Page 16 of The Backup Plan

My years in medical school and in learning my field have taught me to catalog that attention without letting it show.

It takes more effort than usual today. My head still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and my thoughts lag half a beat behind where they should be. So I make a concerted effort to take my time before every response I give to ensure it doesn’t show.

So far—through the onboarding and initial introductions to the front office staff—I think I’ve done a damn good job at masking it.

I adjust the strap of the bag on my shoulder and walk deeper into the medical wing like I belong here—because I do.

And whew, talk about first impressions—this place is incredible. White walls. Stainless steel, state-of-the-art equipment. The faint smell of antiseptic layered over coffee and ambition.

The place hums with quiet urgency, as it should, because bodies are investments here.

They’re also assets and liabilities. Ones I’ve been hired to protect.

“Dr. Porter?”

I turn to find a man in his late fifties. He has broad shoulders with a posture that says he’s in charge here.

“Owen Fischer,” he says, already shaking my hand. “Rebels head athletic trainer.”

“Emery is fine and it’s so nice to finally meet you,” I say and match his grip. “This is quite the setup.”

“It is.” He nods, pride etched in the lines of his face. “A lot of time and effort went into making this the most technologically advanced facility in the league.”

“It definitely shows.” I look around and then back to him, ready to get to work. “I’ve reviewed the protocols and injury history files you sent over. I’m up to speed on treatment plans and have memorized each athlete’s history and their persistent injuries.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. Good. He knows I mean business.

“All that and you haven’t even officially started your first day.”

“I like to be prepared.”

“Noted.” He nods. “We run a forward-thinking program here as you’ve probably concluded given we’ve hired someone with your particular skills in a role no other NFL team has.”

“That was one of the aspects that drew me to the job when I was researching it.”

“Good.” He smiles. “Then you know we like the unconventional just as much as the conventional around here.”

“Perfect.”

He gestures down the hall. “We’ll do introductions, then I’ll show you to your office and where you’ll be working.”

We walk past treatment rooms and rehab stations, nodding at trainers and assistants as we go. Most of them are polite. Most of them are men. A few are openly curious about who I am. One older man—a trainer, I assume—with gray hair and what looks to be a permanent scowl, looks me up and down like he’s evaluating whether I can cook a decent meal, not rehab a stubborn, three-hundred-and-fifty-pound lineman.

I can do both.

“Physical therapy tech?” he asks, skepticism in his tone.

My smile is as patronizing as his assumption. “Doctor of sports medicine. Then studied physical therapy,” I correct. “I couldn’t decide which I liked more so I did both.”

“Both?”

“Yes, with an emphasis on rehabilitation and injury prevention. I prefer to prevent athletes ever getting to an ortho surgeon, but when I can’t, I like to make sure they come out the other side of it successfully.” I lift my eyebrows as more of a challenge than anything. You going to question me more?

“Dr. Porter is fulfilling a new role we’ve created this year. Her position is focused on overseeing any seriously injured athletes and getting them rehabbed as quickly as possible. That will free up everyone else to tend to the day-to-day injuries that we felt weren’t getting the proper attention last season.”

The man looks from Owen to me and then back before making a noncommittal noise that sounds a lot like skepticism. “You sure don’t look like someone—”

“Someone who can handle burly football players and their attitudes?” My tone is pure condescension. “Don’t let the high heels fool you.”