“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Documenting my recovery journey.” He’s already filming. “Day three post-injury. Out in public. Testing mobility and social interaction skills.” He angles the phone toward me. “Say hi to my followers, Doc.”
“I’m not saying hi to your followers.”
“She’s camera shy,” Rodriguez tells his phone conspiratorially. “But she’s the reason I’m going to come back better than ever. Best PT in the league. Also she looks exhausted because she’s a workaholic who forgets basic human needs like food and sleep.”
“Rodriguez—”
“It’s for content. People love recovery content. Very inspirational.” He sets his phone against the wall, angled to capture both of us. “Plus this way my followers can see I’m actually following protocol.”
“You can’t just film me without asking.”
“I’m asking now. Can I film dinner for my recovery journey content? I promise to make you look good.”
“Two extra sets of resistance bands tomorrow.”
“Deal.” He’s grinning. “This’ll be great. People eat up the behind-the-scenes medical stuff.”
The waiter arrives with bread—warm, crusty, smells like heaven—and Rodriguez orders for both of us without consulting the menu. Appetizers, entrees, enough food to feed a small army.
When the waiter leaves, I stare at him. “I can order my own food.”
“You were going to order a salad and call it a meal. I’m intervening.” He tears off a piece of bread, offers it to me. “Trust me. The food here is life-changing.”
He’s not wrong.
When the food arrives, it’s incredible, rich and perfectly seasoned and exactly what I didn’t know I needed. I’m halfway through my pasta when I realize I’m actually starving, that I can’t remember my last real meal.
“Better?” Rodriguez asks, watching me eat.
“Yeah. This is really good. I hate that you were right.”
“I’m right about most things. People just don’t listen.” He’s filming again, this time just the food. “Okay, recovery tip number seven: eat actual food. Not protein bars. Real food with actual flavor.”
“Are you seriously making videosright now?”
“Educational content.” He sets down his phone. “Also, my followers keep asking when I’m coming back. This way they can see the process.”
He grabs another piece of bread and his expression shifts to something mischievous. “Watch this.”
Before I can ask what he’s doing, he tosses the bread in the air and catches it in his mouth.
“Did you see that? Perfect catch. Hand-eye coordination still elite.” He’s way too proud of himself. “Knee might be broken but the reflexes are fine.”
“That’s not a hockey skill. That’s a party trick.”
“It’s a coordination skill. Very important for recovery.” He tears off another piece, holds it up. “Your turn.”
“I’m not catching bread in my mouth.”
“Why not? It’s fun. When’s the last time you did something just for fun?”
I try to remember but can’t. Everything lately has been work or Mom or stress or lying awake at 3 AM cataloging everything that could go wrong.
Nothing has been just fun. Uncomplicated. Stupid in a good way.
“Fine. But if I choke, I’m revealing your real name to your followers.”
