Rushed(136)

"Department desk," she half-moans. Her brown eyes are half-lidded and she’s biting her lip. "I can take a meal break then."

"And we can get some privacy?"

She nods, and I kiss her knuckles again. "Good. Now, let's get the scans done."

The exam room is really high-tech, with the X-ray not being some old school sit there and take photos machine, but instead, they are able to give you a live scan of the area. I can even watch my elbow move on the video monitor above my head. The X-ray tech records for a minute, then tells me I can go see the doc.

"Mr. Hart?" Dr. Lefort says. "How're you doing?"

"Ready to get out of this sling and back to the real world," I answer, flexing my arm. "You keep me in this thing much longer, and my bike's going to forget who I am."

Lefort laughs, an interesting side effect of my mouth sometimes. I either piss you off, or you think I'm funny. Some people think both at the same time, but Lefort is amused. "Well, let's take a look at the video. Hold on here . . . okay."

He replays the video, nodding and humming to himself in places. "And you're not feeling any pain?"

"None."

"Let me see the incision. You know, I still don’t understand why you didn't let me do the surgery arthroscopically. The scar would have eventually been no more than the size of a thumbtack hole."

I look at the two-inch line on the inside of my arm and grin. It's perfectly aligned with the tattoo I want to get, a half-sleeve that'll go from my shoulder to my elbow. "Chicks dig scars, doc. You know that, right?"

Lefort laughs again and has me flex my arm a few more times. "Okay. You're cleared to start rehab. I assume you'll be working with Coach Taylor?"

"Unfortunately," I grumble. "Coach Bainridge ordered me to."

"Don't knock it. Dave's a good man. Helped me with my rehab when I tore up my hip going hiking last summer. And doctors make the worst patients, because we know that we already know it all."

I smirk at his joke and roll my arm. "Think I can ride my bike?"

"Give it a few days," Lefort replies, scribbling on his clipboard. "Not because you don't have the strength, but just to reacquaint yourself with using the arm. At least wait until this weekend. All right then. I'll forward this to both Coach Taylor and Coach Bainridge. Good luck, Duncan. I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do this fall."

"Thanks, Doc. Take it easy."



Chapter 2

April



"Good afternoon, Coach Taylor."

"Carrie Mittel! How're you doing today?" Coach Taylor says, and I smile. Even though he's forty-five, with a bald head and a handlebar mustache that looks like he should be a biker or something, he’s one of the nicest guys I've known . . . when he's outside the weight room. I took two classes with him in the past, a freshman Introduction to Kinesiology course, and then in the first semester of my sophomore year, I took Human Body Mechanics. In class, at least in the lecture portion, he's smart and personable and really funny a lot of the time.

But get him in the weight room for labs, or especially when the bars come out for the squats for team workouts, and 'Coach' Taylor disappears. Instead, out comes 'DT' Dave Taylor, former USA's Strongest Man in the under 220 lb. weight class, and one-time owner of the world record in the squat for that same weight class. That man is a berserker and a borderline psychopath, I think, but in a good way. Age and wear and tear have maybe slowed him down some, but Coach Dave Taylor knows his stuff.

So do I though, which is why he invited me to intern with the training staff starting last semester. It started with a lot of grunt work, and that meant for the first six months, my job was to carry weights, pick up after people and mop the weight room and training room, but most of all, to watch. I watched and learned as Coach or one of the other assistants put groups and individuals through their paces. Once the semester was over, he 'graduated' me to doing tape jobs as well, and I've been doing those for the spring semester. Maybe soon, I'll actually be allowed to work with people in rehab and movements too.

"I'm doing okay. What's on the schedule for me today?" I ask, hanging my bag on the hook that is designated for me. "Anything cool?"

"Maybe, but to start, just normal stuff. Women's basketball's going to be coming by soon for their pre-workout wraps and tape jobs. Think you can handle that? I've got volleyball at three, but I'm handling them myself today."

I grab my clipboard and write it down. He insists that we all carry clipboards and that we write down our work. Tracking is big with him. "Sure. Anyone got anything new?"

"Nothing I know of. Check the computer before you get to work," Coach says. “I might have something for you, but I’ll let you know a bit later. I don’t want to jump the gun. How are your own workouts coming along?"

"I'm putting in my time—you know that." It's actually one of the areas that I struggle with the most. I got interested in training during my senior year of high school, when a shoulder injury in softball cut my playing days short. Not that I was good enough for a school like WU anyway, but the rehab was really interesting. Being a long-time athlete, my natural frame combined with my athlete's eating habits meant that my so-called 'freshman fifteen pounds' was more like the 'freshman fifteen kilos,' and I still don't feel good wearing overly tight or sexy clothes, even if I've gotten some of the bad weight off. At five eight and one seventy, I'm still nobody's fashion model, unless you are using Ashley Graham as your template. And if I ever get compared to her, I'm in good company.