Chapter 18 #2
I follow her through the lobby, which is all glass and potted plants and framed magazine articles about athletic performance.
The next room is lined with treatment tables, each one armed with an arsenal of stretchy bands, foam rollers, massage guns, and neatly labelled jars.
An entire wall is windows, the sun angling in and bouncing off every reflective surface.
On the first table is a client, a high school girl in a battered hoodie and soccer shorts, foot propped up, face set with the determination of someone who will not, under any circumstances, be sitting out the next game. Her calf is swollen to the size of a melon.
“Hi, I’m Sloane,” I say, and she gives me a nod. There’s that instant recognition, a silent athlete-to-athlete contract: you don’t talk about your injury unless you have to, and then only in euphemisms.
Lisa snaps on a pair of blue gloves and gestures at me to come closer. “Annalise here took a direct cleat to the leg on Saturday,” she says. “We’re doing some deep tissue and ultrasound today. Sloane, do you want to observe?”
I nod, already enthralled. Lisa explains each step as she works. “See how the muscle bunches here?” Her thumb presses firmly into the meat of the injury, then she glances at me. “This is the spot. A microtear, probably. Watch her foot.”
Lisa does this thing where she kneads the area just above the bruise, then flexes Annalise’s toes back. The whole time, she narrates not just the biology, but the psychology.
“Athletes get this idea that pain means progress. Sometimes pain just means pain.” She grins at Annalise, who is gritting her teeth but also smiling through it. There’s a kind of trust here I don’t see often.
“Breathe into it, Annalise. Long, slow breaths,” Lisa coaches. She talks her through a sequence of movements, each designed to test the limits of the injury. Annalise complies, never once wincing or whimpering, but there’s sweat on her brow, and her hands keep fidgeting with the hem of her shorts.
I’m so absorbed I barely realize when Lisa points at the table. “Sloane, want to glove up and help with the wrap?”
This is not something I thought would happen on my first shadowing day, but I pull on the gloves, and Lisa walks me through prepping a strip of compression bandage.
It’s not the first time I’ve done this. I worked as much as possible through college, and my classes were mainly hands-on, but I appreciate her going back over everything.
Especially because in the last few months of college I wasn’t at my best.
“Don’t be afraid of it. The muscle wants support, not pity.” She demonstrates the first wrap, firm but not brutal, then lets me finish. My hands aren’t shaking as much as I’d feared. Lisa nods in approval.
She finishes up with a cool gel, the menthol scent immediately making my nose tingle. “This is the best part,” Lisa whispers, and Annalise grins. The relief is visible in every muscle.
After the session, Annalise hops off the table—still a little stiff, but with a genuine bounce in her step.
“You’ll be good for Wednesday’s practice,” Lisa says, “but if you so much as think about playing this weekend, I’ll send your coach a detailed injury report.”
Annalise groans, but it’s all for show. “Thanks, Lisa. And thank you, Sloane.”
I don’t even notice Lisa has turned her attention to the next table, where another client—a runner—awaits with an ankle brace. She’s got her phone out, furiously typing, and Lisa gently scolds, “If you don’t put that away, I’m going to put it in the ultrasound machine.”
The runner laughs and stashes her phone, and I hang back to observe. The session is much the same, but with a focus on joint mobility and the unique type of stubbornness that comes with distance runners.
Lisa uses a completely different tone, lighter, almost joking, but with the same underlying certainty that the runner’s injury is temporary.
Between clients, Lisa gives me a crash course on how the clinic runs. Even though I won’t be working out of a clinic, it’s still valuable information to know.
“Everything’s about relationships,” she says.
“You need them to trust you, or they won’t listen to anything you say.
” She wipes down the table, discards her gloves, and gestures for me to follow her into a tiny office filled with textbooks, diagrams, and a whiteboard scrawled with half a dozen names and treatment schedules.
“You seem comfortable in here,” she notes. “Next week, I’ll let you take on a client solo.”
I swallow, not sure what to say. The only other place I’ve felt this instant belonging was on the cheerleading squad.
At the end of the day, Lisa walks me to the door, hands shoved deep in her scrub pockets. “You did good. Come back Tuesday.”
I nod, and then—because it feels important—I say, “Thank you, really.”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. “You were a good student, Sloane, and I’m all about empowering women. Get home safe. And bring coffee next time.”
Outside, the world is strangely sharp. I fish out my phone and dial the number for Mr. Porter.
“Mr. Porter? This is Sloane Bishop.”
“Sloane! Have you made your decision?”
I stare at the glowing sky over the parking lot. My hands are steady. “I’m calling to officially accept your offer. I want the job.”