Sheila tsk-tsked as she massaged the Ben-Gay into Devin's shoulder. "I told you to leave the shuttlecock practice alone for a few weeks," she scolded.

"I was bored," protested Devin. "I'm an athlete; I can't just sit around all day poking at my Facebook. It's bad for the soul."

"Well," Sheila said, kneading the muscles, "you'll be totally off this shoulder for a few days now. You're lucky you don't need a cast." She stood up from the massage table, walking over to the microwave. Inside she'd heated up a herbal tea, and she removed it now and brought it to Devin. "For your nerves."

"You're too good to me," said Devin, rolling over and sitting up. With his good arm he reached for the cup's handle, sipping lightly from the chamomile blend.

"Alright," said Sheila, "so you're done with the internet for the day, and you're really done with your racket. I suppose you'll need some sort of distraction, eh?"

Devin raised an eyebrow. "Am I allowed to do that in my condition?"

"I know a few unorthodox positions," cooed Sheila. "Might take some getting used to, but I think you'll pick it up quickly. You're a fast learner."

"Full speed ahead," said Devin, grinning.