26

Marianna.

I wake up at 5:47 AM to the sound of my alarm and immediately want to negotiate with God.

Dear God, I think, staring at the grey ceiling that's become intimately familiar over the past week. If you let me skip today, I promise I'll be a better person. I'll volunteer at soup kitchens. I'll stop eating entire packages of Oreos in one sitting. I'll call my mother more than once a quarter. I'll—

The alarm goes off again. God, apparently, is not interested in my bargaining.

Fine. FINE.

I drag myself out of bed like a corpse emerging from a grave—slow, reluctant, vaguely threatening to anyone who gets too close. The mirror in the bathroom shows me exactly what I expected: a raccoon who's been through a divorce. My eyes are still puffy from yesterday's Wendy's-fueled emotional breakdown, and there's a crease on my cheek from the pillow that looks like someone tried to brand me with a waffle iron.

Sexy. Very professional. Exactly the image I want to project on my second day of employment.

I shower. Put on the same Target outfit because it's literally the only professional clothing I own. Stare at my reflection and practice smiling until I look less like someone being held hostage and more like someone who's excited about her career in sports rehabilitation.

I do not succeed.

The thing is—and I'm going to be really honest with myself here, which is dangerous but necessary—I actually love this job.

Not because of him. God, no. Definitely not because of him. Not because Duane Richter exists in the same city, breathes the same air, might theoretically walk through Kinetic's doors at some point and see me being competent and professional and completely unbothered by his existence.

That would be pathetic.

I love this job because it's mine. Because I'm good at it. Because when I put my hands on someone's injured shoulder and feel the tissue release under my fingers, I'm not thinking about my bank account or my missing luggage or the fact that I'm sleeping in a billionaire's guest room like some kind of Victorian charity case. I'm just... doing the thing I trained for. The thing that makes sense when nothing else does.

Bodies, I understand. People are the mystery.

The Uber to Kinetic costs $12. Dr. Lindholm is waiting for me when I arrive at 7:15—fifteen minutes early, because I'm trying to prove something, probably to myself.

"Ms. Reyes." She looks up from her tablet. "Good. You're here."

"I'm here," I confirm, like this is a revelation. Like there was ever any doubt that I'd show up to the job that's currently my only source of income and self-worth.

"Change of assignment today." She's already walking, and I'm following like a duckling, trying to keep up with her brisk pace through Kinetic's labyrinth of hallways. "We have a client from Alpine F1 coming in for a recovery session. Post-race inflammation management, some soft tissue work on his lower back."

Alpine. That's... not Veloce. That's good. That's very good.

"Their usual therapist called in sick," Dr. Lindholm continues, "and Dr. Okonkwo is already booked with the Dolphins' linebacker. I'm putting you on it."

I nearly trip over my own feet.

"Me? But yesterday you said—"

"Yesterday was different." She stops outside Recovery Suite 2—not the same room as yesterday, I note with relief. "Mr. Richter is a special case. Very particular. Very demanding. This client is..." She pauses, considering her words. "Newer. More adaptable. It's a good opportunity for you to build confidence."

Newer. More adaptable.

Translation: less likely to publicly humiliate me and request a different therapist.

I'll take it.

"His name is Oliver Hale," Dr. Lindholm says, pulling up his file on her tablet. Oliver Hale, I know this twenty-three years old boy, second season in F1. Drives for Alpine. He finished P14 in Miami—not great, but not bad for a new one.

She hands me the tablet. I scan the information:

HALE, Oliver - APF1-03

DOB: March 15, 2001

Height: 5'11"

Weight: 154 lbs

Team: Alpine F1

Primary complaint: Lower back stiffness, bilateral hip flexor tightness, general post-race inflammation

Previous treatments: Ice bath, compression therapy, massage (team physio, 5/5/24)

There's a photo. Sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, the kind of smile that probably gets him out of speeding tickets. He looks like a golden retriever in human form. Like someone who's never had a dark thought in his entire life.

"He should be here in ten minutes," Dr. Lindholm says. "Set up Table 1—he prefers the one by the equipment wall. Likes to chat during sessions, so don't be surprised if he's chatty. Some athletes use conversation as a distraction from discomfort."

Chatty. He likes to chat.

I'm being assigned to an F1 driver who's friendly and communicative and probably won't make me feel like a worthless piece of garbage.

This is either going to be wonderful or I'm going to fuck it up spectacularly.

"Any questions?" Dr. Lindholm asks.

"No questions."

"Good. Make me proud, Ms. Reyes."

She leaves. I'm alone in Recovery Suite 2, which looks identical to Recovery Suite 1 except the table arrangement is slightly different and I didn't get emotionally destroyed in this room yesterday, so it already has better energy.

I prep Table 1. Lay out the massage oil, the muscle roller, the Theragun. Adjust the lighting to something warm and welcoming instead of the harsh fluorescent that makes everyone look like they're being interrogated. Check the temperature—75 degrees, perfect. Put on the ambient music playlist that's supposed to be "relaxing" but mostly sounds like someone recorded wind chimes having an existential crisis.

Professional. I can be professional.

I'm reviewing his treatment notes when the door opens.