Mrs. Hendricks.
The nanny. I remember her name from his file, from the emergency contacts section I reviewed when I took over his case.
“Bishop.”
“I said it’s handled.”
His voice is sharper than I’ve heard it, edged with something that sounds like barely controlled panic. I hold up my hands, backing off.
“Okay. Just checking.”
He exhales slowly, rolling his shoulder, and the tension in the room shifts. He’s somewhere else now, his head clearly not in the session, and I make a note to cut things short if he can’t focus.
“Sorry,” he mutters after a minute. “Didn’t mean to snap.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not, but thanks for pretending.”
I don’t push. Whatever’s going on with him, it’s not my business. I’m his physical therapist, not his counselor, and the line between those two things is one I need to keep very, very clear.
But I notice things. It’s my job to notice things.
I notice the way he checks his phone the second I turn my back, thumbs flying over the screen before he shoves it in his pocket. The way he looks like he’s running on fumes, held together by caffeine and sheer stubborn will.
By the time we wrap up, he’s distracted enough that he doesn’t even argue when I tell him to ice for twenty minutes before he leaves.
• • •
Friday afternoon, Coach Reynolds corners me in the hallway.
Donovan Reynolds is old-school hockey—salt-and-pepper hair, a permanent scowl, the kind of guy who’s seen everything and is impressed by nothing. He’s been coaching for twenty years and probably hasn’t smiled since the Obama administration.
“Wells.”
“Coach.”
He falls into step beside me, which is never a good sign. “Whatever you’re doing with Bishop, keep doing it.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“He showed up to cooldown yesterday. First time in months.” Reynolds shakes his head, almost disbelieving. “I’ve been on his ass about it all season. Nothing. You’ve had him for a week and suddenly he’s following protocol like a goddamn choirboy.”
I don’t know what to say to that. “I just... told him to do it.”
“Yeah, well, it’s working. Don’t screw it up.”
He walks off before I can respond, leaving me standing in the hallway trying to figure out if that was a compliment or a threat.
Probably both.
I head back to my office, turning his words over in my head.Whatever you’re doing with Bishop, keep doing it.
The problem is, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m treating him like I treat any patient—firm boundaries, clear expectations, no tolerance for bullshit. That’s it. That’s the whole strategy.
But somewhere along the way, it became something else. The banter. The discussions when he’s on my table. The way he looks at me sometimes, like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
The way I catch myself looking forward to his sessions.
