The Creak in the Floorboards

I count the empty chairs on the lift. One, two, three, swinging slightly in the mountain wind. There are twelve left. I know this because I tracked every run the juniors made today, logging their times, their errors, and their fatigue levels in a spreadsheet that currently lives open on my phone. The resort is quiet. The snow groomers are the only sound, a low, rhythmic thrum vibrating through the floorboards of the clinic.

Matthias sits on the edge of the exam table. He is the new team physio, hired for the season because the resort needed someone who understands knees better than the last guy, who just taped them up and hoped for the best. We have not spoken since he told me four years ago that my ligament was done. He wore a different jacket then. Now he wears the same grey fleece I saw him in yesterday, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He is watching me. His hands are resting on his knees, still and large, the knuckles scarred from years of pulling bodies back together.

I do not want to be here. I want to go home, shower, and review the training schedule for tomorrow. But my knee is fine. I need him to look at it anyway.