Most knee dislocation injuries for athletes result in artery and nerve damage as well, and I have to block out the possibilities of this as they examine me one more time. During the exam, they use a portable ultrasound machine to watch the blood flow in the popliteal artery, the one that runs behind the knee, and all signs point to undamaged. Thank God. Otherwise I would have been rushed to a hospital here to prevent amputation of the lower leg. Additionally, they kept poking at the peroneal nerve to see if it had been compromised, and it doesn’t appear that it has. The consequences of that could be temporary paralysis like drop foot, or even worse, permanent paralysis.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital here? I would feel more comfortable having it looked at in greater detail to rule out some of the other complications we examined for.” He wraps his stethoscope around his neck and frowns down at me. I lean farther into Meg, and her arms tighten around me.
“Blood flow is fine?” I watch his face for any tell that might express that it’s not. He gives me none.
“Seems to be.” He shrugs his shoulder a tiny bit.
If he thought for one second there were complications beyond ligament tears, he would have already put me in an ambulance. I know him; he errs on the side of caution versus let’s wait and see.
“Then I want to go home,” I tell him matter-of-factly.
The doctor lets out a deep sigh, nods, and positions himself next to the team’s head athletic trainer to help me off the table and onto the cart. I show Meg where my things are, she grabs my bag, which the sports trainer packed for me, and the three of us hang on as we’re taken through the emergency vehicle tunnel to an SUV that’s waiting outside.
“So, Jack,” Dr. Leffers starts after they’ve positioned me in the car. “We’ve arranged for a vehicle to pick you up at the executive airport in Tampa, and from there you will head straight to the hospital, where Dr. Watson will be waiting for you. I don’t foresee there being any problems or delays, and if all goes well, by this time tomorrow, you should be home in your own bed recovering.”
I give him a nod. “Sounds good. Thanks, Doc.”
The words are like acid on my tongue. I’m thankful he’s helping me, but I’m not thankful that I’m in this situation in the first place. I’m sad, frustrated, and extremely pissed off.
He wishes me well, lets me know he’ll be following up with Dr. Watson, and says he’ll see me in a few days. The door closes, and silence descends like a vacuum. I’m closed off from the game, from my teammates, and with every mile further separating me from them, my soul feels more lost.
The entire commute to the plane is silent. Meg is in the front seat due to me needing the full back to extend my leg, but she glances my way a couple of times, and once she reaches back and rests her hand on top of my uninjured knee.
I know there are things I need to say to her, mainly that she doesn’t have to be here, doesn’t have to come with me, but selfishly I want her by my side, so I refrain from giving her the out.
As we board the private plane, I’m helped by staff waiting to assist me, and after I’m seated with my leg stretched out in the aisle, Meg boards and sits across the way, in the opposite rear-facing seat so she can look at me. It’s the first time in the last hour I’ve taken an actual detailed look at her, and she’s a sight for sore eyes. It’s then I see she’s wearing my number.
My number.
Not just a team T-shirt to support the Tarpons, but one with my name across her back to support me. I know that’s what fans do, buy gear with our numbers, but still, on her it looks like I’m hers and feels like she’s mine. An unexpected sense of pride waves through me, and I catch my breath, swallowing down even more emotions trying to push their way to the top.
The door to the plane closes, and the single stewardess gives us her spiel. I reach over to hold Meg’s hand, neither of us saying anything, just looking at each other.
“Thank you for being here,” I tell her once we’ve taken off, rubbing my thumb across the back of her hand.
She shifts in her seat so she’s better facing me and gives me a small smile. “I was only there for you in the first place. Where you are is where I want to be.”
Her words touch a place deep in my chest. I want to smile back, I do, but I can’t seem to get my lips to rise. She’s so beautiful.
“I didn’t know you were coming. When we talked about it this week, you said no.” I look at her earnestly.
“I know. It was a last-minute decision by Lexi, and well, she invited me to be her plus-one, so I jumped at the opportunity. I felt regret about missing your game, and it hadn’t even happened yet. I wanted to be there. So, when she called going into the weekend, the only thing to say was yes.”
“I wish you had told me,” I tell her. My parents weren’t interested in coming due to the weather, which is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, so I didn’t think I was sharing the experience with anyone other than the team.
She shrugs her shoulders.
“I thought about it, but you needed to focus, and I just figured I would see you afterward.” She smiles warmly, but her eyes tell me differently. She thought she’d see me afterward, after we won. Then again, it’s what we all thought. At takeoff, the Wolves were leading, and right now, I just can’t bring myself to log into the plane’s Wi-Fi and look.
“Where were you sitting?” I ask curiously.
“In one of the team-provided boxes with Lexi, Camille, Missy, and others. It was a great seat, plus we had warming lamps, which was a really nice perk.”
That’s good. I’m glad she was with them and she was warm. The average temperature in February in Seattle is forty-nine, but today it was a little colder.
“Are you in a lot of pain?” she asks, her eyes scanning over my splinted leg.
“Not at the moment. They gave me a ton of painkillers.” I’m actually starting to feel really tired. With the combination of the medicine and my adrenaline wearing off, it’s left me lethargic and sluggish.
“Then you should be eating something.” She sits up in her seat as if this gives her purpose. I think in these situations, it’s natural for the significant other—not that that’s what she is, but close enough—to want to help, to be moving, doing, useful, so even though I’m not hungry, I agree.
“Probably.” I lean my head back on the headrest. Her hair was down when she first walked into the locker room, but now it’s up. The blanket she tossed over her lap twists as she finds the call button, ringing for the stewardess, and requests that some food be brought over. Underneath, her foot pops out, and I take in the tall black boots that are wrapped over her tight jeans and up to her knees. Damn, those are hot. I wouldn’t be a red-blooded male if I didn’t wonder what she would look like in those boots and nothing else.
Settling into silence, we both stare at each other until the food comes. It isn’t much, more just snacks, but I decide she was right about me needing to eat as the pineapple banana bread goes down easily and calms my upset stomach.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, nibbling on some cubed cheese.
“How my whole life, all I ever wanted was to play in the Super Bowl.” Letting out a deep sigh, I drop eye contact with her, the ache of disappointment in my chest intensifying.
“Well, it might have been a little shorter than you would’ve liked, but you did get to play,” she tells me, trying to put a positive spin on it.
I can’t help the snort that escapes and end up mumbling, “I guess.” In my dreams, it was for a full four quarters and we won at the end.
Wishing I hadn’t brought it up, I change the subject. “You went on a date earlier this week.” It’s not a question, just a statement.
“I did.” She opted for a bottle of water instead of a drink, and I watch as she picks it up and brings it to her lips for a sip.
“I saw you post the new dish on OBA’s page, an aged cheddar and apple German pancake. Tell me about it.” I’m hoping she reads b
etween the lines: Tell me a story, keep me distracted.
“He was nice, but not what I was expecting.” She moves the food tray away from her and props her feet up in the seat across from her.
“You met him online?” We’ve talked about her dating before, but we’ve never talked about the specifics of it.
“Yep. I’m so busy, so that’s where I’ve connected with most of my dates this past year.”
“Hmm. Where did he take you?”
I would be lying if I said the idea of strange dudes prowling the internet and creeping on her profile sat well with me. I get that sometimes there are love connections made, but mostly it seems like a shady way for people to catfish.
“Well, not that there’s really anything wrong with it, but he took me to Italiano’s.”
I blink at her, and it takes me a second to register what she’s said. “Wait, the large chain restaurant?”
“Yep.” She pinches her lips shut and nods once. “In a city like Charleston, he took me to an inauthentic place.”
How unoriginal. Sounds like something my parents would do because it’s the easy choice. They rarely try new places, preferring consistent and boring.
“Did he know you own your own restaurant?” I’m appalled for her and the story has just begun.
“Nope. I don’t tell them that, but I do have the guys meet me at the restaurant. As far as they know, it’s where I work, so that should say something about my food preferences and be their first clue about the type of places I frequent.”
I’ve never been to her restaurant, but I’ve looked at enough photos and reviews online to know it’s unique and original. Seems to me he should have switched to a different place once he saw OBA.
“Was he at least nice?” I ask, running my hand through my hair and feeling frustrated for her. Already I feel like the guy has more slashes in the con column on his pros and cons list.
“He was, and I tried really hard to overlook where we were and what he ordered—which, by the way, was chicken parmesan. That’s not a problem in itself either, it’s just so predictable. It’s boring even for a restaurant like that. But, wait for it, though . . . then we went to a biergarten, and the bouncer checked our IDs at the door.”
I can feel my brows pull down.
“He mumbled his birthdate, and I did the math in my head—it made him fifty-one. Fifty-one. I don’t have a problem with older men, but he told me he was thirty-five. And before you say anything”—she holds up her hand—“no, he didn’t look over fifty. His hair must be dyed, because it wasn’t gray, and well, he just looked the age he said. Clearly he gets away with it, but he lied, and the twenty-plus-year age gap is too much for me. That’s essentially father range, and just no, thank you.”
A small chuckle comes out of me. I’m surprised, given our current circumstance, and I think she is too as a tiny smile slips over her lips.
“Well then.”
“I know, right?” She shakes her head then leans over to remove the tray in front of me and stacks it with hers.
“How did you get out of there then?”
“Once we got inside, he ordered us a beer at the bar, and I just asked him. At first he looked surprised, and then he got an attitude about why that mattered, and that’s when I called it a night. He didn’t say anything as I kindly thanked him for dinner and left.”
“That explains the aged cheddar.” I smirk at her, and she grins in return.
Silence falls over us again, and eventually the heavy weight of my eyes has them drifting shut. At the sound of movement next to me, I crack them open and watch as Meg unfolds a blanket and drapes it over my chest and lap. A whiff of her perfume floats my way, the same smell that engulfed me in the training room, and my gaze falls to her neck. She’s so tiny, her skin so smooth, and I find that if I could, I would absolutely lean into her again.
As she settles back into her seat, I let out a deep breath, and the exhaustion of the last hour and a half sinks in. Disappointment is a funny thing. It taints the soul with a good mixture of ache and numbness, and today it’s been handed out in spades. While I am so grateful she is here, I feel that disappointment with her a little as well. I know she let that guy in December kiss her, but I’ve often wondered if she ever allows for more. I know it’s none of my business what she does, even if I don’t like it, but that doesn’t change the fact that deep down I wish she were kissing me.
Pineapple Banana Bread
EVERYONE HAS A number, a number that’s their favorite, one they love, or just one they gravitate toward, and for me that number is one. I like being number one at things, always have. I was first chair cello when I was in school and graduated in the number one position at the top of my class as valedictorian, but it’s also about being the kind of friend where I’m the first one people call when they need help. So, it wasn’t surprising when I learned about numerology and discovered my number is one. I laughed to myself and soaked up the attributes that go along with it: independence, leadership, trailblazing, entrepreneurship, creativity, and originality.
Then, ironically when I was twenty-one, I went to one routine doctor’s appointment, had one image scan, one blood draw, and that turned into one diagnosis.
Ovarian cancer.
From there, everything changed, and for the next six months I lived one day at a time.
Back and forth to one hospital, where there was really only one emotion I lived with every day . . . fear.
If I’m being honest with myself, I still live with fear.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone that being in a hospital, even though it isn’t for me or one I’m familiar with, still causes me anxiety. I’m doing my best to not let it show, but I know it’s there whether he sees it or not. He probably doesn’t, but I’m surprised by how hard it is to keep it buried away.
He finally fell asleep on the plane, and I think I got a little bit of a rest, but mostly I was wide awake with the knowledge of where we were heading. It’s a good thing this is a different hospital, because I’m certain my reaction would have been infinitely more noticeable had it been mine.
Just remembering the sights, the smells—mainly the antiseptic one—the room temperature, the people, the noises . . . all of it has me cringing and my insides protesting. But, being the best friend I’m supposed to be, I’m mentally sucking it up because he needs me.
And he does.
I’m not sure if he would ever admit it or not, but the haunted look in his eyes has only increased with each state we pass over, his grip on my hand only strengthened. I wondered about the pain medicine wearing off, but he never said anything. It was when we landed that the driver told us he was sorry about our team, said he was really pulling for them. Jack mumbled a thanks in return then leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.
The Tarpons lost the Super Bowl.
What an overall disappointing experience.
I had been hanging on to the hope that they would win and that would help his disposition, but the news just made things worse as he further retreated into himself.
When we eventually arrived at the hospital, they didn’t take us to the emergency room; instead they put Jack in a wheelchair and escorted us to a private room. There was a flurry of activity to get him admitted and prepped for surgery, during which he didn’t say much, just mumbled kindly to those who were helping him and stared at me as if I were his lifeline.
“All right, Mr. Willett, let’s get you changed and then I’ll get that IV all set up in your hand,” says the nurse assigned to him. She’s an older lady, and she’s been unwaveringly kind since we arrived.
“She’ll help me,” he says to her, and that’s when I see her holding a hospital gown. She gives me a pitiful but understanding look, lays it on the foot of the bed, and slips out of the room. Everyone has looked at us pitifully. It’s unnerving for me; I can’t imagine how it is for him.
He and I are both quiet as we stare at the blue and white checked gow
n.
“You know you don’t have to stay for this.” Fingers squeeze around my hand, and I glance down—I had forgotten he was still holding it—then I look at his face. “I’ll be all right, and you heard them—I’ll be home just after lunch,” he says quietly, his voice rough. It feels like this is the first thing he’s said to me in hours.
“I know I don’t have to stay, but I want to. There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now than here with you.” I squeeze his hand in return and nod at him encouragingly.
Dark shadows have further settled in underneath his chocolate-coated eyes, and his skin, which is usually golden and tanned, has paled. He looks like a different person, but not at the same time. I miss my happy, funny guy.
“I do appreciate it.” He gives me the tiniest of smiles, and I smile back large enough for the both of us then move down the bed to grab the gown.
“Come on, let me help you,” I say in a slightly cheerful tone.
He lets out a deep breath then leans forward, reaches behind his head, and pulls off the Tarpons hoodie he’s wearing. His dark hair sticks up straight, there’s a light smattering of scruff across his face and neck, and I’m presented with the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I know now is not the time, but it’s hard not to notice how perfectly sculpted he is from the prominent line of his collarbone down to his trim waist.
I want to curl into him and have his arms wrap around me, and without thinking, I reach up and run my hand from his shoulder down over his warm skin. He grabs my wrist, stopping it over his heart. Our eyes lock, and flutters make themselves known within me. In another place at another time, this might be a charged moment, but here it’s just an intimate understanding between two people sharing an unfortunate experience.
“It’s gonna be all right. You know this,” I whisper.
“There’s nothing I can do about it now,” he says, frowning, accepting the fact he has no control over this situation.
Lessons in Lemonade Page 9
