Chapter 3
LOGAN
Rehab starts at eight.
I’m there at seven forty-two, sitting on a vinyl bench that’s cold through my sweats, my right leg stretched out in front of me because the brace doesn’t bend far enough to be comfortable.
The place smells like disinfectant and burnt coffee, like every medical building I’ve spent too much time in over the last month.
It’s early January. The quiet part of the year where you don’t really know what day it is. Maybe it’s just me, since I went from having such a set routine with weights, conditioning, film, and class to now having just about nothing.
The parking lot is half-empty, the holidays already packed away, CSU football banners still hanging from the athletic center across the street but feeling irrelevant now that the season is over.
No noise. No adrenaline. Just winter and reality, and the slow understanding that nothing is waiting for me to start again.
Four weeks post-op.
Four weeks since they reconstructed the three tears piece by piece and sent me home with instructions, ice packs, and a future that suddenly came with more questions than answers.
I adjust my grip on the crutches, flex my fingers, then relax them again. There’s a low ache humming through my leg already, not sharp or stabby, just constant. Like my body is reminding me it hasn’t forgotten what happened.
I check in at the desk, scrawl my name with my left hand because my right still shakes when I’m tired, and take a seat along the wall with the rest of the injured.
Nobody talks. Then again, what is there to say?
“Logan Brooks?”
I push myself up, brace clicking as I straighten. The sound is loud in the quiet room, metallic and final, and I hate it more than I probably should. My crutches hit the floor in a rhythm I still haven’t figured out how to make natural.
The therapist waiting for me looks calm in the way people do when they’ve seen enough injuries to stop reacting to them.
“Jason,” he says, shaking my hand. His grip is firm, confident. “You’re the senior PCU wide receiver, right?”
The words land heavier than I expect.
Last season.
Last routes.
Last chance to make this year mean everything it was supposed to. To make a clear name for myself before the draft in April.
“I was,” I say automatically.
Jason lifts his eyes to mine, studies me for a second longer than necessary, then shakes his head. “Still are.”
No argument. No sympathy. Just a statement.
“Come on,” he says. “Today’s when things change.”
That gets my attention.
The room he leads me into is smaller than I expected. No flashy machines. No high-tech miracle equipment. Just mats, balance boards, resistance bands, cones stacked neatly in the corner, and a rack of weights that looks insulting after years in a college weight room.
“You’ve already done the early stuff,” Jason says as I sit. “Some gentle range of motion, keeping the swelling under control, and letting the inflammation come down. Learning how to bend without panicking or overdoing it.”
I nod. Four weeks of basics. Four weeks of convincing my leg to move again without my brain immediately assuming catastrophe.
“This is where we start loading it,” he continues. “Partial weight becomes full. Support becomes responsibility.”
My jaw tightens.
“Pain today?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He smiles faintly. “Scale of one to ten.”
“Six,” I answer. “But I can push through.”
Jason crouches in front of me so we’re eye level. “We’re not pushing through pain. We’re listening to it.”
That should piss me off. Instead, it makes my chest feel tight.
We start with weight shifts between the parallel bars. Simple on paper. Shift weight onto the injured leg. Hold. Breathe. Don’t cheat.
The moment I put real weight down, my quad starts to tremble like it doesn’t recognize the demand.
“Good,” Jason says calmly. “That’s the muscle waking up.”
Four weeks ago, I was waking up from surgery with my leg wrapped tight and numb, the joint reconstructed with grafts and hardware, my body held together by things I couldn’t see.
This is better than that. But it sure as fuck doesn’t feel better in the moment.
We move to single-leg balance. I step onto the mat, carefully placing my foot, trying not to think about how automatic this used to be. My knee wobbles almost immediately.
“Reset,” Jason says. “Again.”
“I did it.”
“You survived it,” he corrects. “Now do it again.”
Sweat gathers at the back of my neck. My jaw locks as I try again.
Wide receivers don’t get hurt running straight.
We get hurt on cuts. On sharp breaks. On trusting one foot to plant hard while the rest of the body explodes the other way without hesitation.
That trust is gone.
Now everything feels calculated. Measured. Slower than it should be.
We add lateral movement. Small shuffles. Controlled steps. Cones placed just far enough apart to make me think.
I hesitate before the first plant.
Jason notices immediately. “That pause?” he says. “That’s fear. That’s not pain; that’s your brain worrying that moving wrong is going to hurt you again.”
I don’t argue, because he’s right.
Halfway through the set, my leg gives out completely. I drop back onto the mat, breath leaving my lungs in a sharp rush as the room tilts.
I wait for the frustration. The anger. The familiar urge to punch something and push harder.
It doesn’t come.
There’s just this hollow quiet instead.
Jason kneels, checks my knee, adjusts the brace. “You push like this is life or death.”
“That’s football,” I say.
“No,” he replies evenly. “That’s pride. Rehab’s different.”
I nod once.
By the end of the session, my leg feels foreign, swollen, heavy, unreliable. My shirt clings to my back, hands shaking as I lock the brace back into place.
Jason hands me a printout. “New schedule. These aren’t optional.”
“When does it stop feeling like this?” I ask.
He meets my eyes. “It doesn’t. You just get stronger.”
The drive back to the Rhodes’ house is slow. Traffic lights feel longer. My knee stiffens the longer I sit, swelling until it feels too big for my skin. I don’t acknowledge it until I pull into the driveway.
The porch light is on.
It shouldn’t be. It’s mid-morning.
I sit there for a second, hand on the door handle, something tight winding in my chest. Pops must’ve forgotten to turn it off. That’s odd. He never forgets—
I stop myself.
Inside, the house is quiet. The TV murmurs softly from the living room. It smells like coffee and toast. No decorations. No holiday noise. Just winter light filtering through the windows and the kind of silence that settles when everyone’s pretending it’s a fresh start.
Pops is on the couch, blanket over his legs, watching an old game. He looks smaller like this. More tired.
“You’re back early,” he says.
“First real day,” I reply. “They didn’t go easy.”
He smiles faintly. “Good.”
I lower myself into the chair across from him, leg stretched out. He glances at the brace, then looks away.
“How’d it go?”
“Hard,” I say. “But I did more than I thought I’d be able to.”
He nods. “That’s what matters.”
We sit in silence, watching players who don’t know their bodies are still intact. Pops rubs his temple absently, then stops when he realizes I noticed.
“You hungry?” he asks.
“Always.”
“Grilled cheese?” he offers.
“Sounds great.” I can’t help the grin that tugs at the side of my mouth. That was the first thing he ever made for me the day Cameron brought me home like a stray kitten. After I devoured four sandwiches, Pops knew my story about forgetting my lunch at home was bullshit.
In the kitchen, Pops moves slower than he used to. Careful. Deliberate. I hover without meaning to.
“You don’t have to watch me,” he says gently.
“I’m not.”
He hums, unconvinced.
Later, in my room, I lie back with an ice pack balanced on my knee, staring at the ceiling.
January is supposed to be about the playoffs. About sharpening routes. About knowing the end is coming and deciding to make it count.
Mine is already over.
Now I’m measuring progress by whether I can stand without shaking.
My phone buzzes.
Cam: first day kick your ass?
understatement of the century
Cam: proud of you.
I stare at the screen longer than I should.
Down the hall, Pops coughs. Once. Then again.
I push myself up, grab my crutches, and move toward the sound without thinking.
Because some things matter more than speed.
And maybe this isn’t the end.
Just the part where I learn how to stand again.