CHAPTER FIVE
Emery
By the time I make it back to my own hotel room a few blocks away, the adrenaline has burned off and left nothing but shaking exhaustion in its wake.
I lock the door behind me and lean my forehead against it for a few minutes, breathing through the lingering nausea and the echo of fear I haven’t fully let myself feel.
Shower.
I need to get this off me. Last night. The bar. The confusion. The way my body betrayed me. The sickening realization of how close I came to something far worse.
I can’t get my clothes off fast enough.
I can’t get the water in the shower hot enough. It scalds, yet I let it burn away every ounce of last night. I need it gone—the pitching of my stomach, the fogginess in my head, the uneasiness of everything.
If it weren’t for the mystery man . . .
I brace my hands against the tile walls and let the tears fall.
Just this once.
I let them come hard and fast, silent and ugly, until my chest aches and my legs feel weak. I don’t sob. I don’t spiral. I don’t let this turn into something bigger than it needs to be.
Because this is not how my story here in Austin starts. I refuse to let it.
When the tears stop, I draw in a deep breath, square my shoulders, and turn off the shower. My reflection in the mirror is pale and tired, but I’m still standing.
First day.
Dream job.
Fresh start.
Whatever someone tried to take from me last night, they don’t get this too.
The first thing I notice about the Rebels training facility is how cold it is inside.
And considering it’s Texas and already ninety degrees before nine in the morning, it feels deliberate. Controlled. A reminder that once you step inside, your body belongs to them and not the sun.
The air-conditioning’s welcome chill sinks straight into my bones, and my stomach rolls. Not from the nerves of starting a new job, but from the lingering nausea.
The second thing I notice is that everyone is watching me.
Not openly. Not obviously. Just enough glances around to register. A lift of eyebrows. A pause in conversation. A quick glance away when I catch them looking.
My years in medical school and in learning my field have taught me to catalog that attention without letting it show.
It takes more effort than usual today. My head still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and my thoughts lag half a beat behind where they should be. So I make a concerted effort to take my time before every response I give to ensure it doesn’t show.
So far—through the onboarding and initial introductions to the front office staff—I think I’ve done a damn good job at masking it.
I adjust the strap of the bag on my shoulder and walk deeper into the medical wing like I belong here—because I do.
And whew, talk about first impressions—this place is incredible. White walls. Stainless steel, state-of-the-art equipment. The faint smell of antiseptic layered over coffee and ambition.
The place hums with quiet urgency, as it should, because bodies are investments here.
They’re also assets and liabilities. Ones I’ve been hired to protect.
“Dr. Porter?”
I turn to find a man in his late fifties. He has broad shoulders with a posture that says he’s in charge here.
“Owen Fischer,” he says, already shaking my hand. “Rebels head athletic trainer.”
“Emery is fine and it’s so nice to finally meet you,” I say and match his grip. “This is quite the setup.”
“It is.” He nods, pride etched in the lines of his face. “A lot of time and effort went into making this the most technologically advanced facility in the league.”
“It definitely shows.” I look around and then back to him, ready to get to work. “I’ve reviewed the protocols and injury history files you sent over. I’m up to speed on treatment plans and have memorized each athlete’s history and their persistent injuries.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. Good. He knows I mean business.
“All that and you haven’t even officially started your first day.”
“I like to be prepared.”
“Noted.” He nods. “We run a forward-thinking program here as you’ve probably concluded given we’ve hired someone with your particular skills in a role no other NFL team has.”
“That was one of the aspects that drew me to the job when I was researching it.”
“Good.” He smiles. “Then you know we like the unconventional just as much as the conventional around here.”
“Perfect.”
He gestures down the hall. “We’ll do introductions, then I’ll show you to your office and where you’ll be working.”
We walk past treatment rooms and rehab stations, nodding at trainers and assistants as we go.
Most of them are polite. Most of them are men.
A few are openly curious about who I am.
One older man—a trainer, I assume—with gray hair and what looks to be a permanent scowl, looks me up and down like he’s evaluating whether I can cook a decent meal, not rehab a stubborn, three-hundred-and-fifty-pound lineman.
I can do both.
“Physical therapy tech?” he asks, skepticism in his tone.
My smile is as patronizing as his assumption. “Doctor of sports medicine. Then studied physical therapy,” I correct. “I couldn’t decide which I liked more so I did both.”
“Both?”
“Yes, with an emphasis on rehabilitation and injury prevention. I prefer to prevent athletes ever getting to an ortho surgeon, but when I can’t, I like to make sure they come out the other side of it successfully.
” I lift my eyebrows as more of a challenge than anything. You going to question me more?
“Dr. Porter is fulfilling a new role we’ve created this year.
Her position is focused on overseeing any seriously injured athletes and getting them rehabbed as quickly as possible.
That will free up everyone else to tend to the day-to-day injuries that we felt weren’t getting the proper attention last season. ”
The man looks from Owen to me and then back before making a noncommittal noise that sounds a lot like skepticism. “You sure don’t look like someone—”
“Someone who can handle burly football players and their attitudes?” My tone is pure condescension. “Don’t let the high heels fool you.”
He clears his throat. “Right.”
I smile, not too sweet and definitely not apologetic, but merely professional.
Dr. Fischer fights a smile and turns his head away when he loses the battle.
“It was a pleasure meeting you,” I call after the man as he walks away.
“You might catch a little shit for a while, but they’ll all come around,” he says quietly.
“It’s not because you’re a female. It’s more you’re the new member of a team and have to prove yourself.
I won’t apologize for having a tight-knit group, but I will apologize for them making you work for the respect. ”
I nod. “The last thing I’m worried about is proving myself. I have thick skin.”
“Noted,” he says with a slight smirk. “That’s part of what I liked about you when I called your references.”
I smile. It’s ridiculous to feel pride in knowing other people see it, but I do.
We start to move again, but my feet falter against a wave of dizziness. I pause for a beat, pretending to take in the rest of the room around me to cover for the fact I’m gripping a workstation to steady myself.
Come on. Not now. Don’t do this to me now.
We stop at another work area where a few trainers are huddled over a tablet. Introductions are made—names, roles, quick summaries—all of which I’ll probably forget, given how I feel, but I desperately try to commit to memory. I shake hands. Make eye contact. File away who listens and who doesn’t.
The subtle sexism isn’t loud. It never is.
It’s always in the assumptions.
The tone shifts. The way explanations get simplified. The way one trainer pats my shoulder like I’m a nervous intern instead of an extremely successful, fully licensed doctor.
I let it happen. For now. I’ll let my work do the talking and prove the skeptical looks wrong.
“Dr. Porter—”
“Emery, please,” I say.
“Emery,” Dr. Fischer says, “got her doctorate in sports medicine at the Keck School of Medicine of USC and then went on to do a fellowship in physical therapy at Stanford Health Care. She had internships with several professional teams—Colorado Avalanche and Giants to name a few. She’s coming here in a new role that will see, advise, and create protocols for any significant injuries, working on their rehabilitation daily.
That frees up all of you to keep working as you are on the other players on both the finalized roster and practice squads.
We’re lucky to have someone with so much expertise. ”
There’s a pause and several of them share glances.
“Daily rehab?” someone asks.
“Yes,” Owen says resolutely. “Protocol. Prevention. Rehab. In the clinic work and on-field evaluations.”
That earns a few looks. Good. They understand.
“Welcome to the team,” someone says, and then more repeat the welcome.
It’ll definitely take time to earn their trust. Fine by me.
Owen continues the tour of the medical wing, explaining what a typical day will look like for me. “Of course it’s subject to change depending on your recommendations.”
I eye him, curious if he’s going to take offense to one of the other reasons that I’m here.
“Suggesting program improvements is a condition of my probationary period. I assure you it isn’t meant as a slight to you or the program you’ve built and run.
” More like an offer on my part that might have won over management to give me a chance.
He nods. “Fresh eyes can note places for improvement. I understand that.”
Our eyes hold and the look in his says he gets it and that he’s not offended, for which I’m grateful.
“And here we are,” he says, stopping at an office with a window to the hall and a placard outside the door.
DR. EMERY PORTER, MD, DPT, ATC
INJURY and REHAB SPECIALIST
A small thrill chases through me as I allow myself a moment to let this sink in.
This is real. I’ve finally achieved my goal of working for a professional sports team.
Not as an internship lined up through my fellowship program.
Not the lead-up work I’ve done the past few years associated with the University of Southern California and their PT program.
But a real job with a professional sports team that I earned myself.
No matter how rough this morning feels, this is still mine, and I’m owning it.
“As you know, your primary assignments are those who need the most work,” Dr. Fischer says, flipping through the file in his hand. “You said you made yourself familiar with the files, so I assume you can recall Lucas Hale.”
“Yes. He’s eight months out from the repair of an anterior shoulder dislocation with Burkhart lesion, SLAP tear, and partial thickness rotator cuff tear.” I let out a low whistle. A brutal recovery. “And this is the second time around for him with a shoulder injury.”
His file was as thick as his injury was complicated. Every physician and physical therapist in this organization has most likely read it.
Lucas Hale. Thirty-four. Former franchise quarterback of several NFL teams during his tenure. One rotator cuff with a fifteen percent partial tear five years ago. Complete shoulder reconstruction eight months ago. Chronic pain, no doubt, and pride issues the size of Texas.
How fitting he’s playing here now.
“He has a reputation for being resilient and determined. And he’s wanted here for various reasons beyond his impressive career, but so is getting an honest evaluation of exactly the toll this injury has taken on his ability to play.”
“Torque. External rotation. Snap acceleration. All those will drop with an injury like this,” I murmur more to myself than to him as I recall the details of his file.
“Correct.” He silences the ringing of his phone. “Hale will be a priority. Not that the other players aren’t, but Coach wants to see what his new one hundred percent is before deciding whether he’ll make the final roster.”
“Noted. So I’m putting him first?”
“In so many words. All players and their recovery are important, but you’ll most likely get questioned more about him than the others.”
“Okay. Thank you for the heads-up. I’ll make sure everything is documented for easy response.”
“Cole Valor is our QB1. Hale is tentatively our QB2. We have a few other options beyond him, but no one that’s ready yet. It’s a weak spot in our scouting this year. Coach wants Hale to be QB2, but only if he’s capable.”
“Understood. I’ll go back over his chart again to make sure I didn’t miss anything and assess his current protocol.”
“His reputation says he’ll test you. He’s prickly. Intelligent. Stubborn. A seasoned veteran who doesn’t want this injury to be the only thing people think of when they talk about him. And like all these guys, he most likely isn’t a fan of being told what to and not to do.”
“So, in other words, challenging,” I tease. Nothing like a man who refuses to admit his body has limits.
Perfect.
He laughs. “It’ll give you a chance to show us what you’re made of, Doc.”
“No pressure or anything.”
“From what I’ve heard, you thrive on that shit.”
“I do.” I smile and welcome the compliment.
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll leave you to it. HR will most likely be down later today to get you set up with passwords and key codes and the like.” He takes a step back, the corner of his mouth lifting. “In the meantime, Hale is already here and has been told his first eval with you is in an hour.”
“I’ll be ready for him.”
“I have no doubt you will. Welcome aboard, Emery. I’m glad to have you.”
As he walks away, I sit down behind my new desk and pull out my laptop from my bag. Within seconds, I have Lucas Hale’s file pulled up.
A quarterback who’s built on confidence, skill, and an entire identity of refusing to admit his body has limits.
Athletes like this are always the hardest—especially the men—but they’re also the most interesting.
And that means my job won’t be boring.
I twist my lips and flip through the latest shoulder scans that his old medical team sent over.
Nothing impossible but no doubt has him still feeling pain, discomfort, and questioning whether he can make a full comeback or not.
I’ll improve his range of motion. I’ll ease his pain so that he can get him back in the saddle sooner rather than later. I just hope I can help him return without hurting him more during the process.
I sit back in my chair and grin. I’m here. I made it. A quiet thrill shoots through me with all this possibility at my fingertips.
The boys’ club out there can adjust.
They’ll whisper. They’ll doubt me. That’s nothing new or unexpected.
I didn’t work this hard to play it safe.
And something tells me Lucas Hale isn’t going to either.