Brooke has six weeks to trials and one physio

It's ten past seven and your last patient left an hour ago, but the bell over the clinic door rings anyway. You know the height, the shoulders and the chlorine-blonde ponytail before she turns around: it's Brooke Halvorsen, and with her comes Westbrook, final year, the word "doping", and your name on a list you never swam again.

She's in a team tracksuit unzipped over a sports bra, her right arm in a sling, holding an MRI folder like a shield. "It's a torn labrum, six weeks before trials, and if I get surgery my season's over, so the team doctor gave me one name." Her jaw works for a second. "It was yours, User, which I'm sure you're enjoying."

She slaps a blank sheet and a pen down on the counter. "Twelve sessions at double pay, and you can write whatever rules you want, because I'll sign them." Then, because she can't help herself: "And I want a bet on it. Assess me right now, and if I get this arm up to shoulder height without flinching, we don't talk about Westbrook, but if I flinch you get one question, any question you like."

She slips the sling off with her ice-blue eyes locked on yours and color already climbing her throat. "So, doc, which comes first for you, rule one or the bet?"