Chapter 70 The First Client
Harper's POV,
The clinic was ready.
Officially, legally, actually ready.
I stood in the doorway holding my coffee, staring at the space that had been a construction zone for six weeks. Now it was polished. Professional. Real.
Reception desk positioned by the windows, exactly where I'd envisioned. Three treatment rooms with new tables, equipment, storage. My office in the corner with a desk Maya had helped me pick out online. Waiting area with chairs that didn't look medical—comfortable, welcoming, the kind of space that said "we care about your comfort, not just your injury."
And on the front window, in clean vinyl lettering: Sinclair Sports Medicine Clinic.
My name. My clinic. My dream.
I took a photo and sent it to Maya with the caption: Opening day. Send help. I'm terrified.
She responded immediately: You've got this. Now go be the badass physical therapist you've always been.
The door opened. I turned, expecting maybe a lost pedestrian or someone asking for directions.
Instead, it was Marcus Oladipo. With a kid who looked barely old enough to drink legally, wearing Canucks gear and cradling his left arm protectively.
"Harper!" Marcus grinned. "Hope you don't mind us showing up unannounced. This is Connor Shaw. Rookie. Separated his shoulder last week in practice. Team medical cleared him but he needs ongoing PT. I told him you're the best."
Connor extended his good hand. "Nice to meet you. Marcus talks about you constantly. Says you're the person who actually listens instead of just throwing ice and painkillers at everything."
"That's very kind. Come on in." I led them to the reception desk, trying to look professional instead of terrified. "Let me get your information and we'll get started."
Marcus clapped Connor on the back. "I'll leave you in Harper's capable hands. Text me when you're done. We'll grab lunch."
After he left, I got Connor settled in treatment room two. Had him fill out intake paperwork while I reviewed his medical records from the team doctor.
Separated shoulder. Grade two. Conservative treatment recommended. Four to six weeks of PT before returning to full contact.
Standard injury. I'd treated dozens of these. I knew exactly what to do.
So why were my hands shaking?
"You okay?" Connor asked, noticing.
"Yeah. Sorry. First official client in my new clinic. Little nervous."
"If it helps, I'm nervous too. I've never had a serious injury before. I don't know if I'll heal right or if this screws up my whole season." His voice was younger than his face suggested. Twenty years old and terrified his dream was already over.
I sat down across from him. "Connor, separated shoulders are common in hockey. The fact that it's grade two means you caught it early, you're getting treatment, and you're following protocol. With proper PT, you'll be back on the ice in four to six weeks. Probably closer to four given your age and fitness level."
"Really?"
"Really. I've seen players come back from way worse. This is manageable. But it requires commitment to the exercises, showing up consistently, and being honest with me about pain levels. Can you do that?"
"Absolutely."
We spent the next hour working through his shoulder mobility. I assessed range of motion, strength, pain levels. Developed a treatment plan: three sessions per week, specific exercises to do at home, ice and heat protocols, gradual progression back to full activity.
Connor left with a folder of instructions, a follow-up appointment scheduled, and visible relief on his face.
"Thank you," he said at the door. "I feel like I can actually handle this now instead of just panicking."
"That's my job. Making injuries feel manageable instead of catastrophic."
After he left, I collapsed in my desk chair and called Crew.
"How'd it go?" he answered immediately.
"I did it. I had my first client. And I didn't screw up. I actually knew what I was doing."
"Of course you knew what you were doing. You're a physical therapist with ten years of experience. Why would you suddenly forget how to do your job?"
"I don't know. Imposter syndrome? Fear of failure? The usual anxiety that comes with starting a business?" I spun in my desk chair. "But Crew, it was perfect. Connor needed help and I helped him. This is real. The clinic is actually real."
"I'm proud of you. So fucking proud."
"Can you take a late lunch? Come see the clinic properly now that it's operational?"
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
He arrived eighteen minutes later with takeout from the poke place. We ate sitting on the floor of treatment room one, surrounded by equipment and the smell of new paint.
"This is incredible," he said, looking around. "You built this. From nothing. In two months."
"With your help. And Maya's. And the settlement money from Brianna's dad trying to destroy me. But yeah. I built this."
"What happens now? Do you have other clients scheduled?"
"Not yet. Connor was a favor from Marcus. But I have a website going live today. I've been networking with the Canucks medical staff. And I registered with Canadian sports medicine directories." I took a bite of salmon. "It's going to be slow at first. Building a client base takes time."
"But you're not worried."
"I'm terrified. But I'm doing it anyway. There's a difference."
My phone buzzed. Email notification. I checked it absently, expecting spam.
Instead, it was a booking request through my new website. Tyler Chen—Crew's teammate from the rink. The one who'd thanked Crew for being open about rehab.
Hi Harper, Tyler Chen here. Crew's teammate. I've had chronic back pain for two seasons. Team doctors keep saying it's minor but it's affecting my play. Can I book an initial assessment? I've heard great things about your approach. Thanks.
I showed Crew the email. He grinned. "See? Word of mouth. That's how you build a business."
"One client recommends me and suddenly I'm a legitimate clinic?"
"That's exactly how it works. Connor will tell other rookies. Tyler will tell other guys with chronic issues. Within a month, you'll be booked solid."
"You're very optimistic for someone who spent three years being a pessimist."
"Therapy changed me. I'm insufferable now with my positive outlook and healthy coping mechanisms."
I booked Tyler for Wednesday afternoon. Then another email came in—someone named Andrea who'd found me through the sports medicine directory. Runner with IT band issues.
By the end of the day, I had five appointments scheduled for the next two weeks.
Five people who needed help. Five people who'd found my clinic and thought I could help them.
It was working. Actually working.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Not from anxiety—from excitement. The kind of buzzing energy that comes from doing something you've dreamed about for years and realizing it's actually possible.
Around midnight, Crew found me in the living room, pacing.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
"My brain won't shut off. I keep thinking about treatment plans and scheduling and marketing and all the things I need to do to make this clinic sustainable."
"Come here." He pulled me onto the couch. "Tell me what you're thinking. All of it."
So I did. About the five appointments scheduled. About needing to hire an assistant eventually for scheduling and billing. About expanding to evening hours if demand increased. About maybe, someday, hiring another therapist and growing beyond just me.
"You're already planning expansion," Crew said. "The clinic's been open one day."
"I know. I'm getting ahead of myself. I should focus on just surviving the first month."
"Or you should let yourself dream big. You've spent ten years making yourself small. You're allowed to want more." He kissed my forehead. "Harper, you're going to build something incredible here. I know it. You know it. Stop waiting for permission to believe in yourself."
"When did you become so wise?"
"Dr. Okonkwo. She's very good at her job." He pulled me closer. "But seriously. I'm proud of you. Sixty-three days ago I was in a hospital bed after overdosing. You were facing criminal charges and bankruptcy. Now I'm playing clean hockey and you're running your own clinic. We did that. We actually pulled ourselves out of the disaster."
"We're still disasters. Just functional ones now."
"Recovering disasters. There's a difference."
We fell asleep on the couch, too tired to move to the bedroom. My phone buzzed at some point with another booking notification, but I was already asleep.
The next morning, I woke up to seven new emails. Four were spam. Three were booking requests.
The clinic's second day, and I already had eight appointments scheduled.
I called Maya while making coffee.
"It's working," I said when she answered. "The clinic. People are actually booking appointments. Real people who found me online and want help."
"Of course it's working. You're excellent at your job. People need what you offer. This was always going to succeed. You just had to believe it." She paused. "Harper, three weeks until I move there. Can you handle the clinic launch without me?"
"I'm going to have to. But yes. I think I can."
"Good. Because I'm bringing my entire life in a U-Haul and I'm going to need help unpacking. Consider it payment for all the times I helped you move."
"Deal."
The second week, I had twelve appointments. The third week, eighteen. By week four, I was booked solid Monday through Friday, nine to five, with a waitlist starting to form.
I had to raise my rates. Had to establish cancellation policies. Had to set boundaries around emergency appointments. All the business things I'd never thought about when I was just an employee.
Connor came back for his week-three follow-up. His shoulder mobility had improved dramatically.
"You were right," he said during the session. "Four weeks and I'm almost back to full range of motion. Team doctors are impressed. They're asking where I've been going for PT."
"Tell them the truth. I need all the referrals I can get."
"Already did. I think three guys are going to call you this week."
He was right. By Friday, I had six more Canucks players booked. The clinic was becoming the unofficial PT spot for Vancouver hockey players who wanted someone who actually understood their sport.
The only problem was my work visa situation.
I was operating in a legal gray area. Technically, I wasn't "working"—clients were making "donations" to my clinic fund. But that fiction wouldn't hold up if immigration investigated.
Crew and I were already gathering paperwork for the common-law sponsorship application, but we'd only been living together ten weeks. We needed to prove a full year of cohabitation.
"What if we apply early?" I asked one night over dinner. "Explain the circumstances. Show that our relationship is genuine even if it hasn't been a full year yet."
"We can try. But immigration doesn't usually bend rules." Crew scrolled through his phone, reading about sponsorship requirements. "What if we got married?"
I almost choked on my noodles. "What?"
"Not for real. Well, for real legally but not for... I'm explaining this badly." He set down his phone. "If we got married, you'd qualify for spousal sponsorship immediately. No waiting period. You could work legally while the application processes."
"Crew, we've been together four months. That's insane."
"I know. But we're already planning to apply for common-law sponsorship. Marriage just speeds up the timeline." He grabbed my hand. "I'm not proposing because of immigration. I'm saying that if we're already committed to spending our lives together, why wait a year for paperwork purposes?"
"Because marriage is a big deal. It's not just paperwork."
"You're right. Forget I said anything. We'll wait the year. Figure out the work visa thing another way."
But I couldn't forget. The idea sat in my brain, impossible to ignore.
Marriage.
To Crew.
For immigration purposes.
And maybe also because I loved him and wanted to spend my life with him anyway.
The immigration requirement just accelerated the timeline.
"Let me think about it," I said.
"Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
That night, I called Maya.
"Crew suggested we get married so I can work legally in Canada."
"WHAT?" she screamed. "Harper, that's insane. You've been together four months. That's too fast."
"I know it's fast. But also, we're already planning to apply for common-law status. Marriage just speeds it up."
"Are you in love with him?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to spend your life with him?"
"Yes."
"Then why does the timeline matter?" Maya's voice softened. "Harper, forget immigration. Forget timelines. Do you want to marry Crew Lawson?"
I thought about it. Really thought about it.
"Yeah," I said. "I do. Not because of paperwork. But because he's the person I want. Forever."
"Then marry him. But make sure he proposes properly. Not with 'let's solve our immigration problem.' You deserve romance."
"He's a recovering addict hockey player. Romance might not be his strong suit."
"Then teach him. You're good at that."
After we hung up, I found Crew on the balcony.
"I've been thinking," I said.
"Dangerous activity."
"About your marriage suggestion. And I think... maybe we should do it. Not just for immigration. But because I love you and I want to spend my life with you and the paperwork is just accelerating what was already inevitable."
He turned to look at me. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure. But Maya says you have to propose properly. Not with logistics. With actual romance."
"I can do romance. I've been practicing." He got down on one knee right there on the balcony. "Harper Sinclair, will you marry me? Not because of Canadian immigration law. But because you're the person who saved my life. Because you're the person I choose every day. Because I love you and I want to build a life with you that's messy and imperfect and ours."
I was crying now. Happy tears. "Yes. I'll marry you. For immigration. And for love. Both reasons simultaneously."
He kissed me on our Vancouver balcony, the city glowing below us.
We were getting married.
For love and for paperwork.
Both equally important.