how it was. I'd gone into sports medicine because I wanted to help athletes when they were at their most vulnerable. Because I remembered what it felt like to have an occupational therapist who gave a shit, instead of somebody who just wanted to rush you back onto the field so the school could make more money while you developed lifelong injuries.
I wanted to be a part of changing things from the inside. To be so damn good at my job that the team was forced to slow down and allow players time to heal, all while I brought research to legislators who might one day actually give a damn about these D1 schools churning through young men like they were just disposable pieces on a board. It wasn't just me on staff, though. There were people with way more influence than I had, and a lot of them didn't see these injuries as that big of a deal. Who cared if most of these kids' bodies were going to start failing in their thirties? So long as they could play ball now, what did it matter?
That shit made me so fucking angry, and it was always a struggle to keep my cool.
"I know how it is outside of my gym. In here, you go at the pace your body tells you to go at, and you don't push it to the breaking point. Now rest up. I'll get you some water and we'll do some stretches, then you can give it another shot. Maybe less weight this time."
After I filled Ty's water bottle, I stepped into my office for a second to calm the fuck down. I hated seeing the players like this. Talented young men whose only real way forward was football. Men who knew that and gave everything they had to this program because of it. He wasn't the first and he wouldn't be the last.
Raking my hands through my hair, I murmured a Yiddish prayer under my breath. Something my grandmother had taught me, that she always repeated over and over when she was feeling stressed. My mother told me at her funeral that it was filthy. Full of swear words I hadn't known at the time. I'd burst out laughing until I cried. Swear words or not, it still helped. I could feel the anger beginning to drain out of me, and once I had my head on straight, I went back to Ty.
We did some stretches and a few sets with dumbbells before I had him try again. I reduced the weight by forty pounds, then loaded two more tens on once he did okay with that. I wasn't going to coddle him, because that didn't help him. It needed to be a slow, gradual build.
The more he did with the full weight, though, the more I noticed his arms start to shake. Even past the point of muscle fatigue. He was breathing so fast I thought he might hyperventilate and sweat was just pouring off of him. I grabbed the barbell and set it back in the cradle. He didn't fight me on it.
"What's going on, Ty? If your shoulder's hurting that bad--"
"It's not that," he said, struggling for breath. "I mean it hurts, but I just..."
He was quiet for a long time, the sound of his panting filling the gym. I didn't say anything, giving him space to share his thoughts.
"What if I go back out there and I take the same hit again? Doctor said if I fuck up my shoulder this bad a second time, I'm done. And I can't afford this school without football, man. I've got nothing."
It floored some part of me that he was worried about football and school, not about what a serious shoulder injury would mean for his ability to work, perform basic tasks, play with his future kids. I'd been the same way at his age, hadn't I? Worried about football. Devastated when I tore the fuck out of my ACL and then reinjured myself after six months off the field. Back then, it felt like my life was over. It would feel the same for Ty.
"If we do this right, your shoulder will be strong enough, even if it does happen," I said, my voice soft. "We'll work on conditioning. Make sure you've got a good foundation and your body has plenty of time to heal. I'll talk to your coach and buy you some more time."
He immediately shook his head. "He'll say