Page 99 of Changing the Playbook
“That boy is one of the good ones. And you haven’t smiled like this in years.”
I round the desk and wrap him in a hug, breathing in Old Spice and coffee and safety. And, for just a moment, I’m eight years old again, safe in my dad’s arms before I learned that love meant vulnerability and pain.
But maybe Mike’s been teaching me something different.
That some people stay.
That some risks are worth taking.
That happiness doesn’t have to be temporary.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For everything.”
“Always, Fee. You deserve to be happy.”
twenty-eight
MIKE
The sports medicinesuite hits me with that same nauseating combination—sharp alcohol disinfectant mixed with the latex-rubber smell of athletic tape—that I got used to last year.
Except, last year, coming here meant hours of grinding through exercises that made my eyes water, Dr. Morges’ careful hands manipulating my useless ankle, the humiliation of needing help to walk.
Now it’s just another medical office, maybe with better equipment, and as I drop onto the examination table, vinyl squeaking under my weight, all I can think of is Sophie’s text glowing on the screen of my phone:
If you bring home another box of Pop-Tarts, I’m staging an intervention.
My thumbs fly across the screen.
You love it. Admit it.
Three dots pulse immediately.
The Pop-Tarts or you?
The grin takes over my face before I can stop it.
Both, obviously.
More dots dance across the screen.
The Pop-Tarts are on thin ice. You’re… tolerable.
I’m typing a response when Dr. Morges walks in, same clipboard, same encouraging smile that kept me from punching holes in walls during the worst of rehab.
“Mike!” He sets the clipboard down and crosses his arms. “Not limping, not scowling, so did aliens abduct my patient or what?”
“Very funny.” I pocket my phone. “I only threatened to murder the resistance bands, not actual people.”
“The resistance bands filed a restraining order.” He gestures for me to stand. “Let’s see how that ankle’s holding up.”
The routine unfolds with practiced precision—single-leg stands that used to make me shake, heel raises that once brought tears I’d never admit to, resistance exercises that made me want to quit hockey forever. Now my ankle performs each movement smoothly, almost showing off for its former torturer.
“Range of motion is excellent.” His fingers probe the joint. No pain, not even a twinge. “No swelling, no favoring. You’re doing the home exercises?”
“Every day.”
It’s mostly true. I do them when I remember. When my mornings don’t start with Sophie’s hair spread across my pillow and her hand warm on my chest. But he moves pastit, swallowing my lie, and has me doing jumps and lateral movements that would’ve had me gasping last year. My body responds perfectly.
