Chapter 79 The First Crack
Harper's POV,
The call came at two AM on a Tuesday, three weeks after the wedding.
I was deep asleep when my phone started vibrating on the nightstand. I grabbed it blindly, saw "Unknown Number" and almost declined. Then I remembered—clinic emergency line. I'd given that number to all my clients for urgent injury concerns.
"Hello?" My voice was rough with sleep.
"Harper? It's Connor." The Canucks rookie. His voice was tight with pain. "I'm at the ER. I re-injured my shoulder. Badly. They're saying I might need surgery. I'm freaking out. Can you—I know it's late but—"
"Which hospital?"
"Vancouver General."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes." I was already out of bed, pulling on clothes.
Crew stirred. "What's wrong?"
"Connor. ER. Shoulder injury. I need to go." I grabbed my keys. "Go back to sleep. I'll text you when I know more."
"Harper, it's two AM. You don't have to—"
"He's scared and alone and he's my client. I'm going."
I drove through empty Vancouver streets, arriving at the ER to find Connor in a curtained bay, arm in a sling, face pale with pain and fear.
"Thank you for coming," he said immediately. "I know it's insane to call you in the middle of the night but the ER doctor doesn't understand hockey injuries and I'm terrified they're going to mess this up and end my career before it starts."
"Tell me what happened."
"I was at a bar. Celebrating my buddy's birthday. Some drunk guy got aggressive, pushed me. I fell weird, landed directly on my shoulder. The same one I separated in training camp." His voice cracked. "Harper, it hurts worse than the first time. Way worse. The ER doctor wants to do surgery tomorrow but he's not a sports medicine specialist. What if he screws it up? What if I can never play again?"
I examined his shoulder carefully—the swelling was significant, range of motion severely limited, pain response indicating potential rotator cuff involvement beyond the previous separation.
"This is bad," I said honestly. "But it's not career-ending. Not if you get the right surgeon. Not the ER doctor. You need the Canucks' orthopedic surgeon. Dr. Patterson. He specializes in hockey injuries."
"It's two in the morning. I can't just call the team surgeon."
"Yes you can. That's literally what he's there for." I pulled out my phone. "I'm texting Marcus. He'll have Dr. Patterson's emergency contact."
Marcus responded within five minutes with a phone number. I called it. Dr. Patterson answered, sounding awake despite the hour.
I explained the situation. He asked detailed questions. Then: "I'll be there in thirty minutes. Tell Connor not to let anyone operate until I assess it. This is exactly the kind of injury that gets butchered by ER doctors who don't understand athletic requirements."
Connor looked at me with such relief I thought he might cry. "Thank you. Seriously. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come."
"You would have figured it out. But I'm glad I could help."
Dr. Patterson arrived, examined Connor, ordered new imaging. By four AM, the diagnosis was clear: significant rotator cuff tear requiring surgery, but repairable. Six months recovery. Connor would miss most of the season but should make a full recovery.
"You'll play again," Dr. Patterson assured him. "But you need to be patient. No rushing this."
I stayed until Connor's parents arrived at six AM—they'd driven from Surrey the moment he called them. His mom hugged me, crying, thanking me for being there.
I drove home as the sun came up, exhausted and running on adrenaline.
Crew was awake, sitting on the couch with coffee. "How is he?"
"Surgery today. Six months recovery. But he'll be okay." I collapsed next to him. "I'm exhausted. And I have six clients scheduled today starting at nine AM."
"Cancel them."
"I can't cancel. People rely on me."
"Harper, you've been awake for twenty-four hours. You're going to burn out." He grabbed my hand. "Cancel the morning appointments. Reschedule. Take care of yourself."
"I don't cancel on clients. That's not professional."
"Neither is falling asleep during a session because you're too exhausted to function."
We argued for twenty minutes. Eventually I compromised—canceled my first two clients, kept the afternoon appointments. Slept for three hours, woke up feeling marginally human.
But the afternoon was brutal. My last client was a runner training for a marathon who'd developed severe shin splints. She wanted aggressive treatment to keep training through the pain.
"You need to rest," I told her. "Continuing to run is going to make this worse. Potentially cause stress fractures."
"But the marathon is in six weeks. I've been training for a year. I can't just stop now."
"If you don't stop now, you'll be stopping for six months with a fracture. It's your choice."
She left angry. Gave me a one-star review on Google that evening: Told me to stop training for my goal. Not supportive. Would not recommend.
I stared at the review on my phone, feeling sick. My first negative review. Out of twenty-five total reviews, I now had one that said I wasn't supportive.
"It's one review," Crew said when I showed him. "You have twenty-four five-star reviews. One angry runner doesn't matter."
"It matters to me. She thinks I don't support her goals. But I'm trying to prevent her from destroying her body."
"Then you did your job. Sometimes your job is telling people what they don't want to hear."
That night, I couldn't sleep. Kept checking the Google review. Kept thinking about Connor in the ER. About canceling clients. About that runner's anger.
Around midnight, Crew found me on the balcony.
"You're spiraling," he observed.
"I'm processing."
"You're catastrophizing. One bad review and one emergency call don't mean you're failing." He sat next to me. "Harper, you can't save everyone. You can't be available twenty-four-seven. You're going to burn out if you keep this up."
"What am I supposed to do? Ignore emergency calls? Let clients injure themselves because I'm too tired to care?"
"No. But you need boundaries. You need to take care of yourself so you can take care of others."
"That's easy for you to say. You have a team medical staff. I'm a one-person operation. If I don't answer, no one does."
"Then maybe it's time to hire help. An assistant. Someone to handle scheduling and emergencies when you're not available."
"I can't afford an assistant yet. The clinic's profitable but not that profitable."
"Then raise your rates. Or limit your hours. Or do something other than running yourself into the ground."
We didn't fight. But the conversation left both of us frustrated. Me feeling like Crew didn't understand the pressure of running a business. Him feeling like I was being stubborn about accepting help.
I went to bed alone. Crew stayed on the balcony.
The next morning, I had five missed calls from clients, two emergency voicemails, and a text from a potential new client saying they'd found someone else because I didn't respond fast enough.
"This is what I mean," I told Crew at breakfast. "I can't just not be available. People need me."
"People needed you before you existed. They'll figure it out if you set boundaries."
"You don't get it."
"I get that you're trying to prove something. That you're capable. That the clinic can succeed. But Harper, it's already successful. You're booked six weeks out. You have a waitlist. You've proven yourself. Now you need to sustain it instead of burning out."
I left for the clinic without responding.
That day, I had seven clients. All went fine until client number six—a hockey player from a junior team, referred by one of the Canucks. He showed up thirty minutes late, didn't apologize, spent the entire session on his phone, then complained that the treatment "wasn't working" after one session.
"This is a process," I explained. "One session isn't going to fix three months of repetitive strain injury. You need to commit to the treatment plan."
"That's a lot of appointments. I don't have time for that."
"Then your injury won't heal. It's that simple."
He left. Didn't book a follow-up. Left a three-star review: Treatment was fine but therapist was kind of intense about commitment. Felt judged.
Two bad reviews in two days.
I closed the clinic at six PM, drove home, found Crew making dinner.
"How was your day?" he asked carefully.
"Terrible. Another bad review. A client who doesn't want to commit to treatment. Five emergency calls I couldn't answer because I was with other clients. And I'm exhausted and frustrated and feeling like I'm failing at this."
"You're not failing—"
"Don't. Please don't try to fix this right now. I just need to be frustrated for a minute."
Crew set down the spatula. "Okay. Be frustrated. I'll listen."
"I don't want you to listen. I want you to understand that running a business is hard and I'm doing my best and some days my best isn't enough."
"I do understand that—"
"No you don't. You show up to practice. You play hockey. You have a whole medical staff and trainers and support system. I'm one person trying to do everything and it's too much and I don't know how to fix it."
Crew was quiet for a moment. Then: "You're right. I don't fully understand. But I'm trying to. And I'm watching you burn out in real time and I don't know how to help you when you won't let me."
"I'm not asking you to help. I'm asking you to understand."
"I'm trying to do both."
We ate dinner in uncomfortable silence. The first real friction since getting married three weeks ago.
After dinner, I went to the bedroom early. Crew stayed in the living room.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything. The clinic. The clients. The expectations. The pressure to succeed. The fear of failing.
My phone buzzed. Text from Maya: Dinner tomorrow? You sound stressed in your texts. Want to talk?
Yes. Desperately. I'll text you times tomorrow.
Hang in there. You're doing great even when it doesn't feel like it.
I fell asleep alone, Crew still in the living room. When I woke up at three AM, he was in bed next to me, but on his side facing away.