“I have patients.” I press into his soleus and keep my eyes on my hands. “You’re done. Ice after practice, ten minutes.”
I finish Berger’s treatment. He leaves with the added energy of a man who has found new evidence. Marchetti is next, and the room feels smaller in the space of five seconds.
“On the table.”
He pulls his shirt over his head. The shoulder looks better: less anterior tilt, less protective posture. I track the improvement the way I was trained to, and then I track it again because the first time I wasn’t looking at his shoulder.
“How’s it feeling?”
“Good. A little tight after the game the other night.”
I press into the posterior deltoid. The tissue is responsive, softer than it was in December. “Less guarding through the lower trap.”
“Is that the good version or the bad version?”
“There’s only good and less good. This is the good version.”
“You have such a way with words, Brooks.”
“You still haven’t earned the advanced words yet.” I say it quietly, our own inside joke. “Let me check anterior flexion.” I guide his arm through the arc. Both hands steady, positioning correct. “Ninety-five percent of baseline.”
“Is that good?”
“I just said there’s only good and less good.”
“Right. So is ninety-five the good version of good, or the less good version of good?”
“It’s the version where I increase your resistance next week.”
“Whatever you say, Brooks.” He grins, and then his hand is already reaching for his phone on the side table. “You have to see this photo. Parker destroyed my shoe rack last night.”
“I don’t need to see your cat’s crime scene during a session.”
“You absolutely do.” He holds the screen up. The orange kitten is sitting in the wreckage of what was probably a three-tier shoe rack, one paw resting on a toppled sneaker, ears forward, eyes wide with what can only be described as satisfaction. She looks like she’s posing for a portrait of her own conquest.
I lean in to look. One inch closer than necessary. “She knocked over the whole thing?”
“The whole thing. Three in the morning. Sounded like the building was coming down.”
“Atlanta doesn’t get earthquakes.”
“I’m from Jersey. I don’t know what Atlanta gets.”
“Not earthquakes.” His thumb scrolls to a second photo. The cat has climbed on top of the remaining shelf, surveying the debris. “She climbed up after to observe her work. This was premeditated, Brooks. Premeditated shoe rack destruction.”
“That’s strategic.” I’m looking at the photo and I’m standing close enough that his shoulder is almost touching my arm and the door is open and footsteps are coming down the corridor. I step back smooth, my hand finding the chart on the desk behind me. Marchetti locks his phone. By the time Thompson appears in the doorway, I’m holding the chart with both hands and reading it with the focus of a man reviewing a surgical plan.
“Brooks.” Thompson leans against the frame. “KT tape? I’m out.”
“Cabinet by the sink. Second shelf.”
“Thanks.” His eyes travel from me to Marchetti, shirtless on the table, to the chart I’m gripping like classified intelligence. “Marchetti. How’s the shoulder?”
“Good.” Marchetti waves. Completely casual. The man was born casual.
“Cool.” Thompson finds the tape, holds it up, and walks out.
The hallway swallows his footsteps. Marchetti looks at me. I look at Marchetti. His mouth twitches. Mine twitches. Neither of us laughs but the effort of not laughing is a full-body event. His eyes are bright and ridiculous and I have to look at the ceiling for three solid seconds before I can speak.
