I say good-bye as the heavy door swings shut behind him.
For the next week, I do the opposite of everything Dr. Clafin suggested. I order in every meal. I sleep all day, stay up all night watching stupid movies. Sometime around two a.m., I use the video app on my TV to find the recording of my injury. It’s only one minute and thirty-seven seconds long, and I watch it more than sixty times. My injury comes at fifty-two seconds in. Then I’m on the ground, holding my knee, my face scrunched. Every person who has seen this probably thinks I was trying not to cry about the pain.
Physical pain doesn’t bother me. It’s fleeting, a blip in time.
The stadium lights were bright, even through my scrunched eyes, and I could hear the footfalls of my teammates cleats as they ran to me. Even in that moment, I knew it was bad. Maybe it was the searing pain, maybe it was the popping sound that I still can’t stop hearing. The physical pain was nothing compared to my fear.
The tears I was holding back came from panic.
What if I lose it all?
Have I already?
* * *
“Noah?”
Her voice comes from behind me. I’m sitting on the couch, because where the hell else would I be? She rounds the couch and comes to stand beside the coffee table. Holding two bags of groceries in each hand, she looks at me like she’s trying not to tell me I’m pathetic.
Miranda is my right hand. She handles everything for me, including all personal travel and my apartment when I’m away with the team. She’s a nice person, and an even better assistant. Two guys on the team have asked me to pass her their numbers, but I lied and said she has a boyfriend. I don’t need the headache of dating drama, but I see the attraction. She’s in her early twenties, intelligent, and her white-blonde hair gives her an angelic effect.
Miranda was on vacation when I got hurt. When she heard what happened and that I was back in Atlanta, she offered to come back early. I told her to enjoy the rest of her time, and when she returned she jumped right into her role. She’s the reason someone came to clean up behind my lame, feeble ass yesterday. I hobbled into my room and shut the door while a cleaning person hauled away all my take-out boxes. I was too embarrassed to look them in the eyes. I feel like a jack-ass for acting like an invalid.
“Thanks for buying groceries,” I say, trying like hell to sound like my normal self and not some depressed asshole.
She shrugs. “After all those take-out boxes I saw in the trash yesterday, I thought you might want a fresh and healthy meal.”
“I can’t do much cooking right now.” I probably could, it would just take a thousand times longer and piss me off.
“Lucky for you, I can.” She walks away. In a few seconds I hear the fridge open and the sounds of food being put away.
“I broke my collarbone in junior high,” Miranda says, “and my mom made me chicken marsala. So that’s what I’m making you. I know you love mushrooms.”
I can’t turn all the way around, so I settle for turning my neck as much as I can and nod. “Thanks,” I tell her, and listen to the sounds of her moving around in the kitchen.
My phone rings beside me and I reach for it. I learned to keep the damn thing pretty much glued to me, so I didn’t have to swing my broken ass around the apartment to find it every time it rang.
I sigh when I see who it is. I knew his call was coming, but answering makes all this even more of a reality. “Hello?”
“Scottsdale,” Dr. Clafin says, his voice scratchy as he coughs. “On the twenty-third. Miranda is arranging everything.”
I wish I could turn around and give Miranda a dirty look. She knew about the surgery when she walked in.
It’s quiet, then there’s a muted sound of nose-blowing, and more throat clearing. “You’ll be in good hands. My friend in Boston didn’t hesitate when I asked him. Dr. Cordova is in high-demand, but he’s making room for you. Doesn’t hurt that he’s a huge soccer fan.” Dr. Clafin chuckles, but it turns into a cough. “Damn cold,” he growls, when he’s able to speak again.
I smile at his words, and realize it’s my first smile in more than a week.Since I saw Ember in New York.
“I’ll wait for Miranda’s itinerary,” I say loudly. “She’s the boss.”
She walks from the kitchen and stands in front of me, smirking and shaking her head.
Dr. Clafin laugh-coughs again. “She’s already getting things in order,” he says. “She is gold, you know? Never let her go.”
We chat for a few more minutes, and I wish him a speedy recovery before saying good-bye.
“I was going to tell you after you ate,” Miranda says from the kitchen when I hang up. “You’re grumpy right now, and I knew Clafin was going to call you.”
I nod. Miranda is right. I need to stop being an asshole. It makes me feel better to know my surgery has been scheduled. The listlessness was eating at me. I needed a plan. A goal. Something to look forward to.
