Page 53 of Fighting Fate

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Reynolds asks, pulling me back from the edge of those memories.

"I'm good," I reply, the words a shield against the past. "No pain, no symptoms."

You sure about that, Miles? The question, unspoken but loud in my mind, echoes with doubt. I mentally shush the intrusive thoughts, focusing on the present.

Dr. Reynolds looks up from his clipboard, his expression a blend of professional concern and genuine interest. "That's great to hear. And how's your senior year of football going?"

A proud smile naturally finds its way across my face. "We're off to a solid start. The team's really coming together this year."

He mirrors my smile, a sign of shared happiness. "I'm glad to hear that." Standing, he returns the chair to its spot and gives Kins a nod. She squeezes my shoulder reassuringly before stepping out. We delve into the routine of the check-up, covering everything from my physical condition to any concerns since the last visit.

I'm upfront with him, mentioning the occasional headache from the rough football practices and reminding myself about the importance of hydration.

Dr. Reynolds doesn't let the hydration comment slide. He's stern yet caring as he emphasizes the need to look after my body. I listen, nodding in agreement. I know he's right.

His hand lands on my shoulder, a firm, grounding presence. "Miles, remember, you're a survivor, not invincible. Take care of yourself, all of you. And don't hesitate to reach out if you need help." His words are familiar, reminding me of the journey I've been on and the balance I need to maintain.

The check-up wraps up with him and he hands me a consent form for tomorrow's imaging tests. "Just routine," he reassures. I know the drill, but inside, a part of me tenses at the thought.

I force a tight smile, pocketing the form. "Thank you, Dr. Reynolds," I say, eager to step back into the flow of my everyday life. Football, studies, friends—they're all waiting.

Dr. Reynolds' serious look follows me. "Take care, Miles. And call if you need anything."

I nod, closing the door behind me; a ritualistic end to the visit.

Pulling out my phone, I quickly text my mom the update.

Miles

Everything's fine. Routine check-up.

The words feel hollow, a facade to mask the underlying fear, however small, of what might be.

As I turn to leave, Kins' hand on my shoulder stops me. She pulls me into a hug, a familiar and comforting embrace. In that moment, all the tension and worry dissolve. Her presence, her warmth, is like a shield against the world's uncertainties.

"It was nice to see you, Miles," she says, her voice radiating care. "Remember to take care of yourself, for your future patients' sakes."

I step back, surprised. "How did you . . . "

She laughs softly. "Miles Chasen, I've known you long enough to see your passion for medicine. And you'll be a great doctor. You've always had my support."

A wave of emotion washes over me. "Thanks, Kins," I manage to say. "That means everything to me." Her belief in me, in my dreams, adds another layer of strength to my resolve. It's moments like these that remind me of the support system I have, a foundation that keeps me grounded and hopeful for the future.

Even though I feel a bit exposed by how easily Kins can read me, I can't bring myself to be upset. There's a certain comfort in having someone who recognizes my dreams beyond the football field. I remember how she'd approach me after my dad made his football-centric comments. "He's just looking out for you," she'd say, her voice laced with understanding. "He loves you and wants the best for you."

But I can't help questioning it sometimes. Is it really about what's best for me, or is it about what's best for my football career? These thoughts stir up a mix of emotions, a blend of gratitude and lingering irritation. Dad's words, meant to be encouraging, sometimes feel like they are boxing me in.

She gives me a gentle and knowing smile just as she says, "Now, go kick some ass at football practice. I'll see you tomorrow."

Returning her encouraging smile, I nod and begin my walk down the hallway, feeling a slight lift in my spirits. That's when Harper comes into view. I offer her a wave and, acting on a spontaneous urge, I make my way over to her. Crouching down to her level, I ask, "See you around?"

Her smile in response, radiant and brimming with joy, is utterly contagious. "Wait," she says, and I raise an eyebrow. She pulls out a Polaroid camera. "I like to snap a pic every day, to remember."

Her words send a jumble of feelings through me, a combination of warmth and an unexpected pang of vulnerability. But I keep those feelings tucked away, locked in a corner of my mind. I flash a grin, playing along. "Sure thing. I'd love to snap a picture."

And just like that, we capture a moment, our smiles wide and genuine. In that snapshot, we're just two people sharing a simple, happy moment, and for a brief time, it feels like everything in the world is damn great.

Pussy Panthers

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