We sit with that for a moment. Then I shift gears. “You mentioned in your intake form that you just graduated? Kinesiology?”
Her expression brightens immediately. “Yes! University of Washington. I just got accepted into their graduate sports therapy program. It starts in August.”
“That’s fantastic. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I figured if skating doesn’t—” She stops. “Well, I wanted a backup plan. And I love the science behind athletic performance.”
“It’s a great field. And having the athlete’s perspective makes you a better therapist. That lived experience is invaluable when working with?—”
The treatment room door flies open with zero warning and hits the wall with a bang.
Rodriguez—all six-foot-two of frenetic energy and terrible timing—bursts inside, glancing frantically over his shoulder.
“Doc, you gotta help me,” he says in what he probably thinks is a whisper but is actually just slightly quieter than his normal volume. “Roman’s trying to kill me and I’m too young and pretty to die.”
I stare at him. “I’m with a patient, Rodriguez.”
He finally notices Juliette and his entire demeanor changes. The cocky class-clown persona falters. His eyes widen. His shoulders straighten.
“Oh. Hi.” Two syllables, completely devoid of his usual charm.
Juliette’s expression cools several degrees. “Rodriguez.”
The way she says his name—clipped, frosty, a dismissal that could freeze lava—suggests this isn’t their first interaction.
“Hey, JuJu—I mean, Juliette. I didn’t know you—you’re here.” He’s actually stammering. Rodriguez, who trash-talks opposing teams in two languages, is stammering. “For PT. Because of your ankle. Which I heard about. From—around.”
“Clearly,” she says, ice in every syllable.
Before this fascinating train-wreck can continue, thundering footsteps echo down the hallway. Rodriguez’s eyes widen comically.
“He’s coming. Please, Doc. Hide me.”
“What exactly did you do?” I ask, professional curiosity overriding my annoyance at the interrupted session.
Rodriguez peeks toward the door. “I might have convinced him to participate in a TikTok thing? And maybe filmed him? And possibly posted it?”
“You posted a video of Roman without his permission?” I clarify, already mentally calculating the size of the crater Rodriguez’s body will leave.
“It was for team social media engagement!” he defends. “The PR department is always saying we need more personality content!”
The door swings open. Roman appears, murder face fully activated.
“Rodriguez is hiding behind the treatment table,” I say immediately.
“Traitor!” Rodriguez gasps, popping up with wounded dignity.
“Clinical space,” I remind him sweetly. “Not a playground.”
Roman enters with the calm deliberation of someone who knows their prey is cornered. “You have exactly five seconds to delete that video before I make you eat your phone.”
“But it’s going viral!” Rodriguez protests. “Your grumpy cat face is internet gold, Cap!”
“One.”
“Think of the fans!”
“Two.”
