Page 85 of Top Shelf

“A necessary one.” I set up the cones in a diagonal pattern, then grab a resistance band from the rack. “We’re gonna add reactive deceleration so you can’t pre-plan the cut, too.”

She looks at the cones, then at me. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Just doin’ what’s best for you.”

“That’s what all the villains say.”

I smile and hook the band around her waist. “Then make me proud, Keller.”

By the fourth rep, she stops overthinking. Her landing softens, and her eyes snap to mine.

“Look at you making good choices.”

“Don’t get emotional on me, Dr. Grant.”

“I’m a medical professional—I only cry over chart notes.”

Sloane appears at the edge of the turf to let me know my next patient has arrived, holding a coffee I forgot I’d asked for. I point Leila to the cones again. “One more set, then we’ll talk return-to-training progressions and why your coach doesn’t get to bully my criteria.”

The morning has been behaving well today. My brain holds everything clearly, and the tablet does what I need it to do. My patients listen, my hands know what to do, and my voice knows what to say.

Then lunch happens.

Lunch, allegedly, is a twenty-minute interval between appointments where a person eats food and rests. My lunch, however, is a protein bar I open with my teeth while standing in the supply room reading an email from the flooring contractor that includes the phrase “minor delay.” While I’m aggressively tapping out my reply, my screen flashes again.

Viktor: Exit medical complete. No new holes in me.

I stare at the message for a second, warmth raking through the tightness in my chest.

Me: Great. I’m fond of your current hole count.

Viktor: You are very romantic.

Me: Anatomy is my love language, baby

His next message comes a bit later, which probably means he’s being pulled into end-of-season meetings and wrap-ups. I picture him in track pants with his arms folded and face unreadable, while some poor staff member explains off-season logistics to a room full of men who would rather be anywhere else.

Viktor: How is your day?

Me: Fine. Busy. Everyone should be afraid.

Viktor: I’m sure they are.

I smile despite myself, then reach out for a coffee I’ve misplaced again, and the referral note I haven’t finished. The wheels keep falling off from there.

My next patient is ten minutes late, which knocks my schedule sideways. Then the printer jams and Zoe texts me three mockups for the studio’s coming-soon page, each one good enough that I resent having to choose. Mr. Halbrook emails about parking spaces, and a contractor calls while I am cueing a shoulder stability drill.

By four, though, my clinical notes are done, and my last patient leaves with a new exercise program. I cross over next door to the studio with my bag, laptop, and the strange little jolt that still hits whenever my key opens the door—to a dusty, echoing, terrifyingly empty room.

Two contractors arrive shortly after I do, with a stack of samples and far too many questions for this late in he day. For the first thirty minutes, I keep up with them. We walk the perimeter, and I explain why the mirrors need to extend lower than standard because I want seated and adaptive athletes to see themselves without craning their necks.

One of the contractors suggests a cheaper flooring option, and I make him stand on a sample while I explain compression and traction, shock absorption, and why “commercial grade” doesn’t necessarily mean the best for performance work. To his credit, he listens.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket when they move on to explaining outlet placement along the reformer wall. I should ignore it, because I’m holding a tape measure and the last shreds of my executive function, but I glance anyway.

Viktor: I need to talk to you about Sweden tonight if that’s okay

The contractor keeps talking about something to do with load requirements and wall access. All very important things, I’m sure, but all immediately swallowed by the word Sweden.