Pucking Around: Chapter 9

“So, everything looks great with your records, Price,” says Doctor Tyler. He’s a lanky older guy with the body of a marathoner. Silver hair, dark eyes. He never seems to stop smiling. It’s a major change from Doctor Halla.

He clicks around on his laptop screen. “You’ve had a great mix of primary care and PT, which I always love to see. It’s been a major juggling act here. As we race towards the start of the season, I find myself in serious need of a deeper bench of clowns.”

I laugh. “Well, sir, I can juggle with the best of them.”

“Looks that way,” he replies.

“Please don’t ask me to actually juggle anything,” I add quickly.

He smiles. “I’m not gonna lie, I think you’re a better fit for our team than the first Fellow they assigned. I did some research on Doctor Halla’s rehab center and I admire the holistic approach he takes with all his preventative therapies. Healing the body before it breaks. Very forward-thinking. I want that kind of innovation for the Rays.”

“Well, whatever I can do to bring that kind of care here, I’m ready,” I say.

He claps his hands together. “Excellent. Well, right off the bat, we’ve got a couple guys on our injured list. You’ll work with them closely, keep them on track towards recovery.”

I nod, slipping my tablet from my backpack, ready to take notes.

“You’ll be working with Avery this season. But go gently,” he cautions. “He likes to think he knows everything…if you know what I mean,” he adds with a knowing look.

“Yes, sir.”

I’ve been doing this long enough to read between the lines. And seeing as I just spent an hour with Avery in the rehab center, Tyler’s not-so-subtle warning tracks. Avery is a control freak and he’ll likely have trouble taking advice from a woman. Maybe I’m wrong, but he’s got that vibe.

“All our starting guys are about to go through their last round of physicals,” Tyler goes on. “I’d love for you to be in on those,” he adds. “You’ll be our hip and knee tsar. No player is gonna hit that ice unless he gets your approval first.”

Nerves flutter in my stomach as I sit forward. “Wow, that’s—you haven’t even seen me in action yet, sir. You really want to give me power to bench your players?”

“Well, is anything in your records a lie, Price?”

“What? No, of course not—”

“You graduated summa cum laude with a degree in kinesiology from USC?”

“Yes—”

“An MD from UCLA specializing in sports medicine, where you completed internships with the LA Lakers and the Galaxy?”

Did he memorize my resume? It feels odd to have it listed out like this. “Yes, but—”

“Most recently you were two years in on a three-year primary care residency program with the Cincinnati Sport Clinic.”

“Yes.”

“You were working directly under Doctor Benjamin Halla, one of the best in the biz—don’t tell him I said that,” he adds in a fake whisper.

I’m smiling now. “Yes, sir.”

“And while there, you treated athletes, providing physical therapy, primary care, cortisone injections—you’ve even clocked hours in the operating room,” he adds, clearly impressed.

It’s all true, but it makes me sound cooler than I am. The operating room isn’t my favorite place to be. I prefer to work on athletes before and after the surgeons take their turn. But Doctor Halla demands a holistic education for all his residents, so I clocked hours observing hip and knee replacement surgeries whether I wanted to or not.

“Based on your records, you’ve worked with everything from Olympic swimmers to golf pros to—I believe it was twelve of the Cincinnati Bengals?”

I sigh, frustrated with myself that I let self-doubt creep in. “Yes, sir.”

“Well then, Price, I don’t think there’s really much else to say,” he says with a shrug and that same kindly smile. “You’re qualified. Hell, you’re more than qualified. Our guys are going to be in good hands. And I need everyone pulling their weight. You ready to grab an oar?”

I nod. “Yes, sir. More than ready.”

“Perfect. Then let’s go. The exhibition game starts at eleven, and I want you to see the guys in action. I’ll have Hillary get the players signed up to do physicals with you starting on…oh, let’s say Monday? Give you the weekend to settle in. Sound fair enough?”

I smile, standing as he stands. “Yes, sir. More than fair.”

He groans. “Yeah, and you can nix the ‘sir’ nonsense. Call me Scott, call me Tyler, anything but ‘sir.’ It reminds me too much of my father,” he adds with a suppressed shiver.

I laugh. “Got it. And you can call me, Rachel.”

He leans over his desk, offering out his hands again. “Welcome to the Rays, Rachel. Now, let’s go meet the team.”