She busies herself with prep, and I sneak glances as she twists her hair back off her face with a claw clip, while I take off my socks and roll up my sweatpants. Then she pulls on a pair of gloves, snapping one into place with a little more force than necessary, before stepping up close to my leg.
Her hands hover near my knee before settling lightly on either side of it, the exam table creaking beneath my weight as I adjust.
I’ve had a lot of hands on me in my career. Trainers, players, physios. It’s never been a thing. But this, even with the gloves, lands different.
It feels focused, but personal. Like I’m not just a number or another athlete to be paraded down the Moreno Clinic hallway. She’s not treating agoalie, she’s treatingme.
Her fingers press gently along the line of the bandage.
“Incision looks good,” she murmurs. “No signs of inflammation.”
“Because I’ve been following instructions.”
She arches a brow. “Except for the ones about rest, which you forgot to log because the app’s shit, right?”
I don’t reply. She knows she’s right.
While she works, I let my eyes drift around the room.
A clipboard sits in its cradle near the wall. A couple of anatomy diagrams are pinned up, along with a printed rehab schedule in color-coded boxes. But some touches don’t match her no-nonsense vibe.
A small, spiky plant in a coral-pink pot that looks suspiciously fake. A crooked ceramic dish shaped like a cat, half full of paperclips. A misshapen pen-holder that looks like a kid made it.
My eyes land on a drink bottle perched on her desk. A giant fluorescent green monstrosity with glitter trapped in the sides. The kind of thing you’d see in a teenage girl’s gym bag. Doesn’t match the Dr. Doom vibe at all.
Lastly, I catch a photo tucked behind the computer monitor of three people. A blonde woman, a balding guy with a beer gut, and a teenage girl with braces and streaky blonde hair. They’re posed in front of some kind of amusement park, all smiles.
The woman looks most like Carina—same sharp cheekbones, same don’t-fuck-with-me mouth. But clearly not the same coloring. Carina carries a warm olive undertone, and she’s got straight and shiny dark hair, which dust her shoulders. She often has it clipped out of her face like it is now.
My eyes dart to another small frame angled beside it. A different man. With dark hair and a composed expression much closer in resemblance to hers.
Carina leans in, peeling back the bandage.
“Any pain today?”
“Nothing major.”
Her hands pause. “Twinges, soreness?”
I shrug. “Feels like someone took a scalpel to my knee and carved it open.”
“Mm. Good. That means we did it right.”
I huff, but then she presses her thumbs into the muscle above the incision, and I flinch.
“Jesus! You trying to kill me?”
“If I wanted to kill you, Hutchison, I would’ve knicked an artery, not your knee.”
I glance down at her, but she’s all business. She adjusts the position of my knee, then lifts the tablet and scrolls with one hand.
“Okay. Sutures are intact, and there’s no swelling or discharge. Range of motion?”
I tense. “Fine.”
She gives me a look.
“Moderate,” I amend.
