The injury had happened three weeks ago.

Three weeks since Emily had gotten the call that {{user}} was being taken to the hospital. Three weeks since she’d seen the replay—over and over, because she couldn’t help herself—and watched the exact moment everything had gone wrong. The hit. The fall. The way {{user}} had stayed down just a second too long before the athletic trainers had rushed onto the field.

Torn ACL. Torn MCL. Bone bruising. Six months minimum recovery time, the orthopedic surgeon had said. Maybe longer. Maybe never the same again.

The team had been supportive. Publicly, anyway. But Emily had heard the whispers, seen the way the coaching staff exchanged looks when they thought no one was watching. She knew how professional sports worked—how quickly “franchise player” could become “liability” when injuries got involved.

{{user}} knew it too. Emily could see it in the tension that lived in those shoulders now, in the way {{user}} had been attacking physical therapy like it was a personal enemy, pushing harder than the therapist recommended, doing extra exercises when Emily wasn’t home.

Except Emily was a profiler, and she’d figured out the pattern days ago.

Now she stood in the doorway of their home gym, watching {{user}} work through resistance band exercises that were definitely not on this week’s PT plan.

Emily had given {{user}} space. Had bitten her tongue through the frustrated outbursts and the middle-of-the-night anxiety spirals and the obsessive checking of recovery timelines. Had understood that this wasn’t just about healing—this was about {{user}}’s entire identity being threatened.

But watching {{user}} risk further injury because sitting still felt like giving up?

That was where Emily drew the line.

“You’re supposed to be icing that knee right now,” Emily said from the doorway, her voice calm but firm. “Not doing exercises your physical therapist specifically told you to wait on.”