The room feels like it's getting smaller. “So, what are you saying? That I can't do stunts anymore?”
“I'm saying you need proper physical therapy and probably another MRI to see what's going on structurally. Give it three months of dedicated rehab, then come back, and we'll reassess.” His expression softens slightly. “Brandon, you're thirty-two. Your body doesn't bounce back the way it used to. That doesn't mean your career is over, but it might mean it's time to think about what comes next.”
Three months. The Marvel project starts filming in six weeks. By the time I'm cleared—if I'm cleared—they'll already have hired someone else. Someone younger, someone whose body hasn't started betraying them in the middle of what should be the biggest opportunity of my career.
“What about my current project?” I ask, with panic starting to creep into my voice. “I'm already booked through next month.”
“As long as you're not doing anything that aggravates the shoulder, you should be fine to finish out existing commitments. But no new bookings until we get this sorted out.”
The relief is small but significant. At least I won't have to explain to anyone why I'm suddenly backing out of work. But the bigger picture is terrifying. If I can't do stunts anymore, what the hell am I supposed to do with my life?
I slide off the examination table. My legs feel unsteady underneath me. “Yeah, okay.”
“Brandon, listen to me. This isn't the end of the world. With proper treatment, there's every reason to believe you'll be back to full capacity in a few months.”
He's trying to be encouraging, but all I can hear is the sound of the door closing on my career. A reminder that this career I've built won't last forever.
“Can you recommend someone for the PT?” I ask because I need to do something productive with this conversation before I lose it completely.
“Absolutely. I'll send you a referral today.” He pauses, studying my face. “And Brandon? Take this seriously. Don't try to push through it or work around it. Your body is telling you something important.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and shake his hand before heading for the door. The hallway feels endless as I walk toward the exit, my mind racing through all the implications of what just happened.
I make it to my car before the real panic hits. Sitting in the parking garage, staring at the concrete wall in front of me, I feel every one of my thirty-two years pressing down on my shoulders. If I can't do stunts anymore, what am I supposed todo? Go crawling back to New York with my tail between my legs, admit that my family might have been right about this being an unsustainable career? Start managing luxury resorts like Dad's been hinting at for years?
The thought makes my stomach turn. I love what I do. I love the adrenaline, the precision, the way every day is different. I love being part of something bigger than myself, helping tell stories that matter. The idea of trading all that for spreadsheets and guest satisfaction surveys feels like giving up everything that makes me who I am.
My phone buzzes with a text, and for a moment, my heart sinks, thinking it might be work related. But it's from Stella.
Stella
I'm running behind tonight so probably won't be there until 8pm.
The simple message hits me differently than it usually would. Suddenly, the thought of sitting on her couch feels like a safe space to process this day. Not because I want to talk about what just happened—I'm nowhere near ready for that conversation—but because Stella's apartment feels like the one place where I can just exist without having to perform or prove anything.
Brandon
Ok, want me to grab food?
Stella
You can bring wine. I've got dinner covered.
I thumbs up the text, then start the car and head back to the studio for a few more hours, already feeling some of the tension in my chest beginning to ease. Whatever happens with my career, whatever decisions I have to make in the coming months, at least I have good friends I can lean on if I need to.
nine
. . .
Brandon
I letmyself into Stella's apartment right at eight, bottle of wine in hand, trying to shut down the loop still playing in my head from earlier.
I can't clear you for physical activity right now. Your shoulder mobility is significantly compromised from where it was six months ago.
Dr. Cohen might as well have stapled the words to my forehead.
Inside, Stella's already padding across the hardwood floor in an oversized USC sweatshirt and a pair of cotton shorts, her blonde hair twisted up in one of those messy buns that look effortless.
