Page 17 of The Backup Plan

He clears his throat. “Right.”

I smile, not too sweet and definitely not apologetic, but merely professional.

Dr. Fischer fights a smile and turns his head away when he loses the battle.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” I call after the man as he walks away.

“You might catch a little shit for a while, but they’ll all come around,” he says quietly. “It’s not because you’re a female. It’s more you’re the new member of a team and have to prove yourself. I won’t apologize for having a tight-knit group, but I will apologize for them making you work for the respect.”

I nod. “The last thing I’m worried about is proving myself. I have thick skin.”

“Noted,” he says with a slight smirk. “That’s part of what I liked about you when I called your references.”

I smile. It’s ridiculous to feel pride in knowing other people see it, but I do.

We start to move again, but my feet falter against a wave of dizziness. I pause for a beat, pretending to take in the rest of the room around me to cover for the fact I’m gripping a workstation to steady myself.

Come on. Not now. Don’t do this to me now.

We stop at another work area where a few trainers are huddled over a tablet. Introductions are made—names, roles, quick summaries—all of which I’ll probably forget, given how I feel, but I desperately try to commit to memory. I shake hands. Make eye contact. File away who listens and who doesn’t.

The subtle sexism isn’t loud. It never is.

It’s always in the assumptions.

The tone shifts. The way explanations get simplified. The way one trainer pats my shoulder like I’m a nervous intern instead of an extremely successful, fully licensed doctor.

I let it happen. For now. I’ll let my work do the talking and prove the skeptical looks wrong.

“Dr. Porter—”

“Emery, please,” I say.

“Emery,” Dr. Fischer says, “got her doctorate in sports medicine at the Keck School of Medicine of USC and then went on to do a fellowship in physical therapy at Stanford Health Care. She had internships with several professional teams—Colorado Avalanche and Giants to name a few. She’s coming here in a new role that will see, advise, and create protocols for any significant injuries, working on their rehabilitation daily. That frees up all of you to keep working as you are on the other players on both the finalized roster and practice squads. We’re lucky to have someone with so much expertise.”

There’s a pause and several of them share glances.

“Daily rehab?” someone asks.

“Yes,” Owen says resolutely. “Protocol. Prevention. Rehab. In the clinic work and on-field evaluations.”

That earns a few looks. Good. They understand.

“Welcome to the team,” someone says, and then more repeat the welcome.

It’ll definitely take time to earn their trust. Fine by me.

Owen continues the tour of the medical wing, explaining what a typical day will look like for me. “Of course it’s subject to change depending on your recommendations.”

I eye him, curious if he’s going to take offense to one of the other reasons that I’m here. “Suggesting program improvements is a condition of my probationary period. I assure you it isn’t meant as a slight to you or the program you’ve built and run.” More like an offer on my part that might have won over management to give me a chance.

He nods. “Fresh eyes can note places for improvement. I understand that.”

Our eyes hold and the look in his says he gets it and that he’s not offended, for which I’m grateful.

“And here we are,” he says, stopping at an office with a window to the hall and a placard outside the door.

DR. EMERY PORTER, MD, DPT, ATC