Counting Sessions
Chapter twenty-five
Annette
Nine sessions.
The number sits at the top of Jamie’s progress report in plain black type.
It should make me proud. It does make me proud.
His range of motion is nearly restored. His strength is returning faster than expected. His first on-ice session went well enough that the medical team has already approved another, slightly longer skate later this week.
Every measurement says the same thing. Jamie is getting better.
I close the folder before I can read the number again.
Across the therapy gym, he is talking with Elise while she adjusts the cable machine. He laughs at something she says, then glances toward me as though checking whether I heard it too.
I smile automatically and he smiles back.
The warmth that moves through me is immediate, familiar and increasingly difficult to ignore.
Nine sessions.
I turn toward the supply cabinet and begin reorganizing a row of resistance bands that does not need reorganizing.
The blue bands belong above the green ones. They already are.
The yellow bands are rolled neatly. I roll them again.
Anything is easier than thinking about the fact that in a few weeks, Jamie will no longer need to walk through these doors.
He will return to the team full-time.
His life will become practices, travel, games and interviews. Mine will continue exactly where it’s destined to be in Boise, Idaho.
That is how recovery is supposed to work.
People come here because something has been taken from them. We help them reclaim it, then we send them back into their lives.
I have always believed that is the best part of the job.
Today it feels more like a loss.
“Annette?” Jamie’s voice pulls me back.
He stands beside the treatment table with one hand resting on the edge, watching me with quiet amusement. “You planning to use those bands today, or are you teaching them military formation?”
I look at the perfectly arranged shelf.
“Organization is important.”
“So is blinking.”
“I blink.”
“Not for the last thirty seconds.”
He smiles, but his eyes are studying me. Jamie notices changes in people before they are ready to admit them. I should know better than to think I can hide one from him.
I pick up his chart. “Let’s begin with shoulder stability.”
“Good morning to you too.”
The words are light, but I hear the question underneath them.
Normally, I would laugh and ask about his drive from Briar Cove. I might tease him about arriving early or ask whether Coach allowed him to keep the headset after practice.
Today, I simply say, “Good morning.”
His smile fades by a fraction. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
I do.
The first exercise goes well. So does the second. Jamie follows every instruction without arguing for extra repetitions, which would normally earn him at least one comment about personal growth.
I say nothing.
He notices that too.
“Did I do something wrong?”
The question catches me off guard. “No.”
“You’re sure?” “Of course.”
He studies my face, and I recognize the irony immediately. These are the same questions I once asked him when he arrived too quiet and tried to pretend nothing was wrong.
His expression softens. “Long day?”
“Yes.”
It is not entirely a lie, just not the truth he is asking for.
And the longer the truth settles in my heart, the less prepared I am to tell him what I've finally admitted to myself. I love him. Which means I have to make leaving as clean as possible.
He nods and returns to the exercise without pressing.
The grace of it nearly undoes me. I focus on his form. His shoulder remains stable through the movement, and the careful control that once demanded his full concentration now looks almost natural.
“Good,” I say. “One more.”
He completes the repetition and lowers the cable.
“Coffee after?”
The question is casual because coffee has not required an invitation in weeks.
I look toward the clock. There is enough time. I know there is.
“I have charting to finish.”
“Oh.”
The single word is quiet.
He reaches for his water bottle. “Another day.”
“Another day.”
Jamie smiles because he is kind enough to make the moment easier for me.
That makes it worse. The rest of the session continues efficiently. Professionally. Exactly the way it should.
I measure. He moves. I record the results.
There is no joking about stubborn hockey captains. No conversation about terrible motels, peonies or coffee sleeves folded into tiny shapes. I do not ask what happened at practice. He does not tell me about Liam’s latest poster.
By the end of the hour, we have completed more work than usual.
It feels like less.
Jamie pulls on his jacket while I finish the notes. “Same time Thursday?”
“Yes.”
He waits as if expecting something more.
I keep my eyes on the chart.
“Drive carefully.”
“I will.”
When I finally look up, he is still standing there.
The easy smile he usually wears around me is gone, replaced by something more thoughtful.
“Annette.”
My hand tightens around the pen.
“Yes?”
“If something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
There is no accusation in his voice. No pressure. Just the same quiet concern he offers everyone else.
For one dangerous second, I almost do. I almost tell him that his recovery is ending too quickly.
That every improvement now feels like a clock counting down. That I have spent months helping him reclaim his life and never considered what it would feel like when he no longer needed me in it. I almost tell him that his future will not be with me.
Instead, I smile. “I know.”
Jamie holds my gaze. I can tell he knows I have answered a different question.
Still, he does not push.
“Okay.”
He leaves a moment later.
The therapy gym feels larger after the door closes behind him.
I look down at the progress report.
Remaining Therapy Sessions: 9
The number has not changed since this morning.
Everything else has.
For months, I measured success by how much closer Jamie moved toward leaving.
Today, for the first time, I wish healing would slow down.
***
Thursday arrives far sooner than I expect.
For the first time since Jamie became my patient, I find myself hoping he might be running late.
It would give me a few extra minutes to collect myself.
Instead, he arrives five minutes early, as always.
He walks into the therapy gym carrying his coffee in one hand and his exercise band in the other.
"Morning."
"Good morning."
He studies me for just a second before setting his things on the treatment table.
"I brought my own coffee today."
"I noticed."
"I figured you were busy."
"I appreciate that."
The words sound polite. Too polite.
I hear the difference the moment they leave my mouth.
So does Jamie. He doesn't mention it. He simply nods and begins his warm-up without another word.
For several minutes the only sounds between us are the steady rhythm of his exercises and the quiet scratching of my pen across the progress notes.
His shoulder continues improving exactly as the orthopedic team predicted.
External rotation has nearly normalized. Strength has increased again.
His confidence on the injured side grows a little with every visit.
Objectively, this is one of the most successful rehabilitation programs I've ever supervised.
Objectively.
Emotion rarely pays much attention to objective facts.
Jamie finishes another set and looks toward me.
"How's the form?"
I glance up.
"Very good."
"That's it?"
I smile faintly.
"Would you like me to invent something to correct?"
He chuckles.
"No."
"I didn't think so."
He waits another second. Normally, this is where one of us would say something completely unrelated to therapy.
Liam's latest prank.
Coach's impossible standards.
Whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
Instead...silence settles uncomfortably around the room. Uncomfortably for me. Confusingly for him.
I can almost see him trying to decide whether to fill it.
He chooses not to.
The choice makes my chest ache.
The session ends twenty minutes later. Jamie rolls his shoulder once before slipping into his jacket.
"I think that's the best it's felt all week."
"It looks that way."
"I even slept through the night."
"That's excellent."
He smiles. "I thought you'd be happier."
The words are gentle. Not accusing. Simply honest.
I look down at the chart.
"I am happy."
"I know."
He hesitates.
"I just..." He searches for the right words. "...I miss talking to my friend."
The sentence lands with quiet precision.
Not my therapist.
Not Annette.
My friend.
I close the chart carefully before answering.
"We've probably gotten a little too comfortable."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I wish I could take them back.
Jamie's expression doesn't change much, only enough for someone who has spent months learning to read him.
"I didn't realize that was a problem."
"It isn't."
"Then why does it sound like one?"
Because saying goodbye to a patient is easier than saying goodbye to someone who has quietly become part of your life.
Because every coffee after therapy makes the end a little harder.
Because somewhere along the way, I stopped looking forward to Jamie's progress reports...
and started looking forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays.
I swallow every one of those thoughts.
"It isn't."
He studies me for another long moment. Finally, he nods. "Okay."
This time the word carries disappointment instead of acceptance.
He picks up his bag and walks toward the door.
Just before reaching it, he turns back.
"I'll see you Tuesday."
"Yes."
He offers one last smile. It is warm. Kind. And just a little uncertain.
Then he's gone.
The therapy gym feels strangely quiet after he leaves.
I sit at my desk and stare at the empty treatment table where he'd been sitting only moments earlier.
My phone buzzes.
Keisha… Call you later?
Normally I would answer immediately.
Instead, I set the phone aside and open Jamie's chart.
The projected discharge plan fills the screen. Everything is exactly where it should be.
Another two weeks. Medical clearance. Independent program.
Follow-up only if needed.
I have written those same recommendations dozens of times for dozens of patients.
Today they feel impossible.
Without thinking, I reopen the calendar on my computer.
Thursday.
Tuesday.
Thursday.
Remaining Therapy Sessions: 8
Yes, now it’s eight. Eight ordinary mornings. Eight cups of coffee that will never happen.
Eight conversations about absolutely nothing that I cannot bear to have again.
A tear lands quietly on the corner of the chart.
I brush it away before anyone can see.
"Annette?"
I look up quickly. Elise stands in the doorway holding another patient's file.
"You all right?"
I force a smile. "Just allergies."
Elise glances toward the window. "In March?"
"I know."
She studies me for another second, clearly unconvinced, but simply hands me the next chart.
"Room three is ready whenever you are."
"Thanks."
As she walks away, I close Jamie's file and slide it carefully into the cabinet.
The drawer clicks shut with a soft metallic sound.
My heart is breaking and soon I’m going to do the same to Jamie. I see no alternative.
For the first time since beginning my career...I wish I could delay someone's recovery.
Not because he isn't ready.
Because I am not.