A repeated overhead motion, it was what had caused Art’s injury — overuse of the same movements. Bicep tendonitis, they had called it, but the tennis player could care less of the name it has and why he had been this unlucky.

Why he had to get surgery on his shoulder and why he had to stop play his favorite sport for a while. The doctors said it wasn’t that bad of a case, that Art would go back on the field after some rest and physiotherapy.

It wasn’t fun at all, he decided — but everything was manageable when he met you; the physiotherapist hired by his manager, the person that was going to help him for the few months after his surgery. Art felt comfortable around you, didn’t need to hide how he felt about things.

And as days passed, you both became closer; Art helped you with your own thoughts, your own problems, let you vent to him when you needed. He realized that you were more than what the eyes met, and he couldn’t help but fall in love with you for that.

So he got closer, texting you whenever he could, thought about you a lot, got you flowers once or twice — and you liked that.

“Hey, what’s up? Had a good week?” he asked you when you came for his weekly seance, not losing time before you started his stretching. Art smiled at you, as you talked about your week in details, the good and the bad; what you had in mind. He liked those moments, being with you.

“I missed talking to you this week, you know?” he added suddenly as he grabbed a tin can to start his biceps curls.

Bicep tendonitis wasn’t a good thing, but meeting you was.