Page 6 of Every Move You Make

When we reach the end of the quick tour, orange andwhite cat in tow, he instructs me to sit down on a chair across from him in his office and pulls out what must be my file. That’s when I notice the walls are covered in either body diagrams or paintings of his cats.

“You must really like your cats.”

“Oh, my sons?”

“Are they always here?”

“They are,” he beams. “And they can’t be separated. Their bond is too strong.”

Chester hops into my lap without my consent and nuzzles his head into my stomach. The painting above Dell’s head shows each cat wearing some kind of historical gentleman’s clothing in a regal pose.

“And before you ask, they’re not brothers. They’re boyfriends.”

I don’t know how to respond to that.

“So, this is a rugby injury, right? Says here someone picked you up and tossed you upside down? Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“I know a few rugby players myself. What team do you play for?”

“Philadelphia Men’s D1.”

Dell’s mouth hangs open before he smiles. “Oh, The Daddies? Nice.”

My cheeks heat at the mention of our tournament team’s nickname. “Sort of. The team turns into the Philly Fathers for summer sevens. I don’t really play sevens often.”

“Why not?” he asks genuinely.

I try to shrug, but there’s a pinch in my neck. “Big guys like me aren’t meant to run that much. It’s a… faster-paced game. I’m meant for short bursts. Tackling. Rucking. The slow grind.”

“Look at all those words you strung together. All for me? I’m flattered.”

Just to be obstinate, I stay silent, and he chuckles. “Alright, fine. What are you looking to achieve with personal training?”

“I want to be able to play again, but I know that’s off the table.”

He nods solemnly but with a small smile that tells me he agrees, and he knows that’s a hard pill for me to swallow.

“So,” I sigh. “I need to know what I’m capable of going forward, and where my limits are.”

He writes that down. “Okay. What does that mean for your body?”

“I don’t follow.”

“I mean, how do you want your body to feel?”

“I guess… not in pain?”

“Good start. And were you in any level of pain before this last injury?”

“Just the normal amount.”

“Which was? On a scale of one to ten—and don’t lie. That’s a huge turn-off.” The way he bores into my soul with only a stare is both intimidating and weirdly comforting.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Like a three if I wasn’t playing or recovering from a game.”

“Dude,” he drawls, brows pinching together. “You shouldn't be playing if a three is your baseline pain level.”

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