Dr. Patel nodded. “It does.”
I exhaled. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s July,” Dr. Patel said. “This is when we want to know about not-big-deals. Better to strengthen and correct now than chase a bigger problem in October.”
He made a note on his tablet. “I want Wren to take a look and run you through some targeted work. Nothing dramatic. We’ll monitor it.”
I looked at Catherine. She did not look sorry.
“Great,” I said, forcing what must have been the fakest smile of my life.
Dr. Patel smiled. “That sounded sincere.”
Catherine pressed her lips together like she was trying not to laugh. I hated that I wanted to make her laugh again. Dr. Patel finished the exam, then told me to run my summer diet over with the dietitian since she was in the facility today.
“Anything else you’d like to hide?” he asked.
“Nope.”
Catherine lifted her brows.
“Nothing,” I said again.
Dr. Patel looked amused. “Good. Wren is down the hall.”
I got off the exam table and grabbed my shirt. Catherine looked down at her laptop like my bare chest was suddenly the most uninteresting thing in the world.
Liar. I pulled the shirt on slowly because I was a bad person. Her cheeks went pink. At least I wasn’t the only one suffering.
“Thank you for letting me observe,” she said, all professional again.
“Anytime,” Dr. Patel replied. “Good catch on the shoulder.”
I gave her a look.
She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
I headed to physical therapy like a man walking to his sentencing. Wren was there waiting with that physical therapist expression that said she had already diagnosed my personality and didn’t like it.
“Right shoulder,” she said.
“Apparently.”
She smiled. “I love enthusiasm.”
“I’m full of it,” I said dryly.
“Sure.” She pointed to the table. “Sit.”
Wren ran me through a few more tests, then gave me a list of exercises that looked harmless and somehow still made my shoulder burn like hell. External rotation work. Scapular stability. Controlled range. Boring stuff that would probably help. I hated when medical staff was right. By the time she finished, I was irritated, sweaty, and annoyingly aware that Catherine had been right to say something. I headed back toward the medical offices to grab my bag. Catherine was coming out at the same time, laptop tucked under her arm, coffee in hand.
“Done?” she asked.
“With torture? Yes,” I said, grinning because for some reason I couldn’t stay mad at her, which was becoming a problem.
“Wren’s good.”
“She’s evil, but it makes sense to care for my shoulder now,” I confessed.