100. Zero Shits
ZERO SHITS
LIVY
“Dr. Morgan?” I look up at the interruption into the face of Tasha Williams. Our head of public affairs is nearly a decade my senior.
Like most women who work in the NFL, she is utterly attractive. She has flawless skin, a brilliant smile, and is stunning. Her beauty commands attention; her brains command the room.
“Ms. Williams, come in.” I extend a hand.
We’ve met more than once, but it’s always been around an issue. She’s never come to my office before.
“Please call me Tasha.”
“Tasha, please call me Livy.” I gesture to the chair in front of my desk.
She sits, her posture ramrod straight. We must be a pair – her suit and my yoga pants. Her elegance and my commonality.
“Livy,” she begins. “I’m sure you’re aware of Mr. Ranger’s accident last week.”
A chill runs through me.
“I heard. Terrifying news. Have there been any updates?”
“Nothing substantial. He’s awakened from the coma. The surgeries on his hip and vertebrae have been successful. The swelling in the left arm is going down with the drainage tube. They needed that to proceed with rebuilding the elbow. The femur hasn’t responded as well.”
This isn’t terrifying; it’s catastrophic.
I cover my mouth with a hand. Tears well, and I fight to keep them at bay.
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Dr. Silverberg has been copied on his medical charts as is standard with player injuries. He feels Layton will not succumb to his injuries, but IR is a must.”
“They’re placing him on injured reserve?”
“It’s standard protocol. All players injured go onto the list. That allows for hiring and training.”
“I’m not seeing what this has to do with me.”
“He will need a PT plan.”
I nod. He will need physical therapy—no doubt, but I’m missing something.
“Pardon my bluntness, Tasha, but how does that involve me? Or us rather? Is Dr. Silverberg his attending?”
“A player on IR from our roster is assigned an athletic trainer, has a workable PT plan, and has measurable goals.”
“I’ll need more info—a lot more info—to make this something that is ‘workable’ as you call it.”
“Livy, I have no idea if last Monday’s meeting was warranted.
” She holds her hands up to stop any protest. “And I don’t want to know.
It’s none of my business, and the policy is, frankly, archaic.
That said, my job presents enough challenges to create any more.
” She holds my gaze. “I like your backbone and wouldn’t mind seeing more women in our ranks.
But is there any reason you’d like me to assign different staff to this project? ”
She exhales heavily as if she’s released a weight.
“You have nothing to worry about. I’ll get with Doc and Mr. Ranger and get a game plan. How would you like to be kept in the loop?”
“I’d like some markers—things like when the therapy will begin, as milestones are hit, and anything that could become a media storm. Just don’t let me be blindsided when you have info.”
“I can do that.”
She rises and makes her way to the door, giving me a genuine smile before seeing herself out.
“Olivia Morgan here to see Layton Ranger,” I offer to the older gentleman at the welcome center in the hospital lobby.
He looks at me before consulting his screen. “I’m sorry, Miss. We don’t have anyone here by that name.”
“Will you check again please? I work with him, and the team has asked I check in.” That last part isn’t wholly true. Yes, we have the same employer, but the check-in part isn’t accurate. Unless you count my meeting with Tasha yesterday.
“I’m sorry. No patients are available with that name.”
“Thank you for checking.”
His last answer was more telling. No patient available.
Me: Public affairs indicated Layton Ranger needed a therapy plan as part of his placement on injured reserve. I’m at the hospital, but they won’t let me in. Would you prefer I develop one from your records?
Dr. Silverberg’s name blinks as my phone rings.
“Livy.”
“Hi, Doc.”
“If you can get in to see Ranger, I think that would be best. We’re days out from any therapy on even his mildest injuries and probably weeks out from true work on the serious ones.”
“So it’s as bad as I’ve heard?” It’s a stupid question, and I’m not happy I asked it, but I need to be prepared.
“Or worse. The paper has only received snippets of what his legal team and our PA teams have fed them.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I can’t think of anyone better to help him with this than you.”
“Thank you.”
“East wing, room 402. Security will ask for a password.”
“Why?”
“If the tabloids would do to you what they did last weekend for being seen with him, imagine what they’d do for a picture of him in his current condition.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“It is, but it’s a fact of life for the rich and famous.”
“I guess it is. So what’s the password?”
“Emilia.”
My heart falls. A woman’s name. Of course, it would be.
“Does he know to expect me?”
“He understands protocol.”
That doesn’t sound promising.
“Got it. Thanks, Doc. I’ll keep you posted.”
I head to Layton’s room, where a guard is outside the magnetically locked door.
“No entry today.”
“I’m assuming no entry any day, even with my team credentials?” I flash my staff ID with my name and photo. “I’m on Dr. Silverberg’s team. Olivia Morgan, team physical therapist. Mr. Ranger requires a plan as per his contract.”
“Sure. And what makes you think that matters?”
“Emilia. Now please let me in.”
“You don’t look like a doctor.”
“Right, well that’s neither here nor there. Please don’t make Mr. Ranger have to deal with this when he’s struggling as he is.”
The guard thinks for a moment. “Leave your purse and phone.”
“No.”
“It’s that or no entry.”
We stare at each other for way too much time before I growl. I make a show of removing my credit cards and cash and locking my cell phone.
“Lady, I’m being paid enough that I don’t need your cash.”
“Good for you,” I say, doing my best to stand erect like Tasha.
He pushes a button under the desk and looks at the door.
I sail through them and take a few steadying breaths. I can only assume where his head is.
I knock quietly, all my bravado gone after my conversations today, but don’t let myself in.
An older man pulls open the door. He’s not tall like Layton. and his skin pales in comparison. He has green eyes with dark shadows below them.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for Layton. I’m Livy Morgan.”
The man scrubs a hand down his face. “He’s not here.”
“Sir, I’m with the team. I’m their physical therapist, and Mr. Ranger needs a plan to begin rehabbing his injuries.”
“That’s what they said?”
I’m taken aback by his abruptness.
“Yes.”
“A plan to rehab his injuries?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They just took him back to open his thigh to drain fluid that won’t stop pooling near an artery, and the team is discussing a plan—one that includes him, but for which he hasn’t been consulted?”
Tears well, but I clench my jaw and fight to keep my composure. It seems I haven’t been fully clued in to the extent of Layton’s injuries.
“I hate to hear that about his leg. That’s not at all what I want for him. I’m a friend of his in addition to his PT. And, due respect to you, Mr—?” I leave it hanging.
“Ranger.”
“All due respect, Mr. Ranger, but this is”—I gesture to myself and his room— “Layton being consulted. It will be his plans and his goals. I’ll devise whatever is necessary for him to hit those.”
His eyes narrow. “You think so?”
“I know so. The man is stalwart.”
“Miss Morgan, right now, I want my son to walk again. I give zero shits what his team wants.”
“I should’ve known you were his dad.” I smile tentatively. “He mentioned you once. I see where he gets his protective nature.”
He cocks his head.
“Miss Morgan—”
“Livy, please.”
“Livy, tell everyone to stay away from my son. Time is critical, and my stalwart son, as you called him, needs that time to heal.”
“I will relay your wishes. Mr. Ranger, but know that I’ll be back. I respect you but I respect Layton more. He’s my patient and, like I said, a friend. If he dismisses me, so be it, but I want to hear that from him.”
A hint of a smile plays on his sad mouth. “Until next time, Livy Morgan.” He closes the door as I turn to walk away.