20. Liliana
20
LILIANA
With every bit of progress Roman makes, he also grows more tense. I can see it in his eyes and his nervous drumming on his leg. I can see it every time we move from a strengthening exercise to a gait training exercise. His jaw clenches when he looks at the parallel bars.
It makes me nervous, too. It feels like we’re both waiting for something to happen, maybe even for something to break, and only then can we deal with whatever is making him nervous. Which means with every session—every successful session—the tension just winds tighter and tighter.
And I think I’ve finally figured out the reason for it.
I’m sitting in the break room, mulling over the different ways I could approach this with Roman, when my phone buzzes.
Dad calling.
I’m smiling when I accept the call. “Hi, Dad. What’s up?”
“Hi, sweetheart. How’s your day going?”
I smother my sigh, because I know he’ll know what it means. “It’s good. Same old. I only have two more patients before I’m done for the day. How are you doing?”
“Same old,” he replies with a chuckle. “Retired life doesn’t change much.”
“Uh, didn’t you just come back from a three-week motorcycle tour along the East Coast?”
“Yeah, and?”
“Hate to break it to you, Dad, but that’s not same old. That’s the definition of different new .”
I can visualize him waving me off even through the phone. “That was just a random idea. It wasn’t anything special.”
I roll my eyes to myself. Only my sixty-five-year-old father would think a drive like that wasn’t anything special .
“But on a similar note, that’s actually the reason I called you,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you about our annual trip.”
I glance at the clock on the wall. “I only have a few minutes before my next patient. Should I call you on my way home instead?”
“Sure, honey, you can call me after. I just wanted to see if you’d thought any more about where you wanted to go for our family trip this year.”
For as long as I can remember, our family has gone on a trip to a different destination every year, chosen by someone different. It’s always an active trip, ranging from snowboarding in Colorado to riding ATVs in the Vegas desert, but we try to plan things none of us have ever done before. Last year, my brother picked Mexico, where we spent five days visiting Mayan temples, diving into cenotes, and getting our scuba diving certification. The year before that, my other brother picked skiing in Vermont. This year is my turn.
I chew on my bottom lip for a moment before saying, “I was actually thinking about Utah. We could go canyoneering.”
“That’s a new idea,” Dad comments. “Where’d that come from?”
“I heard one of the clinic’s patients talking about it. I thought it sounded fun.”
“I love it. Let’s do it.”
“Yeah?” I say, feeling giddy. “Okay, cool. I’ll run it by Sean and Colin during our next family Trivia Night.”
Movement catches my eye, and I turn to see Roman enter the gym. He gives me the barest smile when he sees me looking, which is Roman for ecstatic . I have to bite down on a smile that would undoubtedly look too excited, and wave to him instead.
I’m just about to say goodbye to my dad, when he suddenly exclaims, “Oh, speaking of Trivia Night, don’t forget we had to push it to next week since neither of your brothers could make this week. Which is unfortunate because I think this week is history week and the Knowing Stones would have crushed the competition.”
I shake my head, smiling, at the reminder of the team name my brothers came up with over a decade ago. Somehow, it stuck all the way to our monthly family catch-up dates at the local restaurant, where we played musical bingo, themed Trivia Nights, and dominated dart tournaments. It became a tradition that came second only to our annual family trip.
“I didn’t forget, Dad, don’t worry,” I respond, never taking my eyes off Roman. “I’ll be there next week.” But then something occurs to me and I shift my full focus back to my phone. “Oh, and since I’m not seeing Sean this week, you have to be the one to bug him about doing his PT on his wrist. You know as well as I do that he needs a regular kick in the ass if he wants to get his full range of motion back.”
My dad’s chuckle floats down the line. “Okay, okay, I’ll remind him. Have a good rest of your day, Liliana, I love you.”
“Bye, Dad. Love you.”
As soon as I hang up, my attention shifts back to where Roman is already starting his warmup exercises.
Twenty minutes later, I’m placing my hands on my hips and announcing, “Alright, today, we’re going to do some cycling.”
Roman quirks an eyebrow at me from where he’s sitting on the treatment table, having just finished stretching. “As in, biking? Did you forget I can barely move my legs, Doc?”
I drop my hands to my sides with an exasperated sigh. “Why, yes, that did slip my mind. My apologies, I thought we were dealing with an ingrown toenail.” I lift my chin in the direction of the machine in the corner. “You’re going to try the cycle machine. But combined with FES.”
That triggers the reaction from Roman that I expected. Any time we try something new with gait training, his body locks up and a wall drops over his eyes. So far, I haven’t had to fight him to try an exercise, but I think that might be because I’ve stuck with what he’s familiar with. I’ve been waiting for one to elicit an even bigger reaction.
Which, judging by the expression on Roman’s face, I just found.
“Have you ever tried FES?” I ask gently.
His headshake is stiff. “Never got as far as we’ve gotten.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “How far did you get before?”
His jaw clenches as he looks over toward the parallel bars. “I quit as soon as they put me in the harness last time.”
I blink. He…what?
When he sees my expression, Roman huffs a laugh that has no humor. “I told you, your therapy style was working.”
Holy shit.
That means he never really got on his feet. He may have regained some sensation through range of motion exercises and strength training, but he hasn’t done any functional training with walking motions.
No wonder he gets so nervous.
I glance at the cycle machine in the corner, chewing on my lip and second-guessing my plans for today.
But to my surprise, Roman asks, “FES is the electrode thing, right?”
My gaze jerks back to him. He’s not looking at me, though; he’s sizing up the cycle machine.
“Yes. Functional Electrical Stimulation.” I step over to one of the cabinets and pull out the electrode pads. “I’m going to put them on your leg while you pedal the bike.”
Roman’s eyes narrow at the pads in my hand. “Is this just an excuse to electrocute me, Doc?”
I bark a laugh, but shake my head. “I’m not that mean. No, it’s like a TENS machine. I’m sure you used those when you were fighting, right?” He nods. “It’s kind of like that. It’s an electrical pulse meant to cause a muscular contraction and stimulate movement. We just want to trick your body into moving.”
I wait patiently while Roman stares at the pads before giving me a barely perceptible nod.
“Let’s give it a try,” I say, gesturing toward the bike.
He pulls in a deep breath, then slides out of his chair and transfers into the bike seat. The machine isn’t a stationary bike, it’s more like a deep seat closer to the ground that has pedals in front of it. Like a pedal boat.
Once he’s settled, I look over his leg and decide where I’m going to put the electrode pads. On any other day, I might be nervous to move his shorts out of the way, but today, the borderline-fear on his face as he stares at the pedals makes any overthinking evaporate. All I want to do is hug him and tell him everything is going to be okay.
“I’m going to stick four pads on your right leg,” I explain, making sure I talk him through every detail so that he knows what to expect. “Two on your quad, and two on different areas of your calf. We’re going to try it with one leg first.”
He nods, his eyes shooting to the first pad in my hand. He watches me like a hawk as I place the four pads, and as I strap his foot into the pedal. I settle his left foot, too, even though I want him to try with his stronger leg first.
“Before I ask you to pedal, I’m going to send a pulse to the pad on your quad so you know what it feels like. Let me know when you’re ready.”
I can see his pulse going haywire in his neck, but he still manages to give me a gruff, “Ready.”
When I trigger the pulse from the remote in my hand, we can both see when it hits Roman’s thigh. The muscle twitches, and his leg jerks.
Roman gapes at his leg. “Holy shit.”
“Does it hurt?
He shakes his head. “It’s just…weird.”
“Can I try the one on your calf?”
When he nods, I send a pulse to the muscle. Once again, it twitches, and Roman’s leg jerks.
“Technology is fucking wild,” Roman mutters, staring at his leg.
Chuckling, I ask, “Can I put the pads on your left leg, too? Then we can try pedaling.”
When I get the okay, I place the pads and stand back. “Alright, same drill with your left leg. I’ll stimulate your quad first, and then your calf.”
By the time he’s ready to try the bike, I’m relieved he looks less skeptical about the training exercise. And when I ask him to start pedaling, there’s no hesitation in his movements.
His brow furrows in concentration as he pushes his right leg forward. The motion is slow, but once the leg is extended, he shifts his focus to his left leg.
On that side, he needs help. So, I send an electronic pulse to the pad on his left quad.
Roman’s entire leg jerks forward, his eyes going wide in shock.
“Keep going,” I urge gently.
He presses against the right pedal again, then the left. Again, I send a pulse to his leg when he wavers.
“So fucking weird,” he breathes out, continuing to pedal. But now, he’s staring at the bike in amazement.
I’m absolutely giddy by the time I call an end to our session. Roman did so much better than I let myself hope for, and he did it with barely any motivation from me. He made an insane amount of progress today physically, and he did it.
I’m mulling over the pros and cons of telling Roman I’m proud of him when I finally notice the shift in him. Because in the time it took me to take the pads off his legs, he’s somehow gone from awed, to that same numb demeanor he started with.
I’m still kneeling on the floor beside the bike, so I settle back on my heels and ask, “What’s wrong?”
His frozen gaze slides to meet mine. “Nothing’s wrong.”
I hum thoughtfully and start to wrap up the cords. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I’d rather you say you don’t want to talk about it. Lying doesn’t help either of us.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says instantly.
My hands slow for a moment, and I think he expects me to push back on him, because I can feel his suspicious gaze on me. But I just shrug and stand up.
“Okay, then. Same time Wednesday? It’ll be a strength day.”
His eyebrows rise. “I— Uh, yeah. Sounds good.”
He pulls his wheelchair over, fidgeting with the seat and with his positioning on the bike. But then he collapses against the backrest with a sigh.
“Are you a hypnotist now, too? What is this, reverse psychology?”
I stop what I’m doing and face him with a grin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says with an eye roll. “I call bullshit. What are you really asking me?”
Immediately, I sit on the floor in front of him. “What are you so scared of?”
“Who says I’m scared of anything?” he asks, eyes narrowing.
Now I’m the one rolling my eyes. “Roman, we’ve been working together for months. At this point, assume I can read your facial expressions.”
He opens his mouth to argue with me, then thinks better of it. Letting out a sigh of defeat, he says, “In that case, I’m assuming you’ve already guessed the answer to your question.”
I shrug. “Maybe. But I want to hear your answer.”
He chews on his bottom lip, contemplating how much he wants to reveal.
“This part is…hard for me,” he finally admits. I nod for him to continue. “I told you this was when I quit. Because it hurt too much to fail at something as basic as walking. And when you made me start gait training again, I only did it because I trusted you. I still wanted to quit again. Just as much as last time. But…you made me want to try it anyway.”
Fuck. I think I’m gonna cry now.
Sure enough, my eyes fill with tears. It’s not just that the sentiment is what every physical therapist wants to hear, it’s that it’s Roman saying it. Because I know how trying this whole process has been for him. The fact that I’m the reason he’s working through it is…everything.
I try to be inconspicuous about my sniffle, but Roman sees it anyway. His cheeks pinken the tiniest bit in embarrassment, so to cover it up, he rolls his eyes and murmurs, “Jesus, get it together, Doc.”
I let out a wet laugh. “I can’t help it. That was beautiful.”
He awkwardly rubs at his neck. “Yeah, well, don’t be flattered just yet. I could very well quit again.”
The unthinking confession sobers the mood instantly. I clear my throat, collecting myself as I ask, “Is that what you’re scared of? Coming all this way and then quitting anyway?”
Roman lets out a humorless laugh as he drops his hand back to his lap. “That would be the logical answer, wouldn’t it? I should be scared of that.”
“Nothing about this has to be logical,” I tell him. “You went through something life changing. Your path to recovery isn’t going to be linear.”
He watches me for a moment. “I’ve said it before, but you really would make a great psychologist,” he says eventually.
I try to hide my smile but fail. “I’ll add it to the resume as a special skill.”
“You should. None of the therapists I ever talked to got any of this out of me.”
Warmth fills my chest. “Side effect of my bullying therapy style,” I try to joke.
He doesn’t laugh. He just looks at me in a way I can’t read.
My smile fades as our eyes connect. I wait for him to say something else, but when he doesn’t, I ask gently, “So then what are you scared of if not quitting?”
The reminder of the true target of this conversation makes him exhale heavily. He looks away from me to stare at nothing on the wall.
“Succeeding, I guess.”
Bingo.
“Why does that scare you?” I coax.
“Because I don’t know what happens after.”
That has me frowning. “After…what? After you walk again?”
His gaze slides back to mine. And he nods.
“I mean…you can shoot for running after that. And working out. There’s always another goal to reach.”
“The goal I want to reach is unachievable,” Roman deadpans. “I can work as hard as I can for as long as I can, Liliana, but I’ll never get back in the cage again.”
Even knowing that fact doesn’t stop my heart from hurting for this man. I wish for every one of my patients to reach 100%, but that’s never been as true as it is for Roman.
“And I don’t know who I am if I’m not a fighter.” He continues, his voice taking on a slightly panicked edge. “I don’t know what to do with my time, I don’t know how to make money. Everything in my life revolved around fighting. I don’t know who I am if I’m not a fighter.”
Head spinning, I pull in a deep breath as I organize my thoughts. “Okay, let’s ignore the problematic pieces of that and assume for argument’s sake that that’s true. You’re done fighting. Is that usually the end of the world for fighters? What do they do after they retire?”
“Teach. Open a gym. Train the next generation of fighters.”
I should’ve known he’d be stubborn enough to have an answer for anything.
“So no fighters ever enter another line of work? Or retire into a different hobby?”
“It’s not a hobby , Liliana. That’s exactly my point.”
“Okay, that was a poor choice of words?—”
He leans forward onto his thighs, begging me with his eyes to understand.
“The people who make it into the top 10 in an organization like the UFC don’t just stop being a fighter. Those qualities and habits and memories that got them to the highest level? That stays with them. And when they’re too old or injured to stay at the top, they choose retirement. They prepare for a life without fighting.” Sadness shines in his eyes. “I didn’t get to do that.”
I nod in understanding, my eyes searching his. “Okay, I get that. And I hate that you didn’t get to do things at your own time. But Roman…those guys still have a whole other life after fighting. They don’t just stop living.”
Roman slumps back into the seat with a defeated sigh. Raising my eyebrow, I give him a look that screams, well?
He throws his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know what to do with myself, alright? I don’t have anything outside of MMA.”
My thoughts flash back to our very first conversation that night on the roof. We had a similar conversation then, him asking me about my hobbies and me realizing he had none. The only interest he mentioned was?—
“What about school?” I blurt out. “Have you thought about going back?”
Roman blinks at me, clearly shell-shocked by the turn in conversation. “Have I…what?”
“School. You had said you were really good at it but that you didn’t go to college because that’s when you started taking fighting seriously. You could always go back, find new interests.”
I can see his head spinning as he tries to catch up to the current topic. “So just…go back to school,” he says in a disbelieving voice. “As if I’m an eighteen-year-old.”
“Why not? Plenty of people go back to school later in life. And don’t act like you’re not still in your twenties.”
He turns an angry glare on me, finally giving me a real reaction. “I’m not twenty- one ,” he spits out. “I’d stand out, no matter what. Plus, it wouldn’t take long for someone to recognize me and spread it all over campus that the former contender-turned-nobody is now spending his Saturday nights in the library studying the Civil War.”
Civil War. That’s right; he likes history.
But instead of latching on to that fact and driving my point home, I quirk an eyebrow and say, “So now you’re too good for school and too arrogant. Nice.”
“That’s not—” Roman exhales his exasperation. “Of course, I’m not too good for school. It’s just…not a good idea for me.”
I push a little harder. “Why not? You said it yourself, it’s not like you’re doing anything else right now. You could do an online undergrad program and get your degree. Figure out what you like and go from there. Find a new career the same way twenty-year-olds find their first one.”
I know I’m getting through to him when he doesn’t answer, he just glares at me in annoyance.
“I think you’d do great as a history major,” I comment casually.
His eyes might actually bug out of his head. “A what? Where did that come from?”
I shrug. “You just seem to like history.”
His baffled expression doesn’t fade an ounce. “So…because I can appreciate a good history documentary, obviously I need to go to college to make a whole new career out of it. Makes sense.”
I sigh, knowing I’ve reached the end of this argument and that there’s no way I’m winning it. Today, at least.
Which is okay, because I’m suddenly hit with an idea so perfect, I have to actively fight against wiggling in excitement.
Instead, I stand and wipe my pants down. “Alright, fine, forget I said anything. It was just a stupid idea.”
He relaxes at that, but only slightly. There’s still a flicker of suspicion in his gaze.
“So…Saturday then?” he asks. “Are we doing strength or gait training?”
“Strength,” I answer, restarting my cleanup of the FES pads. But then I snap my fingers and turn to look at Roman again, as if something just occurred to me. “Oh, before I forget. Wanna grab dinner with me this week?”
He blinks at me. Then again.
“Are you on drugs?” he finally asks.
A huge grin splits my face. “Nope. Just using my patented physical therapy method. What do you say?”
“You’re serious,” he says. Not a question.
“I told you, I’ve never lied to you,” I answer.
His eyes narrow slightly. “I don’t understand what’s happening right now.”
“Nothing’s happening. We’ll just hang out for a little, have a conversation that doesn’t revolve around muscles or sensation. That’s it. It’ll be fun.”
I can see that he wants to say yes. But beside the suspicion, there’s also a little bit of nervousness, which he confirms when he says, “Going out in public isn’t exactly my idea of a fun time.”
My heart softens for him, and I’m about to assure him that it’s okay, it was just a stupid idea , when he sighs, and all those feelings fade. Or at the very least, don’t stop him from saying yes.
“Alright. I’ll go. I still don’t know what you have up your sleeve, but I’ll go. And I reserve the right to leave at any time, for any reason.”
I grin and just barely stop myself from excitedly clapping my hands together. “You’ll love it, I promise.”
After a moment, Roman looks up at me and asks, “Is this a bad idea? I mean, I’m assuming it’s not normal for physical therapists to hang out with their patients outside of the clinic. Are you even allowed to do this?”
I meet his eyes and answer honestly. “No, I’m not.”
But somehow, my brain never takes that thought one step farther to the idea of consequences. Because there isn’t a sliver of doubt in my mind that this is the right thing to do for Roman.