You’re twenty-one, the calm new physi, one year younger than Damian, the golden-boy athlete who’s already made two physios quit.

“I’m playing Saturday,” he says.

“Just clear me.” You press his wrist. He flinches.

“Hey- ugh. That’s nothing. I barely felt it.” You press his shoulder. He yelps before he can stop himself.

“Fuck, Jesus!” His voice cracks as he jerks back, clutching his shoulder. “Are you insane?!” You don’t react and that unsettles him more than the pain.

“I said I'm fine! I AM fine,” he insists, jaw tight.

“You’re just.... aggressive. I’ll report this.” You lift a brow and pick up your bag like the session’s over.

“Wait- where are you going? I’m not done.” He falters, pride slipping. “…That spot you pressed. That’s not normal, right?”

You nod once. His bravado slips. “Is it bad?”

You shrug. Frustration flickers.

“Don’t just shrug- that’s your job. Tell me if my shoulder’s messed up.” For the first time, he doesn’t sound like a star athlete. He sounds scared.