Page 7 of Gym Bros
“I’m fine.”
I return to the couch, propping my leg on the cushion I’ve been keeping on the coffee table. I quickly tuck the bottle of lotion between the cushion and the arm of the couch. My dad sits in one of the chairs as he studies what feels like every inch of the living area. I get a forced smile. “What do you think the doctor’s gonna say?”
“I’m hoping he’ll say I can get back to training.”
“You don’t need some kind of physical therapy first?”
I shrug. “I figure if I take it slow…”
“Do you know how to take anything slow?” he asks, and it’s supposed to be a joke.
“The leg’s kind of a limiting factor,” I say flatly.
“I’ve seen you work through an injury before,” he reminds me.
I bite back an exhausted sigh. “I get that this one’s more serious.”
“I just don’t want you hopping back up on a treadmill and pushing through.”
“Yeah, but like—” I close my mouth, aware that what I’m about to say will get me lectured.
“You’ll do what the doctor says, won’t you?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“What if you disagree?”
I stare at my father, who can clearly read my mind. “Look, they don’t always get it, okay?”
His lips press together. “Get what?”
“What it takes,” I say.
“Hm.”
He doesn’t get it either. “I mean what I’m capable of. Or like—what the human body is capable of.”
“Adoctordoesn’t understand what the human body is capable of?” he asks.
Okay, I get it. I didn’t go to Northwestern like my brothers, but I’m not stupid.
He goes on. “It’s my understanding that you’re attempting to make a career out of this.”
I glare at him.
Unfazed, he says, “So, it stands to reason, you’d want to do everything possible to make sure your recovery from this injury—a serious one, mind you—is as thorough and complete as possible.”
“Right, but?—”
He holds up a finger, silencing me because he’s not finishedyet. “Therefore, an expert’s opinion would hold significant weight.”
I pounce on the one word. “But that’s it, though—it’s one guy’sopinion. One dude who only met me a month ago.”
“Samuel.”
I wince. I hate it when he calls me that. I hate my name in general. I’d prefer it if he called me by the name I gave myself when I moved up here—my fighter name. Everyone at the gym does. Even Evan calls me Saber now, but there’s virtually no hope my father ever will.
“I’m just saying. He doesn’t know me. Doesn’t care about me or my goals.”
