart rate, reflexes—all the standard stuff that's never given me trouble. Dr. Cohen makes small talk about my work, asking questions that make me think he's actually interested in what I do instead of just being polite.
“I always wondered how you guys make those falls look so real without actually getting hurt,” he says while checking my reflexes with that little rubber hammer.
“It's all about angles and timing. Plus knowing exactly where to land and how to—” I stop mid-sentence as he moves to test my left shoulder. Something feels wrong the moment he starts manipulating the joint. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing, just…that felt different than usual.”
Dr. Cohen's expression shifts slightly, becoming more focused. “Can you lift your arm straight up for me?”
I do and immediately feel that familiar catch at about ninety degrees. It's been there for months, ever since the accident on the Caldwell project, but it's manageable. Or so I thought.
“Now rotate it backward. Slowly.”
The movement sends a sharp twinge down my arm, and I can't quite suppress the small grunt of discomfort. The doctor's hands are gentle but thorough as he manipulates the joint, testing the range of motion, checking for instability.
“When was your last MRI on this shoulder?”
“Right after the injury. Maybe a year ago?” My stomach starts to clench. “Why?”
Instead of answering immediately, he has me do a series of movements that has me reaching overhead, behind my back, and across my chest. Each one reveals limitations I've beenunconsciously working around for weeks. By the time he's finished, his expression is carefully neutral in the way doctors get when they're about to deliver news you don't want to hear.
“I'm going to be straight with you,” he says, pulling off his gloves and settling onto his rolling stool. “I can't clear you for physical activity right now.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. “What do you mean?”
“Your shoulder mobility is significantly compromised from where it was six months ago. You're compensating in ways that are putting strain on other muscle groups.”
I stare at him, trying to process what he's saying. “But I feel fine. I mean, it's a little stiff, but I've been working through it. I just finished a whole fight scene last week without any problems.”
“You've been managing it, which is different than it being healed.” He pulls up something on his tablet and shows me what looks like notes from previous visits. “Your range of motion has decreased by thirty percent since your last physical. That's not normal recovery; that's regression.”
