“We’ll run the medical briefs through you for the rest of the stretch,” Coach Bodie says. His voice carries in the corridor the way voices carry when nobody’s trying to be quiet. “Pre-game assessments, recovery protocols, anything the staff needs flagged before game time. I want one point of contact and I want it streamlined.”
Tyler nods. “Absolutely. I’ll have the template ready by Thursday.”
“Good man.” Coach Bodie claps him on the arm and walks off toward the coaching offices.
Three months ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. One PT getting an assignment over another is scheduling, not a story. But I’ve been inside that treatment room enough times to know how Zay talks about the work. The way Gary defers tohis clinical judgment because his credentials earn the deference. Tyler is competent and personable and none of that is the point. The point is that Coach Bodie walked past the treatment room where Zay is charting, past the door that was open, and stopped at Tyler.
I see Zay through the window as I pass. He’s at his desk, writing in a chart, his face the professional version it goes when something needs his full attention. I keep walking. Don’t stop at the window. Don’t knock. The corridor is bright and the facility hums with a normal Tuesday and I wonder if he heard Coach Bodie’s voice carry the way I did.
My session is at two. One of the last before the discharge conversation neither of us has brought up.
“Hájek’s pulling up on his right push. I think it’s worse than last week.”
“I know. I’ve been tracking it.” Zay doesn’t look up from the chart. “Sit.”
I pull myself onto the table. “He asked me about PK reads today. Pressure versus lane. Kid takes notes in his head like he’s writing a thesis. He does it in book club too.”
“He’s thorough.” Zay’s hands find my shoulder without looking up. Press, rotate, the clinical sequence he could do in his sleep. “The groin’s on a modified protocol. He thinks he’s hiding it.”
“He’s not hiding it from you.”
“Nobody hides anything from me.” He says it flat, eyes on the chart, and I hear the second thing underneath it.
“Did you listen to the song I sent last night?” I ask, keeping my voice a register lower so only he can hear.
“I’m assessing your shoulder.”
“You can assess and answer a question about music, Brooks.”
“Flexion looks good.” He lifts my arm, holds it at the top. “Abduction is full.” His fingers are on the joint and his eyes areon the chart and his jaw has the almost-softness it gets when he’s deciding whether to let himself be a person in this room instead of a clinician. “Yes. I listened.”
“And?”
“And your taste is getting better.” He palpates the joint deeper. “Slowly.”
“My taste has always been perfect. You just think your opinions are right.”
“I have data. The first three months were unlistenable.”
“Unlistenable isn’t a word.”
“It is when your playlists are the evidence, Marchetti.” And there it is. The tug at the corner of his mouth I have been working for since I sat down.
He writes the numbers. The session is over in minutes. The chart is done. There’s no clinical reason for me to still be on this table and there’s no clinical reason for him to still be standing this close.
I don’t move. Neither does he.
He puts the pen down. Stands there with the chart on the desk beside him and looks at me and the treatment room is quiet and his face is right there.
My finger finds the inside of his forearm. Just above the wrist. Light. The pad of my index finger tracing a slow line up toward the crease of his elbow, and I feel him not pull away. His skin is warm and I trace the path back down, slow, the way I’ve been touching him for months whenever we’re alone and the door is closed. His breath shifts. Not a catch. A settling. His arm stays where it is. His eyes are on my hand and his mouth is slightly open.
Then the door opens.
Coach Bodie is halfway into the room before either of us registers the handle turning. Zay steps back and his hand finds the chart on the desk in a single motion that looks practicedexcept for the part where his knuckles go pale around the pen. My hand goes to my own shoulder. I press into the trap like I’m testing tension. My heart is thumping and Coach Bodie is standing in the doorway looking at us.
“Brooks.” Coach Bodie has his tablet under one arm. His face is neutral, a man with a question and a schedule. “Sorry, didn’t realize you were still in session. Quick question about Hájek’s groin. He’s been favoring it in the drills. You tracking that?”
Zay’s voice comes out level. Perfectly level. “I am. He’s been compensating through the hip flexor. I have him on a modified protocol.”
