Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Brandon
I sit in the sterile examination room, trying not to fidget as Dr. Cohen reviews my chart. The paper crinkles under me every time I shift on the table, and the fluorescent lights overhead make everything feel harsh and clinical. Not exactly the ideal setting I was going for today.
“So, Brandon,” he says, looking up with that easy smile that's made him my go-to doctor for the past five years. “I finally saw the Roadhouse remake. That bar fight sequence was incredible. How many takes did that final throw take?”
I grin, relaxing slightly. “Seven. The first six, I kept landing about two inches off my mark.”
“Jesus.” Shaking his head, he makes notes on his tablet. “I don't know how you do it. I get winded walking up two flights of stairs.”
“Practice and a very expensive chiropractor,” I say, rolling my shoulders experimentally.
The left one gives a small protest, like it always does these days, but nothing dramatic.
“Speaking of which, this should be pretty routine today, right?
I've got a Marvel audition coming up, and they need the physical submitted pretty soon.”
“Should be.” He sets down his tablet and pulls on latex gloves. “Let's start with the basics and see how everything looks.”
The first part goes exactly as expected. Blood pressure, heart rate, reflexes—all the standard stuff that's never given me trouble. Dr. Cohen makes small talk about my work, asking questions that make me think he's actually interested in what I do instead of just being polite.
“I always wondered how you guys make those falls look so real without actually getting hurt,” he says while checking my reflexes with that little rubber hammer.
“It's all about angles and timing. Plus knowing exactly where to land and how to—” I stop mid-sentence as he moves to test my left shoulder. Something feels wrong the moment he starts manipulating the joint. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing, just…that felt different than usual.”
Dr. Cohen's expression shifts slightly, becoming more focused. “Can you lift your arm straight up for me?”
I do and immediately feel that familiar catch at about ninety degrees. It's been there for months, ever since the accident on the Caldwell project, but it's manageable. Or so I thought.
“Now rotate it backward. Slowly.”
The movement sends a sharp twinge down my arm, and I can't quite suppress the small grunt of discomfort. The doctor's hands are gentle but thorough as he manipulates the joint, testing the range of motion, checking for instability.
“When was your last MRI on this shoulder?”
“Right after the injury. Maybe a year ago?” My stomach starts to clench. “Why?”
Instead of answering immediately, he has me do a series of movements that has me reaching overhead, behind my back, and across my chest. Each one reveals limitations I've been unconsciously working around for weeks.
By the time he's finished, his expression is carefully neutral in the way doctors get when they're about to deliver news you don't want to hear.
“I'm going to be straight with you,” he says, pulling off his gloves and settling onto his rolling stool. “I can't clear you for physical activity right now.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. “What do you mean?”
“Your shoulder mobility is significantly compromised from where it was six months ago. You're compensating in ways that are putting strain on other muscle groups.”
I stare at him, trying to process what he's saying. “But I feel fine. I mean, it's a little stiff, but I've been working through it. I just finished a whole fight scene last week without any problems.”
“You've been managing it, which is different than it being healed.” He pulls up something on his tablet and shows me what looks like notes from previous visits. “Your range of motion has decreased by thirty percent since your last physical. That's not normal recovery; that's regression.”
The room feels like it's getting smaller. “So, what are you saying? That I can't do stunts anymore?”
“I'm saying you need proper physical therapy and probably another MRI to see what's going on structurally.
Give it three months of dedicated rehab, then come back, and we'll reassess.” His expression softens slightly.
“Brandon, you're thirty-two. Your body doesn't bounce back the way it used to.
That doesn't mean your career is over, but it might mean it's time to think about what comes next.”
Three months. The Marvel project starts filming in six weeks. By the time I'm cleared—if I'm cleared—they'll already have hired someone else. Someone younger, someone whose body hasn't started betraying them in the middle of what should be the biggest opportunity of my career.
“What about my current project?” I ask, with panic starting to creep into my voice. “I'm already booked through next month.”
“As long as you're not doing anything that aggravates the shoulder, you should be fine to finish out existing commitments. But no new bookings until we get this sorted out.”
The relief is small but significant. At least I won't have to explain to anyone why I'm suddenly backing out of work. But the bigger picture is terrifying. If I can't do stunts anymore, what the hell am I supposed to do with my life?
I slide off the examination table. My legs feel unsteady underneath me. “Yeah, okay.”
“Brandon, listen to me. This isn't the end of the world. With proper treatment, there's every reason to believe you'll be back to full capacity in a few months.”
He's trying to be encouraging, but all I can hear is the sound of the door closing on my career. A reminder that this career I've built won't last forever.
“Can you recommend someone for the PT?” I ask because I need to do something productive with this conversation before I lose it completely.
“Absolutely. I'll send you a referral today.” He pauses, studying my face. “And Brandon? Take this seriously. Don't try to push through it or work around it. Your body is telling you something important.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and shake his hand before heading for the door. The hallway feels endless as I walk toward the exit, my mind racing through all the implications of what just happened.
I make it to my car before the real panic hits.
Sitting in the parking garage, staring at the concrete wall in front of me, I feel every one of my thirty-two years pressing down on my shoulders.
If I can't do stunts anymore, what am I supposed to do?
Go crawling back to New York with my tail between my legs, admit that my family might have been right about this being an unsustainable career?
Start managing luxury resorts like Dad's been hinting at for years?
The thought makes my stomach turn. I love what I do.
I love the adrenaline, the precision, the way every day is different.
I love being part of something bigger than myself, helping tell stories that matter.
The idea of trading all that for spreadsheets and guest satisfaction surveys feels like giving up everything that makes me who I am.
My phone buzzes with a text, and for a moment, my heart sinks, thinking it might be work related. But it's from Stella.
Stella
I'm running behind tonight so probably won't be there until 8pm.
The simple message hits me differently than it usually would.
Suddenly, the thought of sitting on her couch feels like a safe space to process this day.
Not because I want to talk about what just happened—I'm nowhere near ready for that conversation—but because Stella's apartment feels like the one place where I can just exist without having to perform or prove anything.
Brandon
Ok, want me to grab food?
Stella
You can bring wine. I've got dinner covered.
I thumbs up the text, then start the car and head back to the studio for a few more hours, already feeling some of the tension in my chest beginning to ease.
Whatever happens with my career, whatever decisions I have to make in the coming months, at least I have good friends I can lean on if I need to.