Chapter Text
004
Do Re Mi
July 2nd, 2005 – Rust-eze Performance Training Complex, Los Angeles
The garage was silent except for the dull echo of fans spinning overhead and the occasional clang of tools being tossed onto the metal tray. Monty “Lightning” McQueen sat sideways on a treatment table, his race suit unzipped halfway and slung around his waist, his bare upper torso damp with sweat. His right shoulder—swollen, stiff—twitched under Y/N’s gloved hands.
She pressed into the anterior deltoid, carefully palpating the bursa beneath.
“On a scale of 1 to 10?” she asked, voice clinical, eyes on his reaction.
He winced. “…Eight. Maybe nine. But I can still drive.”
Y/N sighed. “You shouldn’t. This is subacromial bursitis, McQueen. You’ve got fluid building up under the deltoid—your bursa’s inflamed from overuse. I bet you’ve been compensating ever since Spare Mint.”
He looked away.
“Thought so.”
MEDICAL NOTE:
Subacromial bursitis occurs when the small sac of fluid (bursa) cushioning the shoulder joint becomes inflamed, usually from repetitive motion
like the constant rotational strain on a racecar driver’s shoulder during high-G turns.
Symptoms include but are not limited to:
- Pain with overhead or cross-body movement
- Reduced range of motion
- Swelling around the shoulder
- Being a drama queen
- Discomfort when lying on the affected side
Treatment however, include:
- Rest from aggravating activities
- NSAIDs for inflammation
- Physical therapy
- Cryotherapy (ice application)
- Doing your hot athletic trainer
- In extreme cases: corticosteroid injection
July 7th, 2005 – Ice Therapy Suite
McQueen laid back as she pressed a chilled compression sleeve to his shoulder, the icy latex conforming to the shape of his joint. He hissed. “Fucking hell…”
“Yeah, well,” she said coolly, adjusting the pressure valve, “next time you decide to power through a rotator pattern issue, maybe let the medical professional know first?”
His eyes flicked to her. “You sound pissed.”
“I am.”
There was a long pause, the hum of the cryo unit filling the silence.
“…Thanks for doing this,” he muttered finally.
She didn’t look at him. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d do it for anyone.”
July 18th, 2005 – Manual Mobilization Session
Y/N rotated his arm gently, stretching the joint capsule. “Let me know if the pain spikes.”
“You touching me’s pain enough.”
She smirked. “Then scream into the towel like the rest of them, hun.”
Monty flushed, his neck coloring.
“Not so mouthy now, huh?” she added, pressing her thumb into the tendon groove, forcing the anterior head of the humerus to shift. His breath hitched.
“You enjoy this,” he accused.
“Making cocky drivers cry? It’s the highlight of my career.”
August 3rd, 2005 – Range of Motion Test
He was improving. Shoulder flexion and internal rotation were back to near baseline. The inflammation had gone down considerably, and he’d stuck to every regimen—whether it was resistance bands, rotator cuff isolations, or manual myofascial release.
“Clear to race?” he asked.
“Not yet. I’m not signing off until I see you hit 40 consecutive laps with full range and no flare-up.”
Monty groaned. “You’re killing me.”
“No, I’m saving your season.”
He grinned at her, teeth bright. “You’re cute when you’re mean.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, tossing him a resistance band. “Shut up and externally rotate.”
August 12th, 2005 – Rust-eze Training Circuit
The test run was brutal. Full track simulation. Engine torque pulling his upper body, G-force punishing every joint. But he powered through—all 47 laps.
Y/N stood at the finish line with a stopwatch and clipboard. When Monty finally rolled in, shoulder visibly tight but still mobile, she nodded once.
“You’re clear.”
He breathed hard, sweat dripping from his chin. “I owe you.”
“You owe me less whining.”
August 28th, 2005 – Rust-eze Training Track
It was golden hour over the Rust-eze Performance Center—the sun hanging low, casting long shadows over the worn asphalt and sun-faded bleachers. The heat of the day still clung to the ground as Monty brought the No. 95 back into the paddock, his engine humming down to a slow idle as he popped the door open and stepped out. His race suit was tied around his waist, a clingy white tank sticking to his back with sweat.
Y/N stood by the cooler, scribbling his lap times with one hand and sipping Gatorade with the other, her aviators catching the last glint of sunlight.
From behind the glass doors of the facility, two loud, unmistakable voices cut through the quiet:
“There’s our golden boy!”
“Fastest thing to ever touch this track—besides our hemorrhoids ointment campaign in ’94!”
Monty looked up just in time to see Rusty and Dusty, the Rust-eze founders themselves, hobbling their way out to the pit lane like they owned it. Rusty wore a crooked NASCAR hat too big for his head; Dusty’s button-up was halfway undone, exposing a gold chain and wiry chest hair.
“Boys,” McQueen called, tugging off his gloves, “you drove all the way here?”
Dusty puffed out his chest. “We sprinted. Can’t miss our baby boy clocking his fastest practice times of the season.”
Rusty slapped Monty’s shoulder with zero regard for his still-recovering joint. “We heard you ran forty-eight laps clean. Shoulder still in the socket?”
“Barely,” McQueen muttered, side-eying Y/N, who smirked but said nothing.
Rusty gestured dramatically. “You’ve got one race left to prove the world what we already know: you’re the future of racing, kid.”
Dusty pointed a gnarled finger in his face. “You take that Grandol Oil Co. 400 and make it yours. We didn’t sponsor some greasy-haired rookie just so he could lose to a bunch of oil-branded pensioners.”
Monty chuckled. “You guys aren’t gonna like me when I get all cocky.”
“We already don’t like you. But we love a champion.”
Rusty handed him a worn Rust-eze rag. “Clean off and get some rest. September’s coming fast.”
The two of them shuffled off back to the garage, still bickering about which one of them invented Rust-eze’s anti-rust formula.
Y/N leaned against the wall, eyes following them. “You really gonna win that thing?”
McQueen wiped his face. “Guess I better.”
She tossed him a fresh towel. “Then don’t fuck it up.”
He laughed. “I missed you being nice for like…five seconds.”
Y/N shrugged, heading inside. “You were hallucinating.”
August 30th, 2005 — Rust-eze Performance Center
The night had cooled off from the brutal SoCal heat. Cicadas droned in the distance, and a soft breeze rustled through the palm trees flanking the private Rust-eze track. The air smelled like asphalt, sweat, and the sharp sting of tire rubber that never quite left the training complex, even after hours.
The garage was mostly dark now—just the occasional flicker from overhead fluorescents, buzzing slightly, casting long shadows over the rows of too-shiny tools and gear. Monty sat alone on a low stack of tires in the corner of the bay, shoulder taped and elevated, a cold compress resting against it. His body ached in a dull, familiar way, but it wasn’t pain he couldn’t handle.
His eyes were on the floor, zoned out, until a familiar voice broke the quiet:
“Hey.”
Y/N stepped in, clipboard tucked under her arm, her voice softer than usual. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
He didn’t look up. “Didn’t think you would be.”
“I work here. You don’t sleep here.” She leaned against the tool bench nearby, crossing her arms. Her voice wasn’t teasing—just… honest.
Monty finally looked over at her. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.” She smirked, but the edges of it faded fast. “…Shoulder?”
“Fine.” He winced slightly as he shifted. “Told you. I’m good.”
She rolled her eyes. “If I had a dollar for every time a man told me that right before collapsing on the track…”
He laughed—short, tired. Then he ran a hand over his face. “You think I’m ready?”
Y/N didn’t answer right away. She just watched him for a moment—studying his posture, the tightness around his eyes, the little micro-expressions he probably didn’t even know he was making. After a beat, she nodded.
“Yeah. You are.”
His brows lifted, surprised. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”
She pushed off the counter, her steps light as she moved toward the door. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
As she reached the exit, she paused. Didn’t turn around, just stood there a second—maybe reconsidering whether to say anything else.
Before finally speaking up, one last time.
“You want to win this next race? Then sleep. Hydrate. Stick to your PT. Don’t try to carry the weight of the whole season on one shoulder. That’s how guys like you end up with torn rotator cuffs before twenty-five.”
A beat.
“…Trust me.”
And with that, she was gone.
Monty sat there a while longer. The cool pack pressed against his shoulder, but the heat in his chest—that stuck around.
End of August.
September, and The 2005 Grandol Oil Co. 400, was just around the corner.