Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
CADEN
“Last one,” I call out, standing just behind the squat rack. “You’ve got this, Mendoza. Dig deep. Pretend that barbell is your ex’s new boyfriend.”
Julian Mendoza lets out a snort that’s half laughter, half groan.
His face is flushed, and sweat trickles down the side of his jaw like it’s racing to escape his body faster than his self-control.
He grits his teeth and drops low, quads trembling, his knee joint locked as he pushes back up with a guttural sound that could easily be mistaken for a roar.
I clap once. “Hell yes.”
He racks the bar and stumbles back, catching himself on the padded bench behind him. “You’re an evil man,” he gasps. “Seriously. Sadistic.”
I toss him a towel. “And yet, you keep coming back.”
Julian, a former wide receiver and current rehab patient, has been training with me for eight weeks now.
ACL reconstruction, plus some serious scar tissue buildup from trying to “push through the pain” like every stubborn pro athlete I’ve ever known.
He’s tough as hell, which makes him one of my favorite clients—and a bit of a cautionary tale to the rookies.
“Remind me why I let Cameron talk me into this,” he mutters, slumping forward and rubbing his towel over his face.
“Because he’s smarter than you?” I offer. “And he knew your ego couldn’t handle being shown up by a one-legged trainer.”
He laughs, full-bodied this time, and tosses the towel back at me. “Touché.”
I grin and catch it easily, walking over to wipe down the equipment.
The gym’s quiet now, late-morning light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows and casting long strips of sun across the rubber flooring.
My shadow stretches as I move—tall, lean, and distinct.
You can see the difference in my gait if you know what to look for, but these days I barely notice the slight tilt of my left leg or the sound the carbon fiber foot makes when I pivot on it.
Fifteen years ago, I thought my life had ended.
Today, I make a living helping people rebuild theirs.
“You’re getting stronger,” I say over my shoulder. “Week nine’s gonna feel like a breeze compared to this.”
Julian groans again. “You keep saying that. I’m beginning to think you’re just here to torture me for your own amusement.”
“Only partially true,” I reply. “You’d cry without me.”
“Lies. I’d cry with joy.”
I laugh again and finish wiping down the rack before tossing the rag into the bin. I glance at the clock. 11:42. I’ve got forty-five minutes before my next session, which gives me time to answer some emails and, maybe, drink something that isn’t water or protein sludge.
Julian stands, rolling his shoulder. “Seriously, though. Thanks, man. You’re the first person who didn’t treat me like I was broken.”
I meet his gaze. “That’s because you’re not.”
Something flickers across his face—something raw and real—and he nods, brushing a knuckle under one eye like it’s just sweat. He grabs his gym bag, shooting me a grin. “Same time next week?”
“You bet.”
I watch him go, shoulders squared, stride even. Still a little stiff, but he’s getting there. Every time someone like Julian walks out of my gym standing taller than when they came in, I feel it in my chest. Like maybe, just maybe, this life I didn’t ask for has turned into something worthwhile.
The door swings shut behind him, and I let out an unhurried breath.
I limp slightly as I head back to my office—not because I’m in pain, but because my socket’s been bugging me today.
It’s nothing major, just a reminder that no matter how many times I upgrade my leg, there are always going to be days that don’t go down smoothly.
I’ve got a blade for running, a waterproof model for swimming, and the one I’m wearing now—my everyday athletic model, black carbon, with a polished shock-absorbing pylon that glints faintly in the sun.
I named it Nelly.
Because she’s hot, high-performance, and a little temperamental.
The desk chair squeaks as I drop into it, spinning gently in place as I reach for my water bottle.
The walls around me are covered with photos—clients I’ve worked with, some famous, most not.
There’s a shelf of trophies in one corner, and yeah, a couple from my playing days are up there too.
Not for vanity, but to remind myself of where I came from.
Most people think I stayed in Detroit after the accident. Or maybe went back to South Carolina. But after the surgeries, the rehab, the insurance hell, the media circus, and a year of barely holding myself together, I packed two bags and moved west.
San Francisco offered something I hadn’t had since the crash—anonymity at first, and eventually, possibility.
Cameron, my old high school teammate, hadn’t been my actual agent.
But after college, he started working under Marcus—my former agent—and eventually became my main point of contact.
He showed up at the hospital. Sat by my bed when I was too angry to speak.
Tried to help with the calls, the chaos, the plans.
But I shut him out—just like I shut out everyone.
My parents ran interference. I convinced myself I didn’t need anyone.
Especially not people who reminded me of who I used to be.
We didn’t speak for years.
It wasn’t until I’d clawed my way through physio training, opened my own studio, and finally stopped flinching every time someone mentioned my name in the past tense that I reached out.
He didn’t hesitate.
Since then, he’s been one of my biggest supporters. He sends athletes my way—clients in the thick of recovery who need someone who’s been through the fire and lived to talk about it. He trusts me. And I never forget that.
It took a few years. Trial and error. Certification programs. Licensing. Building a business from the ground up. But now, I have a waitlist that stretches six months, a full-time assistant trainer, and a roster of clients who trust me with their bodies and their stories.
I love it. I really, really do.
But sometimes… sometimes I still wake up and expect to feel both legs under the covers. And some nights, when the fog rolls in off the Bay and the whole city feels ghosted over, I dream about him.
Theo.
It’s been fifteen years, and I can still see his face like it’s burned into the inside of my eyelids.
He doesn’t know where I live. Doesn’t know what I do.
I never responded to the emails from my old account or the texts or the voicemails.
After that first shut door, he stopped knocking. I made sure of it.
I had to.
At the time, it was the only way I knew how to deal.
The door to my office opens, accompanied by a belated knock. My assistant, Lacey, who also works at the front desk, pops her head in, holding her tablet. “Quick heads-up. You’ve got a media inquiry in your inbox. Some podcast wants you to talk about injury recovery in athletes.”
I grimace. “Send it to my PR guy. And remind me to thank Cameron again.”
“He’s helping,” Lacey singsongs, rolling her eyes. “He loves you. We all do.”
“Yeah, yeah. Tell him not to start charging a finder’s fee.”
She waves me off and disappears into the back again.
I lean back in the chair, letting the hum of the gym I can see out of the overlarge window in my office and the sound of weights clinking drift around me.
This life is good. It’s hard-won and mine.
But there are still parts of me Theo never got to see grow back, and parts I never figured out how to show him.
With time before I see my next client, instead of grabbing a protein shake or stretching out, I wiggle my mouse, waking up my Mac, and sigh.
I don’t need to check the reunion page again.
I’ve already RSVP’d. The flight’s booked, B&B confirmed.
But still, my hand grips my mouse like it’s a nervous tic, this constant rechecking.
One more glance, just to be sure.
It’s not nerves, exactly, but something close. Maybe compulsion is the better word. I mean to look at client files—Cameron sent a new referral this morning—but instead, my fingers hesitate for only a second before I open a new tab and type: Gomillion High School.
The site loads, the school’s logo stretched at the top in tired reds and golds. The Millipede’s still the mascot, bless its little segmented soul. I chuckle under my breath, dry and fond.
“Go Millions,” I murmur, shaking my head. That phrase still makes no sense.
And there it is. Front and center, beneath a grainy banner of the high school: Gomillion High: 20-Year Reunion Weekend!
My heart flips strangely. It’s the same information I was forwarded in December, but seeing it here—on the school’s actual site—makes it feel official. Concrete.
Two days to go.
I swallow and scroll through the schedule, the font a little too bright against the dark background.
The reunion spans the whole weekend—cocktails and mingling on Friday night, a tour and alumni basketball game Saturday, and some kind of wild throwback prom, complete with speeches, dinner, and dancing.
It’s ambitious for a town as small as Gomillion, but that’s just how folks there are—small town, big energy.
And I’d bet good money Kirkwood had a hand in the flair. That guy always did love a legacy moment.
My eyes catch on “Alumni Game.”
Yeah. Not this time.
Well, maybe.
I scroll faster, a little too fast, then slow down and click into the Staff page before I can change my mind.
There he is.
Theo.
English teacher. Gomillion High’s all-around smart kid turned homegrown legacy.
His staff photo is casual but professional.
A navy button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbow, paired with bright yellow suspenders that shouldn’t be as charming as they are.
His smile tugs slightly to the left, modest but warm.
His hair’s in a low fade now—with brush waves on top and clipped extremely short at the sides and back, neat with crisp line up, no curls in sight.