It is a truth universally acknowledged that an athlete sidelined with an injury wants to recover as soon as possible to get back to their sport.

That is why Fergal Devitt found himself waiting on a gurney in his physiotherapist's office, only one day after surgery. He wanted – no, he needed – to begin physiotherapy as soon as possible. That way, he could be in less pain. That way, he could get motion in his shoulder back. That way, he could be back in a wrestling ring.

The last few days had been a complete whirlwind for him, and that was taking into account his lifestyle of a wrestler – constantly traveling, constantly in airports or a car, waving to fans, talking to media, signing memorabilia, fulfilling obligations. On Sunday, he had become the inaugural WWE Universal Champion. Monday morning, he flew to New York City on a red-eye from Los Angeles to do a Good Morning America appearance. By the afternoon, he was in a hospital taking MRIs. By the evening, he had relinquished the title. Tuesday morning, he was in surgery.

Truth be told, when the anaesthesiologist knocked him out, it was the first time in days that he'd gotten proper sleep. Besides the hectic schedule, the pain in his shoulder radiated throughout his entire body when he lay down. He was lucky to still have his mother and father in town – they had flown in to see him win, obviously – and they were able to extend their trip for a few days after his surgery to make sure everything was okay. Two friends had already been through the surgery as well, and not too long ago either, so he knew he had them to lean on too, literally and figuratively.

Despite his circumstance, Fergal Devitt considered himself fortunate. This was his first major injury in almost twenty years of wrestling. Even at his age of 35, when most men burned out or were thinking about retirement, he was still going at it, feeling better than ever (despite the injury, of course). Fergal considered himself an eternal optimist, which meant that he knew he was going to recover, going to get back in the ring, going to do what he loved.

Fergal squeezed the small ball he was given in his hand, waiting for his physiotherapist, John MacLean, to make his way into the room. He had only been waiting for about five minutes, which he didn't mind, but he was starting to get antsy. He knew this session would hurt, and he knew he'd probably have to pop some more pain medication to deal with the pain afterwards, but he was eager to start.

After a few more moments, the doorknob giggled and John MacLean walked into the room. Fergal immediately perked up, squeezing the ball harder. "Mr. Devitt, how are you?" John greeted him politely.

"Call me Fergal. And I'm fine, how are you?"

"Pretty good," John focused on his clipboard as the door closed behind him. "How're you feeling? Still in pain?" John asked.

Fergal nodded his head. "The medication is helping though. My mum's been making sure I'm doing everything the doctor said…sleeping on that chair, squeezing this ball," he flashed the green ball briefly to John.

"Great, good to hear," John smiled, writing something down on the clipboard that Fergal could only imagine was illegible scribble. All medical professionals seemed to have the same chicken scratch handwriting. He never understood his prescriptions. "Alright, so, I want to explain something to you very quickly before we begin," John began. "You'll be working with me today, but our receptionist accidentally double-booked me, so there's going to be two of you simultaneously."

Fergal shrugged his good shoulder. "I honestly don't mind. It's not like I'm going to be balancing on balls and doing push-ups today…you're going to be moving my arm for me."

John smiled again. "Thanks for understanding, buddy. So you'll be apologetic to my plight of having to move your shoulder, then go on to move her knee."

"Hey man, this sort of stuff happens all the time. I don't mind so long as we get the session in," Fergal said. "Plus, it'll give me some time to catch my breath. My spidey senses tell me this is going to hurt like a bitch no matter how many people I'm booked with."

Gemma Fitzgerald was angry. She was positive her face was in a permanent scowl – it had probably been in a scowl even when she was put under for surgery. Even though she was used to it – used to the crutches, used to the knee brace, used to the pain – it still didn't get any easier for her to comes to terms with. Nothing about this situation was noble, or brave; there was nothing to be happy about, or put a smile on her face in any situation, under any circumstance. A permanent scowl was in her permanent future.

Everything was familiar to Gemma except her location. Usually she'd be in Canada (preferably her hometown), or at least New England for her recovery, but never this far south, in Orlando. She didn't know how to get around – she couldn't get around because of her injury, and she had to rely on other to ship her off to various locations she needed to be. She didn't really like her apartment; a little one bedroom on the ground floor of a townhouse complex on one of Orlando's many lakes. Her new physiotherapist's office was stereotypical and completely unlike her old physiotherapist's office, which was bright and airy, more home-y, mostly because she had been there more often than not.

She could barely sit on this gurney. She could barely stand anything and anyone around her. She wanted to scream but she knew she shouldn't; there was no plausible explanation for her screaming bloody murder while waiting for her physiotherapist. Was there a pillow for her to punch? She looked behind her – there wasn't. She let out an exasperated sigh and felt her cheeks flush, the first sign that tears were about to fall. She was a mess, hardly able to keep it together.

She was on the verge of getting up and walking out of the room before John MacLean, the man who was going to be her physiotherapist, walked in the room. Took him long enough.

"Hi Ms. Fitzgerald," he smiled politely at her, a clipboard in his hand. "How are you doing today?"

"Fine."

"How are you feeling? Are you still in pain?"

Gemma shrugged her shoulders. "Kind of."

"Kind of?" John cocked his head to the side.

Gemma inhaled deeply. "I just got out of major surgery less than a week ago. Yes, I'm still in pain," she said. It was the most obvious answer in the world, which is why she didn't understand John asking her such a stupid question.

She knew John wouldn't appreciate the attitude or the sarcasm, but it wasn't really her fault. Regardless, he took the comment in stride and wrote something down on his clipboard. 'New anti-bitch medication for Ms. Fitzgerald' she imaged him writing.

"Ms. Fitzgerald, before we begin I just have to explain something. It's not a big issue, but we accidentally double-booked this session, so there is going to be two of you simultaneously," John explained. "Are you okay with that?"

As if the day could get any better. She shrugged her shoulders. "Whatever."

"Ms. Fitzgerald, I need your full consent to be able to run the session," John said with a hint of sternness in his voice. "I can assure you that we will take every precaution in not making this happen again, but for today I need you to be okay with this. The other patient is an athlete too, except with a shoulder injury."

"I guess I don't really have a choice, do I? Yes, I consent," she huffed. "Now can we get going, please? The sooner I'm out of this brace the better."

XXXXXXXXXX

Fergal was in the designated area first, due to his legs working just fine. He watched as other physiotherapists worked on their own patients, various injuries clear to him – one person kept rotating their ankle; a young woman kept extending her arm in and out; others were stretching.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John accompanying a woman into the open area. She was walking with a crutch, a leg brace extending from her thigh all the way to her ankle keeping her left leg completely straight and in place. She grimaced as she walked, completely tuning out John's questions of her being in pain and asking if she wanted to stop and take a rest before continuing. Eventually, she made her way to the physio bench beside where Fergal was sitting.

He got a good look at her as John helped her on to her own physio bench. She had short brown hair, a chin-length bob, and it looked unbrushed. Her face was dominated by a pair of thick eyebrows, her nose long and her lips thin. Naturally, he wondered how she got injured, but he knew better than to ask that as his opening line.

When she was settled in, lying on her back, John turned his focus to Fergal briefly. "Fergal, this is Gemma. Gemma, Fergal."

"Hiya," Fergal said, waving briefly, waiting for Gemma to respond. Instead, she huffed and puffed in pain, squeezing her eyes open and shut. She even turned her head away from his slightly, as to not catch his eyes.

Fergal looked to John, back at Gemma, and finally back to John, who gave him a sympathetic but telling slight shake of the head. "Alright, let's get you two started."

Fergal didn't think he'd ever been in so much pain before. After John had gotten him out of his sling, he began to move Fergal's shoulder, and even got Fergal to move it himself a couple of times. But it hurt. A lot. He had to stop and collect himself more than a few times because he just couldn't take it. At one point, he even asked John to stop.

But apparently that was nothing compared to what Gemma was going through. She couldn't lie still. Any small movement garnered groans, whimpers, cries out in pain. Tears were falling although she tried to wipe them away as quickly as they fell. Her knuckles turned white from how hard she was making fists with her hands. At some points she was practically hyperventilating.

It was all very hard to watch and listen to. Fergal never liked to see anybody in so much pain. When the session was finished, John put the full leg brace back on Gemma, helping her up from the bed and back on her feet.

As John grabbed her crutch learning against the wall, Fergal could swear she looked back at him for a millisecond. "It was nice to meet you," Fergal said politely.

Again, he was met with silence. John gave Fergal another sympathetic look as he helped her waddle off to the receptionist where she'd have to sign out before going home.

When John returned, he began to help Fergal put his giant sling back on. After a little bit of wincing here and there, it was firmly in place. John handed Fergal's little green ball back to him, encouraging him to keep squeezing it throughout the day.

"What's up with that girl?" Fergal asked as John recorded the last bits of the session on his clipboard.

John looked up. "Gemma?"

"Yeah. She seemed…I don't know, a bit cold. Standoffish. Kind of miserable, really."

John shrugged his shoulders. "She's been like that for a while, from what I hear. At least since about a week or two before her surgery," John said.

"What did she get done?" Fergal asked.

"That I can't tell you," John said seriously. "I'm not allowed to discuss patients with other patients."

"Gotcha."

"Although, I mean, it's kind of obvious it's a knee issue."

"Right," Fergal nodded his head. "She's doing all of her physio here, too?"

"For the foreseeable future, yeah," John nodded his head. "But don't worry about being double-booked with her again. I'll make sure it's one-on-one from now on. To be honest, you might not even ever see her again."

Fergal nodded his head in understanding, John telling him he was good to gather his things and sign out of the building. As John walked away, back into the offices, Fergal looked over to the physio bed Gemma had used. Some of the material was still scrunched up at the sides where Gemma had been squeezing it, ready to rip it out at any given moment.

Fergal began to wonder whether or not this was Gemma's first injury; whether all of this pain was new to her, or if she had experienced it before. Before he could get too deep into thought, he snapped out of it, hopping off the physio bed and making his way to the front to sign out.

After all, like John said, he'd probably never see her again.