KICK IT | JENLISA

32

Jennie

I groaned at the reminder, slumping under the covers and remembering that it was Monday. Lisa day. What the fuck had I gotten myself into? She couldn't have impressed me less in the human decency department, but Jackson's meeting left me angrier at myself than at Lisa Manoban. Now I worked for her! I left with a folder tucked under my elbow, my privacy sworn in an NDA, Mina in my corner, anger surging in my veins, and my brain whirling in a total mindfuck. Bambam provided me with Lisa's shoulder assessments, rehabilitation plan, diet, and orthopaedic surgeon scans.

Mina, a prime example of a cut-throat lawyer, walked me through the agreement. I signed my life away. But she flexed her sympathy, securing me a weekly salary equivalent to my twenty hours at YG Accounting and additional bonuses for meeting milestones related to increasing Lisa's mobility measures. "Congratulations and good luck." was her closing statement.

Nancy, Lisa's publicist, wrung me through a ringer of non-disclosure jargon. I left that conversation with a 'never ever speak to the press' message received loud and clear. "Welcome aboard." she clipped in a tight voice. "Good luck."

As per my agreement, I submitted a month of weekly class routine to Bambam. He most likely didn't know the Sanskrit or English names, so I included video links for all poses. He was an engaging man, thanking and wishing me good luck. While friendly, one message bothered me.

Bambam: Glad to have you on the team.

The Lisa Manoban support club wasn't one that I wanted membership in. Jackson needed several conversations, bringing in his ringer Irene to convince me not to back out. "It's good to keep you out of the house." Her sad smile pulled at my heartstrings. "Staying busy, stick it out until you find another job."

She had a point. Manoban only needed to achieve a 'recovered enough' status based on Bambam's mobility metrics. So our contract, and time spent together, had a finite end date. She'd forget all about me once the season started. Desperate for a diversion, I smiled at her. "Did you see your gynae, Irene?"

"Yes, all normal." Her eyes beamed from across the breakfast table. "A few scans are at twelve weeks. I'm hoping to invite Mino's parents."

I rested my chin in my palm. Our parents and Irene's parents screamed so loud the entire state heard. "Do they know?"

"No." Tears glossed over her eyes. "So, we'll surprise them."

"Big understatement." I raised my eyebrows. "Good luck."

"You too." Irene beamed. "You'll do great."

Despite an expiration date on my Lisa Manoban misery, the pressure to deliver mounted. I wasn't a medical or physical therapy specialist, but I could grasp basic anatomy. The rotator had four small stabiliser muscles, each controlling different rotational movements. Lisa's accident caused a minor tear in her right supraspinatus tendon. Her surgeon reattached the torn muscle and also performed an arthritic scrape.

Six weeks later, Lisa's pain came when her shoulder rotated outward and up. She should have cried through chaturanga, updog, and downdog, not powered through it. Either she had a high pain threshold or Godzilla-sized stubbornness.

Lisa was fit for Monday and Friday's Gentle Flow, minus standard vinyasas. Most morning participants were retirees, less likely to cause eye-fucking distractions than my evening classes. And she wasn't welcome near my Tuesday and Thursday therapy classes.