It’s how I make my living.
Muscles, joints, ligaments, recovery cycles—my entire job revolves around understanding the human body and helping people heal theirs.
Most of my clients just happen to be elite athletes.
So when some random jock on a rival team thinks he’s going to devastate me by calling me fat?
Please.
How remarkably uninventive.
I’ve heard worse from twelve-year-olds.
Which is why when the guy starts running his mouth and making those crude gestures, I do the only professional thing to do.
I ignore him.
Eyes down.
Tablet up.
Notes, Chiara.Focus on the notes.
But then something happens.
Noah Walker happens.
He doesn’t brush it off.
Doesn’t laugh it away.
Doesn’t pretend it’s just locker room stupidity.
Instead, he drops whatever he’s doing and walks straight toward the guy.
And when Noah Walker walks with purpose, people notice.
He’s not yelling.
Not yet.
But his shoulders are squared, his jaw tight, and every step looks deliberate.
Whatever words get exchanged between them—I can’t hear them.
But I can see Noah’s face.
And it’s getting darker by the second.
I probably should say something.
Tell him to let it go.
Remind him that this is exactly how situations spiral out of control.
That if anyone realizes he’s reacting because of me, it makes this thing between usobvious.
Complicated.
