Chapter Text
"I believe that concludes our visit today, Mr. Watters… Don't forget to do your exercises this time!"
The doctor offered a warm smile to his grumpy patient, who tired of these weekly visits he did not seem to believe he needed— despite the fact that he was making noticeable improvements in his hips. Mateo never took it personally, of course. Most of his patients did not like to admit they needed the assistance, especially those coming from hard-working, no nonsense home lives.
The echidna's wife, a rather stout, cheerful woman, waved a grateful hand to him as she rolled her husband out in his chair. She replied in the same chirping tone she always did, every week, after these appointments. "See you next week, Dr. Caldas!"
With that, he shut the door and strode back to his private office adjacent to the room housing the rehabilitation equipment. Mateo did a second-over of the paperwork before returning it all to its proper file in his meticulously organized drawers. He had a new patient today, though he hadn't bothered to check the schedule to see who it was for. He knew only that the patient needed an orthopedic specialist. Though there were many orthopedics in the city, Mateo had a stellar track record of excellent, swift recoveries with glowing reviews. He'd seldom had much trouble with new patients warming up to him. So, of course, he thought nothing of it. But, now that he had a moment before the appointment, he supposed he ought to review the details so he could at least greet his patient properly.
With one hand, he turned his desk's swivel chair around to allow himself to fall back into it with a tired sigh, lifting his glasses off the bridge of his snout, he rubbing a palm over his eyes so he could better focus on words on the page. Last patient of the day… He could get through it without cracking so much as a yawn, he assured himself. The silence in his office was disturbed by the clacking of his keyboard as he opened up his schedule to review the medical records appropriate to this visit. One Ms. Fillmore, whose x-rays did enough to inform him just what sort of care would be needed to get her walking at least mostly painlessly again.
Something dawned upon him and his attention snapped out of work entirely. A severe knee injury patient. There was no way that it was really…
Did Jett Fillmore herself really not have her own personal physical therapist? A veteran athlete like her? He winced at the recollection of the agonizing scene he and the other bar patrons had witnessed just a couple of days or so ago. He hadn't exactly been in a sober enough mind to assess just how dire of an injury it had been, or what had really happened. One moment, she was sprinting around the court as usual, the next, she had been writhing on the court's floor. Whatever had happened, it had looked bad. But it was his job to fix that, wasn't it? That was surely what she would expect out of him. Could he fix something like that? His own bones were aching at the thought.
Looking again at the x-ray, he stared at the clearly severed ACL. The torn connective tissue… She'd strained this injury far more than she ought to have. Anterior cruciate ligament tears were commonplace for athletes, especially veterans and rookies. In Jett's case, this was.. quite severe. It was completely torn. Leaning back in his chair, it creaked as he scrubbed a hand over his face again. He might not be able to nurse it back to new— not at her age, not with the years of strain and wear already put on her joints— but he would put in just as much care and effort as he did with all his patients. She might never see a game again, but he could at least offer her a life devoid of limping and debilitating pain.
He no longer felt his exhaustion, at least. Oh, he was wide awake now, adrenaline shooting through him at the thought he would be meeting such a huge, local celebrity. He needed to calm down… She was just another patient, he should not show any bias or fanatic behavior that might turn her away from receiving care. Mateo didn't want to toot his own horn, but if there was a more experienced ortho here, he had yet to meet them. Returning his glasses to his face, he looked down at himself and adjusted the collar of his scrubs. Switching his computer screen off, he self-consciously examined himself in the blackened, matte pane of glass, ruffled his hair and bared his teeth to ensure nothing was caught between them. This was ridiculous, why did he care so much about what he looked like right now? He looked like an orthopedist. Like everyone in the office expected him to. Polished, professional, and approachable.
Suddenly overly aware of every detail in his office, the ticking of the ornate analog clock he'd won in a gift exchange a decade and some change ago sounded much louder than it had moments prior. It drew his gaze. Ms. Fillmore's appointment was at five— his final consultation of the evening. Four twenty-three, read the clock. Except that the clock was slow. It was more likely around four forty-three. He cursed himself for the third time this week for not adjusting it, like he had been telling himself he would do for the past eight months or so.
Exhaling in a failed attempt to soothe his nerves, he stood abruptly from his chair, ignoring the way his hips popped in protest. Taking long strides to the door, he swung it open and stormed out to approach the reception desk.
"Cathy," there was a bit more snarl in it than he'd meant for there to be. "Why is it… you didn't think it important to mention… that you scheduled me to see theJett Fillmore, hm? You didn't think maybe that was something I might need to know?"
The receptionist, a badger with a penchant for petty mischief and mayhem, looked up from a file she'd been undoubtedly only pretending to read. She flashed him a smile with far too many teeth to be friendly, slapped the papers down on the counter and batted her long lashes at him.
"Huh… Coulda sworn you told me you always read the patient files I email you…" She tapped one claw to her chin, looking up into the air in a coy act of trying to seem to care about his plight. "Oh, that's right— you're a filthy liar! I busted my ass to make sure you got this job and here you are, complaining about it instead of— hmm, I don't know…— thanking me?"
Mateo slanted his gaze at her, ears pinned to his head, tail thrashing behind him in tight, restrained motions. "I do read them. How the hell else would I have figured this out?"
Shrugging at him, Cathy rolled her eyes and leaned back to examine her nails absentmindedly. "Maybe you'll read them in a more timely manner now and show better respect to my hard work."
"Alright, alright… I am grateful, thank you, Catherine." Ultimately, he was eager to get to meet the legend he'd only ever seen from the confines of a television screen. But the pleased little noise that came out of the secretary was borderline infuriating. Close, long-time friends tended to have that special little understanding of juuuust the right way to press your buttons.
Behind him, a little chime from their clinic's door rung clear and true through the vacant waiting room. Mateo returned to his professional persona, his agitated, slumped shoulders and arched back straightening in an instant. Turning his head with an easy, practiced smile, he regarded the woman entering— who happened to be none other than… his new patient. Ten minutes early to her appointment. How punctual of her…
"Ms. Fillmore, a pleasure to have you in," his voice was lighter, no trace of the nerves he'd been displaying moments prior. He waved the woman in, already assessing her limp as she hobbled in with the help of her crocodilian driver. She shoved the driver's hand off, snarling a warning at him before shifting her attention to the therapist she'd been badgered into making an appointment with. "Right this way, I've had a look at your x-rays, but it would be best if I could see the damage up close and personal, if that's alright with you."
"Sure thing, doc…" Jett's tone was strained, like it physically hurt her to be accepting this help. She did seem to be.. glad that the office was remarkably empty. She hadn't asked for an appointment this late, the receptionist had suggested it to her without prompting. That was nice, she guessed. She didn't need any adoring crowds around while she was limping like some broken doll. Trying not to look too pathetic in the way she had to put all her weight on the crutch in her arm, she followed Dr. Caldas into the rehab center.
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The therapist had been Dennis's idea. The rest of the team had egged on the idea after it was suggested. Jett knew they meant well, but physical therapy hadn't exactly done her any favors in the past. She'd gone on and off for years, now. Her back problems hadn't gone anywhere, that was for sure. Maybe that was her own fault, for being so stubborn about following the "proper sleeping positions" and other assorted advice that went straight over her head. If she could still shoot a ball, she could truck through the pain. Her back had been one thing, though. This? She was having trouble even getting in and out of bed with this leg, now— yeah, she'd started sleeping on the bed, her cozy branch was too much effort to reach now, with how badly her knee was fucked.
So, though she had been resistant, here she was. At the appointment her teammates had encouraged her to get. For her health. It would be good for her in the long run… She'd just have to get through all the uppity bullshit doctors always loved to put her through. Do this, do that, don't sleep like this, don't jump like that. She hated seeing doctors. They didn't understand the things she needed to be able to do, always tried to make her feel bad about doing her damn job. Yeah, her joints hurt. That was part of the game. Any good roarball player could tell you that.
She suspected this doctor wouldn't be any different. Jett watched the lanky, orange-furred, ridiculous looking freak with disinterest as he reassessed her x-rays on his computer screen. After a moment of looking from the screen to her knee, he tapped a claw on his desk and got up from his chair to drop down on one knee. She tensed, annoyed that he was getting so close.
"Could you roll your shorts up for me?" He glanced up at her over the black frames of his rectangular glasses. "Is it alright if I have a feel around?"
"Whatever you gotta do, just get it over with already." Jett gruffed, rolling her eyes. It had only been five minutes and she already wanted to get the hell outta this place.
While the doctor gently pressed two fingers around her patella, feeling for the damage, the jaguar leant back, her bad leg splayed out for him to do whatever with it while she looked around the office. The walls were decorated with frames. His phD and certificates were hung up beside awards he'd won for his work. Photographs of past clients, beaming and posing with Dr. Caldas as though he were a long-time family friend. She scoffed, flicking the tip of her tail behind her. A wince pressed her brows together when he pressed a little too hard on a particularly tender spot. Her leg jolted involuntarily, and Mateo sat back on his haunches to give her space. It wasn't on his agenda to get kicked in the gut by these things, she'd break a few ribs. Pushing his glasses up his long snout, he looked up at her with an optimistic smile that made her want to rip it right off him.
"Well, the damage is not as bad as the x-ray makes it look. Your recovery may take a while, but with a little patience and dedication— both of which I'm sure you have an abundance of— you should regain complete, uninhibited use of your leg in a couple of years."
"Years?" Jett blurted, astounded at how simple he made that sound. "I won't be able to walk straight for years? Isn't it your job to expedite that process?"
"I'm afraid a year or two is expedited. Without treatment, your knee could give you issues for the rest of your life. It will likely get worse over time, as well." Dr. Caldas gave her a wry, apologetic look before standing back up and adjusting his scrubs. "With your help, we can work on reducing your pain and have you using it again— sparingly— in.. hm.. perhaps only a few months."
Jett was in utter despair, her head thrown back, both hands pressed to her eyes so hard she was seeing stars behind her lids at the realization that she might as well be bedridden for months.
"I'll write you a prescription for an anti-inflammatory medication and have you fitted for a brace, so you can at least have those ready to go before our next visit. Are you considering surgery?"
"When I got the x-ray done, they said I didn't need it." Jett watched the therapist think for a moment, his eyes once again returning to the x-ray. He nodded, like he agreed with them.
"It is… severe… While an invasive surgery like that could make it worse… I'm afraid we can't completely rule it out." When Jett let out another long, dejected groan, the therapist chuckled sympathetically. "Reconstructive surgery will set you on the road for a complete recovery, rest assured. It will be a long journey."
"I can handle it." Fillmore crooned sarcastically through her teeth at him, sitting up and planting both hands on her thighs to look over at him with an annoyed sneer. "You said I'll be able to walk pretty soon? Yeah… cool, cool, cool… I can handle it. Nothin' ole Jett can't handle."
"I'm good at what I do, but I'm not a miracle worker. The ligament is completely severed. Right down the middle." He explained, opening a drawer in his filing cabinet from which he retrieved a tape measure from. He knelt again, swiftly taking measurements. He did it so quickly that she hadn't even registered what he was even doing until he was back at his desk, noting the numbers down. "Until the brace is here for you, I want you to keep as much weight off your leg as possible. That means not just avoiding walking on it, but no sleeping on it, no sitting on it, don't even bend it if you can help it. Is there anyone you can rely on to help you around your daily life for a couple of months?"
Of course, her mind went straight to the team. She couldn't ask that of them… They all had lives of their own to worry about. She curled her lip and shook her head. "Nope. Just me."
The doctor paused from typing up the email with her details for the special knee brace order to look at her, one brow raised. Jett flashed him a strained smile.
With a soft sigh, Dr. Caldas only nodded and resumed typing. "Then, make sure you won't need to bend or climb or jump to do anything for a while around the house, if you can help it."
"Couldn't even if I wanted to, believe me." Her tone was intended to be catty, but it came out a little more dejected than she would have liked. After hitting a key to send the email out, Mateo glanced to his patient with understanding. Even high school athletes came in with sullen spirits when they were kept from their sports because of an injury. He couldn't imagine how this was affecting someone like her, whose whole life revolved around roarball. He let the silence linger between them before offering her his encouragement.
"This will not last forever, you will regain full range of motion again in due time… I assure you. Not to sound too cocky, but I'm something of an MVP in this field." He made a theatrical little show of puffing his chest and flipping the long hair he didn't have, earning a dry chortle from his patient.
"That was corny. Don't do that again." Jett snorted, crossing her arms over her chest in amusement she tried to mask. He only offered her another smile. "So.. how often am I gonna have to come in for these things?"
"Well… that all depends. We can start off at once a week, to properly assess what works for you and what doesn't. If the pain gets worse, we'll up the frequency, and vice verse if it gets better. If you can work with me and follow my advice, you should be on the track to less pain in a few months. Again, this full process will be a long one. I trust you not to give up on your treatment if its effects aren't instant, and I promise I won't give up on you."
Jett dropped her eyes to her leg, the pain seemed to spike when she even looked at it, radiated from the torn muscle like it sensed that she and the doctor were talking about it. With a long, heavy sigh, she gave a nod. She'd dedicated her life to her work, not it was time for her to dedicate some time to herself.