Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Jason
When You Think You’re Fucked . . . You Probably Are
The hallway from the yoga studio to the PT wing isn’t long, but I still manage to hate every step of it.
My knee’s twitchy. My quad feels like it’s been replaced with beef jerky. And my mind? That’s doing its usual performance of ‘You’re not actually getting better, you’re just getting good at faking it.’
I drag myself past the framed inspirational quotes lining the walls:
Progress is still progress.
Trust the process.
Pain is temporary. Pride is forever.
Who makes this shit? Is there a factory somewhere printing these out while former athletes scream into protein shakes?
When I push open the double doors to the PT area, I catch the scent of sweat, disinfectant, and peppermint muscle balm—therapy-grade ambiance.
The place is bright but not blinding—expansive windows let in filtered daylight, mats and benches spaced out like someone actually thought about comfort.
Rehab stations are to the left, turf is to the right, and far back are the squat racks where Reese tortures the overachievers.
Reese isn’t here yet. Lucky me, but I probably spoke too soon. Her PT lead—Alex—spots me instantly.
The guy’s probably all of twenty-four with a perfect beard fade and the kind of smile that says, I still believe in your potential even when you don’t. He waves me in like I’m not dragging the little dignity I have left behind me.
“You made it,” he says, like I just walked out of an avalanche and not from a yoga class where I laid on my back doing nothing.
Fucking nothing.
“Don’t sound so shocked.” I limp a little closer, knee already pissed.
Alex tosses me a red resistance band like we’re picking up right where we left off.
“Lateral steps. Red band. Just like we practiced.”
I eye it like it might bite. “You sure this isn’t just a glorified bungee cord? Looks like something you’d find in a CrossFit starter pack.”
He grins, annoyingly patient. “Three sets of twelve. Deep stance.”
Then, the part I was hoping he forgot.
His gaze drops to my brace.
“Gotta come off.”
And just like that, my stomach does this dip.
Not from nerves, exactly. More like resentment.
That brace might be annoying, but it’s been physically, mentally, and emotionally holding me together.
Taking it off in the yoga studio was a matter of .
. . I don’t know. It felt weird to be dragging so much attention toward me.
But here, with bright lights, shiny floors, and people who move without thinking, it feels like walking a tightrope without a net.
As I’m about to make an excuse, he repeats, “That brace has to come off.”
Resigned, I squat, barely, to peel the Velcro apart, the rip louder than it needs to be. Set the brace down beside the bench like it’s something precious. Like it might miss me.
My leg doesn’t feel supported—it feels exposed. Loose. Wrong.
I straighten, wrap the band around my legs, and take a breath. I pretend it is for focus and not low-key panic.
“Ready?” Alex asks, still doing that encouraging nod as if I haven’t been clenching my jaw since I stepped through the doors.
“No,” I say flatly. “But let’s do it anyway.”
He doesn’t push.
Just gestures toward the turf and steps back to let me work.
And I do, sort of.
My stance isn’t as deep as it should be. My glutes are bitching. My knee is holding a grudge. But I move. Side to side. Band stretched, core tight, sweat already prickling down my back.
I keep going, jaw tight, mind louder than the playlist humming through the speakers.
This is fine.
It’s all fine.
Even if it doesn’t feel like it.
I loop the band around my thighs and get into position. First step—tight. Second—unbalanced. Third—I hesitate.
Not because I can’t do it but because I’m already feeling the crack in my rhythm. By rep seven, I’m gritting my teeth. By rep nine, my thigh starts burning.
By rep ten, my knee stutters. Buckles then locks.
I straighten the band, snapping around my legs with a slap.
“I’m not doing this,” I mutter, already pulling the loop off and letting it fall to the mat.
Alex blinks. “It’s the same drill we’ve been trying to work on all week.”
“Yeah, and it’s not working. Repeating the same thing over and over again is fucking stupid.”
A few heads turn. The other clients pretend not to listen, but the energy shifts. Everyone recognizes the vibe of when someone’s about to lose it in PT. It’s a cocktail of frustration, ego, and pain. Served warm and loud.
Alex tries to keep his voice calm. “Your metrics show you can handle this load.”
“Your metrics also said I should be jogging by now. I still limp when I get out of bed.”
“That’s normal?—”
“Don’t,” I snap, voice rising. “Don’t tell me what’s normal. You ever had your entire career ripped out from under you? You ever had to pretend to be ‘grateful’ for fucking lateral steps while your entire timeline slips further away every week?”
He stiffens, professionalism flickering behind his eyes. “We’re not pretending. This is part of the process.”
I laugh. It’s not a good sound. Bitter. Exhausted. “You want to know the process? Wake up sore. Tape the brace. Try not to think about how it used to be easy. Then come in here and let everyone act like you’re making ‘progress’ while you know damn well you’re plateauing.”
A silence fills the room. Not awkward. Not tense.
Resigned.
Like they’ve seen this before.
Like I’m just the next burnout case.
Alex takes a careful step closer. “Jason, we’re trying to help you.”
“No. You’re trying to pass me through your system so you can tick a box and call it a success story.”
“You’ve skipped three post-session stretch blocks in the last week.”
“Because they’re a joke.”
“You refused dry needling. Rejected mobility scans. Didn’t complete the neuro-reflex drill last session.”
I stare him down. “Because none of it’s helping.”
He holds my gaze. “Or because you’re afraid it might.”
Something inside me freezes.
Because that?
That was too close.
“Take the rest of the hour,” he says, voice gentler now. “Reset. We’ll circle back at the next block.”
I don’t answer.
Just walk out, dragging the brace with me and limping down the hall like a guy who no longer belongs here.
I slam the locker room door behind me and lean both hands against the sink, staring into a mirror that doesn’t recognize me.
I look older. Not in the grey-hair, life-experience way. In the hollow way.
Like someone scraped all the fight out of me and left a facsimile in branded joggers.
I grip the edge of the sink. My fingers ache. My knee throbs. My heart—yeah, that’s the worst part. It does that annoying thing where it clenches as if I just lost a game I didn’t know I was playing.
Again.
Every session feels like a loss, and I can’t keep pretending that something good will ever happen. This. Is. Fucking. It. My career is over, and I might as well figure out how to start from scratch again.
When I get home, I get an email.
Subject: PT Transfer Pending
Message: Following today’s disruption and consistent non-compliance, your case is being reevaluated. Please prepare for reassignment or potential dismissal from the program. Updates will follow.
– R.
I stare at it.
One part relief, two parts humiliation. Three parts . . . what the fuck?
This isn’t what I wanted. I didn’t want to blow it. I didn’t want to end up flagged. And I sure as hell didn’t want to be the guy who gets passed around like a cursed item for which no one wants responsibility.
I shouldn’t be surprised, though. At least I didn’t spend too many weeks—or months—pretending something good would happen.
Dr. Park was wrong. If I had had a timeline, I would’ve succeeded, but with this .
. . there wasn’t even a three-strikes-you’re-out.
They technically just told me to stand by while they figure out how to say, Get the fuck out.