Beyond My Control

Routine Play

                                             ISOLA

The day starts the same way it always does—too early, too cold, and with my brain four steps ahead of my body.
The sky outside my window is the color of paper left too long under a lamp: pale, humming, exhausted.

Tea first. Then notes. Then three slow, deliberate breaths while the kettle hisses and the world steadies.
If I skip any part of that ritual, the day feels tilted, like a puck spinning just off its edge.

By the time I reach the rink, the air already smells like coffee, tape, and adrenaline. The sound of laughter ricochets down the concrete corridor—young, loud, alive. Equipment clatters, someone curses at a broken lace, the sharp citrus bite of disinfectant hangs under everything.

I grip my clipboard tighter. Control. Always start with control.

"Morning, Doc," Keller calls, towel slung around his neck, hair dripping onto bare shoulders. His grin is all mischief and caffeine. "You here to keep us from dying again?"

"That's the goal." I hold up the clipboard like a weapon. "And if you actually followed my rehab plan, I'd have less paperwork to drown in."

A chorus of oohs rises from the locker room. Someone smacks a bench. Someone else laughs too loud.

Keller clutches his chest in fake pain. "Harsh."

"Accurate."

The teasing hits like white noise—it fills the cracks, keeps me from hearing my heartbeat too loud. I walk through the doorway, the smell of sweat and soap clinging to the walls, and gesture for Keller to follow. "Exam room. Five minutes."

He trails after me, still chuckling. The rhythm of this exchange is familiar, safe. They joke because it lightens the pressure. I play along because it keeps me tethered to the moment.

Inside, the lights hum a little too bright. The room's too clean, too sharp, too still. I can breathe better when there's noise.

Keller hoists himself onto the exam table, leg propped, ice pack already melting into a thin puddle. "Feels better today," he says.

"That's because you're sitting." My hands move automatically—press, trace, measure. His hamstring twitches under my fingers. "When's the last time you stretched?"

He looks at the ceiling like it might save him. "Define stretch."

I shoot him a look. "Define bench."

He laughs, easy and boyish, and I almost smile. Almost.

"Okay, okay. I stretched," he insists.

"Good. Keep it up or I'll make you do yoga with the rookies."

His face falls dramatically. "That's cruel."

"Effective," I counter, scribbling a note.

He grins, crooked. "You're scarier than Coach sometimes."

"Only because I can inflict pain legally."

That earns a laugh from the trainer across the room. I let it ripple through the air for a beat before refocusing on my work. My hands move in precise patterns, each wrap of tape even, each knot symmetrical. The little details calm me; they always have.

Keller tilts his head. "You ever take a day off, Doc?"

"Does caffeine count?"

He snorts. "Coach says the same thing."

That pulls a small smile from me before I can stop it. "Maybe he's rubbing off on me."

Keller's eyebrows shoot up. "Interesting choice of words."