FAKE IT UNDER THE MISTLETOE
Montserrat
There are three things people should know before allowing me near an injured professional athlete.
One, I am very good at my job.
Two, I have been told my bedside manner is “sunny,” “disarming,” and once, by a linebacker with a torn meniscus and the emotional range of a damp tortilla, “aggressively cheerful in a way that feels humanly questionable.”
Three, I will absolutely threaten a grown man with resistance bands if he lies to me about his pain level.
Not because I’m mean.
I’m not mean. I’m fucking delightful. Ask anyone who likes competent women with excellent hair and a snack drawer organized by emotional emergency levels.
But athletes lie about pain the way children lie about eating frosting straight from the tub. Their pupils dilate. Their shoulders lock. They say things like, “It’s nothing,” while walking like a haunted pirate who lost custody of their peg leg in a card game.
And then they expect me to nod, smile, and let them return to whatever violent little ice ballet gave them the injury in the first place. I’m sorry, hockey game.
No.
Absolutely not.
My name is Montserrat Violeta ávila Hartley , but everyone calls me Montse because apparently three syllables is the maximum amount of effort people are willing to contribute to my existence.
I am a sports recovery consultant, which is a fancy way of saying I convince overpaid, under-rested, emotionally constipated athletes to do very boring exercises so their bodies don’t give out before the season is over.
Or their career.
I stretch hamstrings, tape shoulders, and say things like, “Listen to your body,” while men built like refrigerators stare at me as if their bodies have never once spoken to them, except maybe to request steak.
I also travel for private clients when teams, agents, or exhausted medical staff decide someone needs extra supervision.
Which is professional language for: This man is being a menace, and we’re tired. Can you babysit him?
Today, I am at North Star Performance Recovery, standing beside treatment room three with a tablet tucked under my arm, a coffee in my hand, and half a concha in my mouth because lunch is a social construct invented by people with predictable schedules.
The concha is from my tía Rosalinda’s bakery, and yes, I know I should probably eat something with protein.
I will.
Eventually.
Probably in bar form, because nothing says “thriving adult woman” like eating compressed nutrients over a trash can while someone asks whether groin pain is supposed to feel “spicy.”
This is fine.
I am fine.
I am a medical professional, and nothing says stability like chewing pan dulce in a hallway while reviewing the chart of a man whose hamstring has more press coverage than most elected officials.
“Montse,” Dr. Hernandez calls from the end of the hall.
I swallow too fast, which is unfortunate for me, the concha, and my dignity. “Yes?”
He stops in front of me, the expression of a man about to politely ruin my afternoon. Dr. Hernandez is our lead physician, a brilliant sports medicine doctor, and one of those people who can say “quick favor” while holding a folder thick enough to qualify as a threat.
“No,” I say.
His eyebrows lift. “I haven’t asked for anything.”
“You used your bad-news forehead.”
“I do not have a bad-news forehead.”
“You do. It has a whole personality. It comes with paperwork.”
His mouth twitches. “I need you to look at a file.”
I point at my tablet. “I have seven files.”
“This one is special.”
Special, in medicine, is never good.
It usually means someone famous, stubborn, medically noncompliant, or all three.
Special means a client who believes an ice bath is a personality and that sleep is optional.
Sometimes it also means I’ll spend the next seventy-two hours saying, “Please stop doing that,” while someone with a seven-figure contract asks whether “light skating” counts as rest.
Spoiler alert: it does not.
Dr. Hernandez tries handing me the folder.
I glare at it and shake my head.
He keeps holding it.
I keep not taking it.
The hallway hums around us. Vents blowing dry heat. A treadmill thumping behind a closed door. Someone is laughing too loudly near reception because pain, like dating, makes people lie in public.
We stand there in a professional standoff that would be more impressive if I didn’t have powdered sugar on my leggings.
“Montserrat Violeta ávila Hartley ,” he says.
“Wow, you don’t have to full-name me.” I take the folder.
The name on top makes me blink.
Crew Wolfcraft.
Oh.
Well.
That is certainly a name that sounds like it was engineered in a lab to make women act stupidly in airport bars.
Crew Wolfcraft is not just a hockey player. Sports commentators call him intense, which usually means he has excellent aim and a terrible temper. I know who he is because I work with athletes, not because I have ever watched one of his interviews more than once.
Fine.
Twice.
In my defense, the second time was professional curiosity. He had been wearing a compression shirt and refusing to answer a question about a bench-clearing fight, all while looking like the human version of “try me.”
Professional curiosity can involve biceps.
It’s called nuance.
“No,” I say again.
Dr. Hernandez sighs. “You haven’t read the chart.”
“I read the name.”
“He needs short-term recovery support during the holidays. You’ll start with a charity event trip.”
“That sounds like a prison sentence wearing sleigh bells.”
“He’s dealing with a lower-body injury, some compensatory strain, and a remarkable lack of interest in preserving his future.”
“Ah. My favorite diagnosis. Man.”
Dr. Hernandez gives me a look.
I open the folder because I am a professional, not someone who makes major career decisions based on vibes, even though my mother would argue I have been doing exactly that since I was seventeen and decided that bangs would solve my identity crisis.
They did not.
Nobody tells you bangs are a gateway wound.
I skim the file.
The injury is manageable, but not if he keeps pretending his body is a rental car. The notes are clipped and careful, filled with phrases like “noncompliant,” “resistant to modified activity,” and “expressed frustration with limitations.”
Translation: Crew Wolfcraft is one bad stretch away from being wrapped in athletic tape like a tamal Oaxaqueno ready for Christmas.
“He has a full medical team,” I say. “Why does he need me?”
“Because his full medical team would like to survive the holidays.”
I look up.
Dr. Hernandez doesn’t smile.
That’s how I know he’s serious.
Fantastic.
I love being the last line of defense between a grown man and his terrible decisions. Very empowering. Very girlboss. Very someone-please-hand-me-a-chair-and-a-legal-waiver.
“He has to attend a charity weekend in Winterberry Cove among other things,” Dr. Hernandez continues. “Family, sponsors, press, and donors. His agent wants someone to travel with him to monitor the injury, keep him on schedule, and prevent him from doing anything reckless.”
“Does his agent understand I’m five-three on a confident hair day?”
“Crew responds better to directness than sympathy.”
“Most men do. That’s why I threaten them with mobility work.”
“You’re good with difficult clients.”
Oh, that’s low.
He’s using the compliment trap.
I’m not a fan because, unfortunately, it works on me. It shouldn’t. I am a grown woman with rent, cholesterol awareness, and a drawer full of sports bras that cost more than my first car payment.
But tell me I’m good at handling difficult people, and suddenly I’m standing a little taller like a golden retriever who has been praised for not eating a sock.
This is my fatal flaw.
Well, one of them.
The others include drinking iced coffee after four, buying earrings shaped like fruit, and believing that every group project can be saved if I just make a better spreadsheet.
“You know,” I say, hugging the folder to my chest, “being good at difficult people is not the same as wanting to collect them.”
“I’m aware.”
“I am not a shelter for emotionally feral athletes.”
“You can say no,” he says.
I laugh.
Not because it’s funny.
Because it is adorable when people pretend no is equally available to everyone.
Technically, I can say no.
I say no to many things. Raw onions. Marathon training. Men who call women “females.” Any candle labeled “Mountain Seduction.”
But this?
A high-profile client. A difficult case. A chance to prove I can handle more travel contracts. A holiday weekend with significant visibility. A doctor I respect is asking because he knows I’m good.
I can say no.
But then someone else will go, and maybe they’ll be too soft with him too impressed, or too careless. He’ll push too hard because athletes like Crew Wolfcraft are basically toddlers with endorsements and pain tolerance.
And if something goes wrong, I’ll wonder whether I could have prevented it.
That is the fun little song my brain plays. Catchy, right? Very festive.
My therapist, if I had one, would probably call this a pattern.
I call it being dependable with a side of excellent mascara.
“Fine,” I say.
Dr. Hernandez tries not to look relieved.
He fails.
I point the folder at him. “But if he says ‘I’m fine’ while limping, I’m billing double.”
“Approved.”
“If he ignores the rehab schedule, I’m allowed to use my disappointed voice.”
“Encouraged.”
“If he calls me sweetheart, sunshine, princess, or anything that sounds like it came free with a concussion, I’m leaving him in a snowbank.”
Dr. Hernandez pauses. “Maybe don’t put that in writing.”
“Coward.”
He hands me another page. Travel details. Event schedule. Contact list. Too many holiday activities for a man whose chart screams, “Sit down, sir.”
At the bottom, beside my name, someone has typed:
Recovery Partner: Montserrat ávila Hartley
I stare at the words.
Something about them makes my left eye twitch.
Partner.
That word has always been trouble. Too flexible.
Too emotionally ambitious. Business partner.
Dance partner. Lab partner. Life partner.
Partner in crime. Partner who says he supports your dreams but really means he likes the idea of you being impressive as long as it doesn’t inconvenience his dinner plans.
Not that I’m speaking from experience.
Recently.
Okay, fine. Somewhat recently.
My last relationship ended because he said I cared too much about work and not enough about “building a future.” Which was interesting, since his version of building a future meant rearranging my schedule around his, laughing at his jokes in front of his friends, and pretending his podcast idea about “masculine resilience in modern brunch culture” wasn’t a cry for help into a microphone.
I chose work, obviously.
Work may text at midnight, but at least it pays me.
Still, the word partner sits there, and it bugs me.
I tap it with one fingernail. “This won’t be confusing?”
Dr. Hernandez glances down. “It’s standard language.”
“Standard language once got me listed as a keynote speaker at a pelvic health conference because someone terrifyingly abbreviated sports performance specialist.”
“That happened one time.”
“One time is enough when there’s a lanyard involved.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
I nod because that sounds reasonable.
I love the word reasonable. It’s where disasters go to put on a blazer.
My phone buzzes in my pocket before I can ask more questions. A text from my younger cousin, Lili, lights up my phone screen.
Lili: Did you remember Abuela’s ring?
Montse: Yes. Picking it up after work.
Lili: Good. Mom said don’t lose it.
Lili: She used your full name.
Lili: Very telenovela courtroom energy.
I smile despite myself.
Abuela’s ring is being resized after she left it to me.
It’s not just any ring. It’s a family heirloom.
She wore it every Christmas while teaching us how to make tamales.
She wore it while telling me that grief was not a personality flaw.
She wore it when she taught me that taking care of people could be love.
She also told me, more than once, that taking care of people who don’t take care of you is not love. It is unpaid labor with better lighting.
I’m still working on that part.
Progress is not linear, especially when you come from women who can feed thirty people with two avocados, a stack of tortillas, and unresolved family tension.
“Everything okay?” Dr. Hernandez asks.
“Yep.” I tuck my phone away. “Just family.”
“Holiday plans?”
“Don’t say those words around me. My family treats Christmas like a competitive sport with religious undertones and a dessert bracket.”
“You’ll fit right in with a hockey charity weekend, then.”
I’m sure he’s joking, but the thought of having to deal with my entire family at Christmas makes me want to say yes to this client just to avoid them.
They’re nosy and noisy, and somehow still convinced I’m the unstable one because I once cried during a gingerbread-house judging dispute. I was ten and overwhelmed.
Maybe I should turn down this assignment.
FAKE IT UNDER THE MISTLETOE