Love at the 50 Yard Line

BROOKE

It’s been two weeks since Scholtz’s intake appointment turned blowout fight.

I was certain I had successfully scared him off with my bad attitude about the hopelessness of his injury, until Julie told me a week ago that he’d booked his next appointment with me.

Take two weeks to think about it while you stay off that foot, I told him. Is it possible he actually listened to me?

I’ve been dreading this day, reluctant to come into work, and yet, here I am. “Hey Julie, sorry I’m late. Luna got into a jar of hot cocoa last night.”

“Oh no,” she says, scrunching her face. “Well, your appointment is already here, he’s in the exam room.”

“Scholtz?” I ask with a grunt.

“Yes, and you better be nice,” she orders.

I throw my coat and bag in my office before dragging my feet to his exam room. I can only imagine the tension waiting for me through that door. Time to put your big girl pants on, Brooke! I open the door.

“Mr. Scholtz, you’re back.”

“Hi… I—”

“Look,” I interrupt. “Before you say anything, clearly we got off on the wrong foot last time, and I should apologize for how I acted.”

“I owe you an apology too,” he adds sincerely.

“Honestly, I can’t understand why you came back,” I admit, avoiding eye contact. He stays silent for long enough, though, that I get curious and look up. He has a sweet grin on his face, and I’m surprised to find that it warms my insides.

“Like I said before, I was told you were the best around. A buddy of mine referred me.” Ashton, I think to myself. It’s not the first time Ashton has sent referrals my way; I’m not sure if I should thank him or slap him for this one.

“So, truce?” Scholtz adds, holding out his hand.

“Truce.” Our palms meet for a handshake, and tingles shoot through my fingertips up to my spine.

“Umm, okay, so let’s get started!” I pull my hand from his, stepping away to put some distance between us. Feeling off-balance still, I go sit in my rolling chair at the desk, where I normally place myself for these consultations.

“How have you been feeling these last two weeks?”

“All right,” he says. “Maybe a little sore.”

“Have you been staying off your foot?” I give him a questioning look. “Be honest!” I add, pointing straight at his face.

“Yes. Per your demands,” he answers with his hands raised in surrender.

“Good.” I chuckle under my breath. “So, I reviewed your MRI—”

“Oh, y-you do that?” he interrupts in surprise.

“Of course.” I turn off the lights and flip the switch over the counter, illuminating the MRI of his Achilles.

“I thought only doctors read MRIs.”

“Well, I did earn a doctoral degree in physical therapy,” I say, my tone teasingly smug. “So technically, I am a doctor!” Looking over my shoulder, I smirk at his surprise.

“So, here is your Achilles.” I focus back on his scan where it’s illuminated on the light board.

“The tendon connects the calf muscle to the heel bone. This connection allows the calf muscles to move the foot in a dorsiflexion, or in layman’s terms, upward. It can also move in a plantar flexion, downward.”

I look back at Scholtz, who looks mesmerized yet confused about the science and anatomy of his foot. With a smirk, I turn back to face the MRI.

“The tendon is made up of strands of collagen fibers. When the tendon ruptures, these strands detach from the calf muscle and require surgery to reattach the tendon.”

I turn off the light to the board and turn on the room lights again, rolling my chair around to face him on the exam bed.

“The average age for professional players to experience Achilles tendinopathy is twenty-seven. You’re lucky you haven’t experienced any previous signs of heel pain, being thirty years old and having played football for your entire life.”

“How do you know I’ve been playing my entire life?” he questions.

I feel myself freeze up. I know who Scholtz is, very well. Maybe too well. I researched him when he took over for John, and I’ve kept myself updated on his personal life and football stats ever since.

Often, it felt like there was a Scholtz-shaped ghost who was sabotaging me through Google; following me, haunting me with his presence.

One thing’s for sure: I don’t dare tell him about John. It’s public news that John has it in for Scholtz, and I’ve done enough to sabotage this client relationship already.

“I—well, I’ve known football players like you all my life, so I assumed you’ve been playing your whole life…” I do my best at covering up my tracks, but everyone tells me I’m a horrible liar.

His lip twitches into a smile, and I pray he doesn’t see through my cover.

“Umm, anyways.” I clear my throat and refocus my brain. “No direct mobilization at the surgical point, at least until four weeks after surgery. How has the pain been for you? On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst?” I ask.

“And be honest,” I add, pointing my finger at him again with a smirk.

“Maybe four or five, sometimes six if I’m on it for too long,” he answers. I’ve worked with enough liars to see that he’s probably telling the truth.

“Okay, that’s not too bad. For pain and edema control we can do soft tissue treatments, cryotherapy, or even electric stimulation here if the pain increases.”

I type his responses into his file on my laptop before closing it and looking up at him again. “Okay, Mr. Scholtz—”

“You can call me Colin,” he interrupts with a smile. I can’t help but blush, smiling back.

“Okay …Colin.” I oblige his request. His smile is warm and contagious, and my heart begins to flutter in my chest.

“Are you ready to be a ballerina?” I ask, smirking as his smile fades into a look of confusion.

“What?”

I can’t help laughing as I open the door. He follows me out to the open exercise room. It’s a state-of-the-art facility, positioned at the center of the building between my office and reception.

“This place is like a first-class gym,” Colin says, looking around at all the fancy equipment. I smile but feel bad, knowing it will be a long time before he can explore most of the machines.

“Okay, come sit on the bench and take your boot off,” I prompt. “And…don’t be discouraged because of all the equipment in here.” I say it like I’m walking on eggshells. “You’re mostly going to be sitting here for the next three weeks.”

I scrunch my face expecting him to argue, but he simply nods, accepting my words.

“We’ll start with simple exercises like toe curls and spreads, ankle circles, straight-leg raises, and knee flexion and extension.” I sit down on the ground where I can have a better grasp of his foot, showing him each exercise as I speak.

He nods again. I continue, “I will show you some light weight training and gentle foot movements in your boot that you can do at home.”

I look up at him briefly. “Keeping your foot elevated above your heart as much as possible is important to reduce swelling.”

I give him a wide-eyed, serious look and point my finger at him. “And no weight-bearing! Just because you think you can do more and push yourself, don’t.

“Too much stress could cause re-injury, and then you’ll have to go in for surgery again to repair it.”

“Okay, Okay, Doctor.” Colin raises his arms like a sad little boy getting disciplined.

“Sorry.” I catch how much I’m lecturing him—and now I feel pompous, what with him calling me Doctor. “And you can call me Brooke.”

We share some light conversation for the next half hour while I talk him through his exercises. I’m surprised to find myself actually enjoying talking to him.

“Okay, that’s it for your first session,” I say, from where I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him. Colin carefully stands from the bench, then extends a hand to me. I grab it and he pulls me to my feet. “Thanks. How do you feel?”

“Great. Can’t wait for next week,” he says, his lip turning up into a light smile. I’m sure he’s not feeling great; nobody feels great after their first physical therapy appointment, forcing all those still-healing tendons to work in unaccustomed and painful ways.

But it’s a good sign that he has a positive attitude about it.

“Just please promise me you’ll take it easy. Follow the exercises I showed you to work on at home, but no more than three times a day.”

“Yes, Doctor. Relax, I promise to follow your strict rules!” he says sarcastically, and I smack his chest, trying not to react to the feel of his rock-hard pecs. Then I walk him out to the front desk, where Julie is ready to schedule his next session.

“Here,” I say, grabbing my business card from the reception desk. I write down my cell phone number on the back and hand it to him. “In case you have any questions, I’m always around.”

“Great, thanks.” He slides it in his pocket.

“Let’s schedule your session for next week, shall we, Mr. Scholtz?” Julie says, pulling his eyes away from mine.

“Sure,” he replies, stepping up to look at her screen.

“See you next week, Colin,” I say, turning to walk back to my office.

“Looking forward to it, Brooke.” I can’t help but turn in my doorway and watch as he settles on a time with Julie and hobbles out of the center on one crutch. My heart clenches. I can’t believe it. I’m looking forward to seeing him next week too!