Page 5 of Every Move You Make

Ain’t nothin’ feminine abt shoulders like that lol

I quickly report the comment as harassment, and it’s removed. I know she deals with the haters in her own way, but I also do my best to moderate her comments so she doesn’t have to see shit like that.Secretly moderatewith my burner account. She has no idea how much I hover in her accounts. Or at all, because I don’t like, comment, or favorite any of them.

I watch and I wait.

Scrolling through her videos, I replay them for the millionth time. I bounce to her other social accounts and let her bright smile lull me to a hopeful place. I’ve been doing this for years, ever since we parted after college. We went to separate schools: Robyn at Penn Valley University, along with Angie and Rafael, who were seniors when she was afreshman, and I at Brightwood College, about two hours away. At least twice a year, I made the trip to Penn to play rugby and hang out with Ang and Raf.

But one day, at a social when I was a sophomore, Robyn pushed her way through a crowd of filthy ruggers, bursting like a ray of sunshine. She was magnetic. She demanded attention without asking for it. She drew people in with her personality and playfulness—her whole-hearted goodness—and for some inexplicable reason, she liked me.

My girlfriend at the time? Not so much.

Chapter 2

Personal Best Training

Isaiah

I’ve been in a downward spiral ever since I went to the sports medicine specialist two days ago.

“Do you see here?” the doctor said, pointing to my neck on my MRI. “This is your spinal canal, and it’s narrowed. It should be this wide,” he said, indicating an uninjured part of my spine. But my world felt narrower than my injured spine when he told me if I took any more hits, it could leave me paraplegic.

For every injury I’ve ever had, I’ve been able to heal well enough. But to be told full-contact rugby was totally off the table—that was not something I was ready to hear.

Rugby has consumed my life since I was a teenager. Once I found out I actually had a shot at going pro overseas, I dedicated even more of myself to the sport. Everything revolved around rugby, and it paid off. I went pro. But after three years with the London Hornets, I suffered a shoulder injury that didn’t quite heal all the way, and I wasn’t picked up again. I came back to the states with my tail between my legs, unable to see the amazing opportunity I had been given and appreciate the time I spent playing professionally. I was in a dark state for a while until my family nudged me to try playing for the club team back home.

And it did help. Playing club rugby, especially alongside my brothers, made me feel whole again, regardless of the broken bones along the way.

But now, I can’t even play at club level.

When I got home from the sports medicine specialist, all I could do was stare at the walls of my room looking for answers. But what is life without playing rugby?

I have to figure something out and that starts with the personal trainer I’m about to meet. He came recommended by the sports medicine specialist as someone who could help me transition from athlete to… well, a former athlete. The bottom line is I can’t operate how I used to and now I need to heal and learn about this new version of my body.

Am I willing to accept this fate? I don’t want to. But I see players come and go every year. Some retire. Some get caught up in their own lives and don’t have time to play. Some have injuries so bad they can never play again. But more often than not, those same people make their way back to the team as spectators, or fans, or donors to the club. They’re never truly gone for good. Rugby has a way of pulling you back into its orbit.

The retirement pill, as awful as it tastes, isn’t as big and scary as it once was. Retiring from club rugby isn’t as bitter as retiring from professional rugby. But it still isn’t easy to swallow.

Whether I accept my fate or not, I have to keep moving. So here I am, killing time before my first session at Personal Best Training. My appointment is at 1:00 p.m., which gives me enough time afterward to get home, shower, and make it to work on time.

With shaky legs and a heavy heart, I gingerly step out of my car, walk past the reflective windows, and pull open the door. When I find the suite I’m looking for and walk in, I’m greeted by an orange and white cat dancing around my legs and country music1 playing in the background. I remember the website for this place having more cat picturesthan would be expected of a personal training studio. In every picture of the gym, there were cats laying on the equipment and a full bio of the studio kitties including their likes and dislikes. Seemed excessive but...I like cats.

“You must be Isaiah,” a tall, ridiculously buff and tattooed man in a white polo says. He stands taller than me by about an inch. His tan skin is a stark contrast to his shirt and smile. He’s not body-builder-competition tan, but there’s no way his white skin is naturally that pigmented. Even his tattoos are colorful. His blonde hair is pulled back in a bun, and his face has thick stubble and a proud chin.

“Yeah.”

“Welcome. That’s my son, Chester, at your feet. Hope you like cats. And that one scowling over there is BooBoo Kitty,” he says, pointing to a black cat sitting on a perch suctioned to the window. Its tail flicks as it watches me like I’m its next meal if I’m not careful enough. “I’m Dell, and I’ll be your personal trainer. I know you’ve already emailed your information and filled out all your intake forms, so thanks for that.”

I nod.

“So for your first appointment today, I’d like to go over the layout of the gym, talk about expectations, and do a strength and mobility assessment.”

“Okay.”

Why is this cat obsessed with my legs?

“Do you have any questions before we start?” I shake my head, and he chuckles. “You don’t talk a lot, do you?” I shake my head again. “Well, I do, so buckle up, buttercup.”

Dell shows me around the gym, and it’s a decent size. It’s definitely designed for one-on-one interactions, but a small group could meet here. The equipment, rubber flooring, walls, and ceiling are all black, except for pops of yellow scattered throughout.

---