Page 80 of Caden & Theo
The door swings shut behind him, and I let out an unhurried breath.
I limp slightly as I head back to my office—not because I’m in pain, but because my socket’s been bugging me today. It’s nothing major, just a reminder that no matter how many times I upgrade my leg, there are always going to be days that don’t go down smoothly. I’ve got a blade for running, a waterproof model for swimming, and the one I’m wearing now—my everyday athletic model, black carbon, with a polished shock-absorbing pylon that glints faintly in the sun.
I named it Nelly.
Because she’s hot, high-performance, and a little temperamental.
The desk chair squeaks as I drop into it, spinning gently in place as I reach for my water bottle. The walls around me are covered with photos—clients I’ve worked with, some famous, most not. There’s a shelf of trophies in one corner, and yeah, a couple from my playing days are up there too. Not for vanity, but to remind myself of where I came from.
Most people think I stayed in Detroit after the accident. Or maybe went back to South Carolina. But after the surgeries, the rehab, the insurance hell, the media circus, and a year of barely holding myself together, I packed two bags and moved west.
San Francisco offered something I hadn’t had since the crash—anonymity at first, and eventually, possibility.
Cameron, my old high school teammate, hadn’t been my actual agent. But after college, he started working under Marcus—my former agent—and eventually became my main point of contact. He showed up at the hospital. Sat by my bed when I was too angry to speak. Tried to help with the calls, the chaos, the plans. But I shut him out—just like I shut out everyone. My parents ran interference. I convinced myself I didn’t need anyone. Especially not people who reminded me of who I used to be.
We didn’t speak for years.
It wasn’t until I’d clawed my way through physio training, opened my own studio, and finally stopped flinching every time someone mentioned my name in the past tense that I reached out.
He didn’t hesitate.
Since then, he’s been one of my biggest supporters. He sends athletes my way—clients in the thick of recovery who need someone who’s been through the fire and lived to talk about it. He trusts me. And I never forget that.
It took a few years. Trial and error. Certification programs. Licensing. Building a business from the ground up. But now, I have a waitlist that stretches six months, a full-time assistant trainer, and a roster of clients who trust me with their bodies and their stories.
I love it. I really, really do.
But sometimes… sometimes I still wake up and expect to feel both legs under the covers. And some nights, when the fog rolls in off the Bay and the whole city feels ghosted over, I dream about him.
Theo.
It’s been fifteen years, and I can still see his face like it’s burned into the inside of my eyelids. He doesn’t know where I live. Doesn’t know what I do. I never responded to the emailsfrom my old account or the texts or the voicemails. After that first shut door, he stopped knocking. I made sure of it.
I had to.
At the time, it was the only way I knew how to deal.
The door to my office opens, accompanied by a belated knock. My assistant, Lacey, who also works at the front desk, pops her head in, holding her tablet. “Quick heads-up. You’ve got a media inquiry in your inbox. Some podcast wants you to talk about injury recovery in athletes.”
I grimace. “Send it to my PR guy. And remind me to thank Cameron again.”
“He’s helping,” Lacey singsongs, rolling her eyes. “He loves you. We all do.”
“Yeah, yeah. Tell him not to start charging a finder’s fee.”
She waves me off and disappears into the back again.
I lean back in the chair, letting the hum of the gym I can see out of the overlarge window in my office and the sound of weights clinking drift around me. This life is good. It’s hard-won and mine. But there are still parts of me Theo never got to see grow back, and parts I never figured out how to show him.
With time before I see my next client, instead of grabbing a protein shake or stretching out, I wiggle my mouse, waking up my Mac, and sigh. I don’t need to check the reunion page again. I’ve already RSVP’d. The flight’s booked, B&B confirmed. But still, my hand grips my mouse like it’s a nervous tic, this constant rechecking.
One more glance, just to be sure.
It’s not nerves, exactly, but something close. Maybecompulsionis the better word. I mean to look at client files—Cameron sent a new referral this morning—but instead, my fingers hesitate for only a second before I open a new tab and type:Gomillion High School.
The site loads, the school’s logo stretched at the top in tired reds and golds. The Millipede’s still the mascot, bless its little segmented soul. I chuckle under my breath, dry and fond.
“Go Millions,” I murmur, shaking my head. That phrase still makes no sense.
