Page 58 of Run To You
John, who has finished his tea, stands and collects the mugs with a soldier’s discipline. “She’ll do you proud,” he says to Eden, which might be the most words he’s spoken all morning.
I pull on my jacket and Eden walks me out to the curb, away from the fray. It’s chilly, but the sun is sharp, and Eden squints at me like she’s trying to burn the image into her brain.
“Are you sure your gran likes me?” I ask, as if it matters, because it absolutely matters.
“Gran just referred to herself as ‘your gran’, Sloane. That’s her seal of approval. It also means that if you call her Milly she’ll clip your ear. It’s Gran or Grandma from now on.”
I laugh, and for a second, the anxiety dissipates.
She kisses me, fast and electric, like she’s tucking a secret away for later. “You’re going to do amazing.”
I believe her this time.
As I walk to my car, I hear Gran’s voice float out the front door. “If you’re not back for supper, we’ll have to send out a search party!” and I can’t tell if it’s a joke or a promise.
Either way, I feel weirdly ready for anything.
Silver Lining Sports Therapy occupies a strip mall storefront next to a vape shop and a laser tag place. Thesign on the window is done up in that sterile-chic font that clearly implies, “We will heal you, but not before billing your insurance out the ass.” The parking lot is mostly empty, which I take as a good sign for the human population at large.
Inside, it’s the exact opposite of the entrance: blindingly clean, sunlight everywhere and the air a clinical combo of bleach and something citrusy. I’m a few minutes early, which feels important, so I stand at the front desk with my bag clamped to my side until Lisa Bentley pops her head out from the back and gives me a quick wave.
She looks exactly the same as she did last semester when she subbed for my Sports Med class: blonde ponytail, surgical scrubs, sneakers. She’s the kind of woman who would bench press her own weight just to see if she could.
It was quite the shock to realize I knew Lisa. The initial email offering me a chance to shadow someone didn’t indicate who I’d be working with. Imagine my surprise when I had a video chat to set the mentoring up, only to be introduced to a face I already knew. I took it as a sign from the universe I was making the right decision.
“You’re early,” she says, like it’s an accusation, but her mouth’s already quirking up. “Come on in.”
I follow her through the lobby, which is all glass and potted plants and framed magazine articles about athletic performance. The next room is lined with treatment tables, each one armed with an arsenal of stretchy bands, foam rollers, massage guns, and neatly labelled jars. An entire wall is windows, the sun angling in and bouncing off every reflective surface.
On the first table is a client, a high school girl in a battered hoodie and soccer shorts, foot propped up, face set with the determination of someone who will not, under any circumstances, be sitting out the next game. Her calf is swollen to the size of a melon.
“Hi, I’m Sloane,” I say, and she gives me a nod. There’s that instant recognition, a silent athlete-to-athlete contract: you don’t talk about your injury unless you have to, and then only in euphemisms.
Lisa snaps on a pair of blue gloves and gestures at me to come closer. “Annalise here took a direct cleat to the leg on Saturday,” she says. “We’re doing some deep tissue and ultrasound today. Sloane, do you want to observe?”
I nod, already enthralled. Lisa explains each step as she works. “See how the muscle bunches here?” Her thumb presses firmly into the meat of the injury, then she glancesat me. “This is the spot. A microtear, probably. Watch her foot.”
Lisa does this thing where she kneads the area just above the bruise, then flexes Annalise’s toes back. The whole time, she narrates not just the biology, but the psychology.
“Athletes get this idea that pain means progress. Sometimes pain just means pain.” She grins at Annalise, who is gritting her teeth but also smiling through it. There’s a kind of trust here I don’t see often.
“Breathe into it, Annalise. Long, slow breaths,” Lisa coaches. She talks her through a sequence of movements, each designed to test the limits of the injury. Annalise complies, never once wincing or whimpering, but there’s sweat on her brow, and her hands keep fidgeting with the hem of her shorts.
I’m so absorbed I barely realize when Lisa points at the table. “Sloane, want to glove up and help with the wrap?”
This is not something I thought would happen on my first shadowing day, but I pull on the gloves, and Lisa walks me through prepping a strip of compression bandage. It’s not the first time I’ve done this. I worked as much as possible through college, and my classes were mainlyhands-on, but I appreciate her going back over everything. Especially because in the last few months of college I wasn’t at my best.
“Don’t be afraid of it. The muscle wants support, not pity.” She demonstrates the first wrap, firm but not brutal, then lets me finish. My hands aren’t shaking as much as I’d feared. Lisa nods in approval.
She finishes up with a cool gel, the menthol scent immediately making my nose tingle. “This is the best part,” Lisa whispers, and Annalise grins. The relief is visible in every muscle.
After the session, Annalise hops off the table—still a little stiff, but with a genuine bounce in her step.
“You’ll be good for Wednesday’s practice,” Lisa says, “but if you so much as think about playing this weekend, I’ll send your coach a detailed injury report.”
Annalise groans, but it’s all for show. “Thanks, Lisa. And thank you, Sloane.”
I don’t even notice Lisa has turned her attention to the next table, where another client—a runner—awaits with an ankle brace. She’s got her phone out, furiously typing, and Lisa gently scolds, “If you don’t put that away, I’m going to put it in the ultrasound machine.”
