Page 12

Chapter 11

Brooks

The trainer is testing my range of motion while I look at the clock; there are only a few hours until game time. I don’t know if I’m just tired from the week of road games and travel, but my knee hasn’t felt right. There’s no pain, tenderness, or swelling but the crippling feeling of anxiety is permeating out of my pores.

“I think you’re tired from returning. Nothing structural,” the trainer assures me, crouched down as he watches me point and flex my toes while feeling different parts of both knees. He looks away like the doctor does when they are listening to your heartbeat. His words and touch are soft, like he’s afraid to scare me away from being told the truth about my knee.

“Okay. I trust you,” I say as he stands, his eyes not leaving mine, and I wish I sounded more convincing.

“But I don’t think you trust you . Listen, you ran at that recovery, but it’s different from playing in games, especially on the bender we were just on. This is your call. I can chat with the coaching staff and let them know you need a minutes restriction, or you can be a last-minute restriction.”

I narrow my eyes at him and he knows what I’m thinking.

“Or I can pretend you were in here with zero concerns and you’re in control. I know you’re not dumb enough to put yourself at risk, so take a seat tonight when you need it, ok?”

I nod and offer a sad excuse for a smile. It’s almost more frustrating to know nothing is actually wrong and it’s all in my head. This isn’t new. No matter how many times someone told me the surgery was a success—that it went better than they’d ever imagined, I was on schedule for the quickest return to the game after a torn ACL, and probably safer than most—doubt still crouched in the corner of my mind.

“Honestly, it’s typical fatigue. Don’t hold back. You go out at one hundred percent for the minutes you can manage, or you don’t go at all.” He points at me, and I nod in agreement.

You’re fine.

The knee is fine.

This is normal.

I tell myself over and over, trying to get the anxiety to dial itself back while I finish the rest of my pre-game treatment.

I’m in the tunnel doing some stretches when Lia walks towards me. She’s wearing a white top, with flowy sleeves that move when she walks, and deep purple pants. It’s like she color-matched the Jags’ jersey to get the perfect shade.

“Happy to see me, huh?” She lifts the camera around her neck and snaps a candid photo of me.

I don’t know how she does it, but she brings this lightness that slinks around. “I’m always happy to see you.” The words fall out of my mouth before I have a chance to reconsider. The pink that floods her cheeks is so damn gorgeous.

She stands next to me and says, “Alright, this match-up should be no problem, right? I mean, they’ve got questionable shooters, and I think they have a few ball hogs which disrupts the offense. ”

My eyebrows raise because, no matter what, sometimes my brain isn’t where it should be. I can’t let go of her comment on touching balls.

Lia bumps into me, rolling her eyes. “Still a middle schooler at heart, like all men,” she laughs.

“I do what I can,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders and switching my legs for my Achilles and calf stretch, pushing my foot into the wall, toe up and heel down. “You’re right. We should win tonight.”

Dramatically putting the camera in front of her face and using the view finder, Lia teases, “Okay, Brooks Pittman, number seven, how’s it going?”

I love how her voice changes from talking about the match-up to her social media voice, the one that might be heard on the Jags account. Plus, she’s been so damn good that Megan has given her room to do what she creatively wants.

“Good. Excited for the home crowd tonight.” I offer her, and the camera, a warm look.

“And how’s the knee?”

I don’t know why the question hits me the way it does. Lia is always asking how I’m feeling, how I’m moving, how the knee is. This time, it takes all the air from my lungs, stealing it like a thief and leaving me breathless.

The doubt, with its barbed wire edges, crawls back, growing with each second until it takes residence in my chest. The very same doubt I’ve tried to push down, cover with optimism and keep my brain and body busy. All it takes is a single question from Lia to unravel all of it.

Lia slowly pulls the camera down from her face, holding it at her chest. She’s looking at me with those wide eyes, emerald and velvety, as the rest of her face damn near pales.

When I don’t say anything, she emphasizes stopping the recording with the camera, letting it hang in front of her with the wide black strap on her neck. Her eyes find mine again, and it’s like she’s a fresh spring meadow that I could run straight into. If I’m honest, I wish I could run away right now.

“Are you okay?” she whispers.

I nod my head, a weak attempt to say I’m fine while I look past her to the court.

It’s a soft touch, her fingers on my forearm for only a second, that has my eyes snapping to hers. “Brooks, what’s wrong?” Lia presses.

The words are simple, straight forward. I’m surprised by how my body leans forward, wishing her hands were still touching me. I want to tell her everything. It feels like she could make this better.

“My knee feels weird.” I look down, lifting my knee to my chest. If I look at her while I share this, I’m afraid I’ll get weirdly emotional. “Checked with the trainers. They say it’s normal. Fatigue.”

I can’t believe those words come out of my mouth. While I’m trying to think of how I can take it back, Lia shakes her head and moves in closer.

“I can’t imagine playing after an injury like that.” She frowns slightly, her eyes on mine. “I’m sure it all feels kind of weird.”

I glance for a millisecond, and her face is nothing but kindness and caring. For fuck’s sake, she’s someone I could melt into.

“Just nervous. It’s like, even though everyone says it’s fine, it’s still hard to believe.” I talk so fast that I run out of breath and suck in air at the end of my sentence.

“The yoga teacher in me wants to remind you to breathe,” Lia says calmly, taking a deep breath herself which inherently makes me want to copy her.

We breathe in. And out.

She crosses her arms, looks around to see if anyone is paying attention, then leans in closer. “Listen, you know your body best. Don’t overdo it.”

Lia talks in a way that makes you want to pay attention. It’s comforting and the right amount of stern.

“You got it.” I try to sound convincing—for her and for myself.

I’ve never had a problem telling Coach if I needed to sit. Tonight’s game won’t be any different—I know that.

“I say that from the part of me loving my new job where the whole thing kind of revolves around you, but more so from the Jags fan who’s been following this franchise since I can remember.” Her words are light and dusted with sarcasm, causing her to smile.

It’s like a chain reaction and her words hit me, lifting some of the heavy from my shoulders piece by piece.

“Hey, could you not post my mini freak out when you asked me a very simple question and I couldn’t use words?” I joke.

Lia tilts her head, her blonde hair cascading in front of her in waves. “I would never do that.” Her words are slow, meticulous, hitting every letter. “You don’t ever need to ask me to keep moments like this between us. I’m on your side.” She presses a hand to her chest.

She stands next to me, opening the camera’s playback. When the video starts playing on the tiny digital screen, she deletes it—no questions asked.

And I believe her.

Lia’s on my side.