21

Marianna.

The alarm goes off at 6:00 AM, and I seriously consider becoming a hermit.

Not like a religious hermit—I don't have the faith for that—but one of those people who lives in a cave and never speaks to anyone and subsists on moss and rainwater. That seems easier than getting up right now. More sustainable. Less likely to result in public humiliation.

But I get up anyway, because I'm not a quitter.

(I'm absolutely a quitter. I've quit three jobs, four boyfriends, and one yoga class in the past two years alone. But I'm trying to be better.)

The shower helps. So does the coffee—Duane's expensive, single-origin, probably-costs-more-than-my-rent coffee that I've been stealing guilt-free since he told me I'm not his type. Consider it an asshole tax.

I put on my interview outfit: the Target blazer, the slightly-too-long pants, the flats that definitely gave me blisters but are the only professional shoes I own. My hair cooperates for once, falling in semi-reasonable waves instead of its usual "electrocuted poodle" aesthetic. My makeup is minimal but present—concealer to hide the evidence of stress-induced insomnia, mascara to convince people I have actual eyelashes, lip gloss because I'm a professional now and professionals apparently have shiny lips.

I look... fine. Not great, but fine. Like someone who could feasibly work at a fancy sports rehabilitation center without being immediately escorted from the premises.

Good enough.

The Uber to Kinetic costs $14, which I add to my mental tally of "things I can afford once I have a paycheck." The driver is silent, thank god, just NPR murmuring in the background about some political disaster or another. I stare out the window and try not to think about what I'm walking into.

The Kinetic building looms ahead, all glass and ambition.

I can do this.

New employee orientation is exactly as boring as expected.

There are four of us starting today: me, a guy named Derek who looks like he played college football and never recovered from the glory days, a woman named Priya who has an actual doctorate in sports medicine and makes me feel like a fraud, and a quiet kid named Marcus who can't be older than twenty-two and seems terrified of everything.

We sit in a conference room that smells like new carpet and corporate optimism while an HR representative named Janet walks us through company policies, benefits enrollment, and the sacred importance of the employee handbook.

I learn that Kinetic has 47 employees across its clinical and administrative staff. That they serve "over 200 professional athletes annually across multiple sports leagues." That they have partnerships with the Miami Dolphins, the Miami Heat, Inter Miami CF, and—

"—and of course, our Formula 1 partnerships," Janet says, clicking to a new slide. "We're the official recovery partner of the Miami Grand Prix and preferred provider for three teams: Veloce Racing, Alpine, and Williams."

The slide shows photos of the facility set up at the race track. Treatment tables. Recovery equipment. Staff in Kinetic polos working on athletes in racing suits.

"During race week, we provide on-site services at the Hard Rock Stadium complex," Janet continues, oblivious to my internal crisis. "Our team works directly with drivers, engineers, and pit crew members. It's one of our highest-profile partnerships and a significant source of revenue for the institute."

Derek nods enthusiastically, clearly imagining himself rubbing shoulders with famous athletes. Priya takes notes. Marcus looks like he might throw up.

I focus on breathing.

It's fine, I tell myself. Race week is over. The Grand Prix was five days ago. There won't be any F1 clients for months.

"Now," Janet says, "I'll hand you over to your department supervisors for specific orientation. Sports Performance Specialists—that's Marianna and Marcus—you'll be with Dr. Lindholm. Derek and Priya, you're with Dr. Okonkwo in the clinical wing."

We split up. Marcus and I follow the HR representative through a maze of hallways, past treatment rooms and recovery pods and a hydrotherapy suite that looks like something out of a sci-fi movie, until we reach an office with DR. MARGOT LINDHOLM, CLINICAL DIRECTOR etched on the door.

She looks up when we enter. Same no-nonsense expression from the interview. Same reading glasses on their chain. Same energy of someone who could fire you before breakfast and feel fine about it.

"Ms. Reyes. Mr. Thompson." She gestures to the chairs across from her desk. "Sit."

We sit.

"I'll be direct," she says, folding her hands on her desk. "Entry-level positions at Kinetic are designed to be comprehensive. You'll rotate through all departments—clinical support, equipment maintenance, client coordination, administrative assistance. The goal is to give you exposure to every aspect of our operation before you specialize."

Marcus nods eagerly. I nod less eagerly, already sensing where this is going.

"However." Dr. Lindholm's eyes fix on me. "Given your clinical background and the... enthusiasm you demonstrated during your interview, I'm placing you on an accelerated track."

I blink. "An accelerated track?"

"You'll still do the rotations, but with more hands-on client interaction. We have a need." She pauses, shuffles some papers. "One of our clients has requested additional recovery sessions this week. They're preparing for a test session on Wednesday, and their regular PT is unavailable."

My heart starts beating faster. Not in a good way.

"Veloce Racing," Dr. Lindholm says. "Their lead driver specifically."

No.

No, no, no, no—

"He's one of our most demanding clients," she continues, apparently unaware that my soul is leaving my body. "Very particular about his treatment protocols. But given the shoulder work you described in your interview—the posterior deltoid rehabilitation, the soft tissue mobilization techniques—I think you'd be an excellent fit."

I can't speak. My mouth has stopped working. My brain has stopped working. Everything has stopped working except the part of me that wants to run screaming from this building and never look back.

"Ms. Reyes?"

"I—" The word comes out strangled. I clear my throat. "I'm sorry, did you say Veloce Racing?"

"Yes. Duane Richter." She says his name like it's nothing. Like it's just another name, just another client, just another entry in her appointment book. "He was in a rather serious crash during the Grand Prix last weekend. You may have seen it."

Oh, I saw it. I saw it and then I ran out of your office mid-interview like my hair was on fire.

"He's been doing recovery sessions with us daily," she continues. "The test session on Wednesday is critical—his team needs to know if he's fit to race in Monaco next week. We need our best people on this."

"But I'm—" I scramble for an excuse, any excuse. "I just started. Today. Literally today. Wouldn't it be better to assign someone with more experience?"

Dr. Lindholm's expression doesn't change. "You demonstrated significant knowledge of his specific injury pattern during your interview. The posterior capsule tightness, the compensatory trapezius engagement. You practically diagnosed him without seeing him."

Because I'd already treated him. In his apartment. While wearing his clothes. While being told I'm not his type.

"I'll have Marcus shadow Dr. Okonkwo today," she says, apparently deciding the matter is settled. "You'll come with me to the recovery suite. Mr. Richter's appointment is in—" she checks her watch "—forty-five minutes."

I'm going to throw up.

I'm going to throw up right here, on Dr. Lindholm's pristine desk, ruining her files and my career and any remaining shred of dignity I might possess.

"Ms. Reyes." Her voice sharpens. "Is there a problem?"