Riley
“Dr. Morgan, a question was asked,” someone said from the back of the lecture hall.
I blinked hard, snapping out of the spiral in my head. The room came back into focus—dozens of eyes staring at me, notebooks open, recorders blinking red.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, shifting in my chair. “I zoned out a little bit. What was the question?”
A woman near the front raised her hand again. “We were asking about your progressive weight-distribution plan during the second phase of rehabilitation with Lucas Rivera. Specifically how you gauged when to adjust pressure levels despite the imaging still showing minor instability.”
Ah. That.
I took a slow breath and adjusted the mic in front of me. “Great question,” I said, trying to sound more composed than I felt. “So, with Lucas, we tracked everything—heart rate, balance shifts, reaction timing. But what I relied on most was pain mapping and his ability to return to baseline after stress testing.”
I paused, letting the audience process it. “There were still signs of instability, yes. But clinically, he wasn’t just a chart. He was responding in ways that suggested healing from a kinetic and muscular standpoint. That’s why I modified the plan—slower, not because he wasn’t strong, but because his coordination and neurological trust in the joint hadn’t returned. I didn’t want him compensating with the wrong muscles.”
The room nodded collectively. Someone scribbled fast.
But my head was still far from there.
As soon as the talk ended and the audience began filing out, I rushed to gather my things, heart pounding in my chest like a drum.
Lucas.
The match.
I knew he wasn’t ready. I knew it. And I’d already contacted the Premier League board about it. I’d asked why he was being cleared to play when my last assessment said he needed to sit out at least four more games before re-entry.
They hadn’t hesitated with their response.
“Well, the new PT says he’s ready,” the board rep said coolly over the phone.
I tried to breathe, tried to stay calm. “But he’s not. I’ve tracked his progress for months. He’s at risk. You know that.”
“You are not his physical therapist anymore, Dr. Morgan. We no longer require your input.”
Click.
They hung up on me.
And I stood in the middle of the hallway, teeth clenched, hands shaking.
“Dr. Riley,” I heard.
I turned. Dr. Hill was beside me, walking with calm grace through the lobby. “Is there something going on?”
“I’m sorry for zoning out,” I muttered. “It’s just… I have a hectic day and there’s so much going on, and…” I stopped walking, biting the inside of my cheek. “I have a client. He’s not ready to play. Not ready to move the way they want him to. But he’s doing it anyway. And I’m just—genuinely stressed out about it.”
Dr. Hill stopped beside me and looked at me gently. Then, without a word, she reached over and hugged me.
“You’re such a good physical therapist, Riley,” she said softly. “You don’t just do the work—you care. Deeply. It’s not just about helping them walk or run again. You want them to stay better. To feel safe. And that makes you one of the rare ones.”
My throat tightened. I could barely speak, so I just smiled. “I love this job,” I said. “I love my patients. I only want the best for them.”
Dr. Hill nodded, her hand still on my shoulder. “And that is exactly what this job is. It’s not just recovery. It’s protection. And you’re doing it—no matter where you are.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
She smiled, then waved goodbye as she turned down another corridor. “Now go,” she called over her shoulder. “I hear there’s a match on.”
By the time I got back to my apartment, the stadium roars were already echoing through my TV speakers.
I kicked off my shoes, dropped my coat, and scrambled to the couch. “Crap, crap, crap—it already started?” I fumbled with the remote and grabbed a bowl of popcorn from the counter.
“GO! GO!” I yelled at the screen, even though neither team was anywhere near scoring.
The energy was wild. I could see the intensity in every movement—and yet I still didn’t see him.
“Where is he? Where is he?” I muttered, scanning the player list.
Second half. Lucas came in at the second half. My heart punched my chest.
I clutched the popcorn bowl. “Please, please be careful,” I whispered. “Please protect him. God, I know I’m mad but please just… protect him.”
And then there he was.
Lucas.
Running across the field in his signature number. His knee bandaged but moving steady. Too steady.
“Don’t overdo it,” I muttered. “Come on, you know better than this.”
An opponent came charging at him, and I bolted upright.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I yelled at the screen. “BACK OFF, JERSEY 19! THIS ISN’T MMA!”
Lucas maneuvered beautifully, passed the ball, pivoted—
And then it happened. The dive. The wrong angle. His leg twisted. Lucas went down.
And I screamed, “NO!”