We arrive at a big medical center. Miranda hops out and goes to look through the directory, then gets back in the car and finds a spot on the other side of the place.
“Good thing I looked,” she says, getting out and retrieving my crutches from the back. “I don’t think a stroll is what you want this morning.”
“Thanks.” I work to keep my voice light. She’s right. I don’t want astroll. I want a sprint. I want high-knees. I want my lungs to burn with exertion.
Miranda waits for me to get out of the way, then closes the door.
We make our way to suite twelve, to a door that readsDr. Isaac Cordovain block letters, with the wordsValley Orthopedicand a phone number below it. The eyes of the person at the front desk sparkle in recognition.
After my x-rays are finished the technician asks me for an autograph for her son. She thanks me profusely and drops me off in the exam room. Miranda smirks when the door closes, because she knows I get a little embarrassed. I’ve never become used to signing autographs.
Dr. Cordova comes in right away. I’m surprised by how young he is. Maybe I’m used to Dr. Clafin, so I was expecting someone older. He extends a hand to me and smiles wide.
We chat for a minute, until he confesses he watched the match where I sustained my injury, and knew right away how bad it was.
“I told my wife it was your ACL. You were going one way, the guy was going another. Opposing forces like that? No chance.” He grimaces. “He deserved that red card.”
“Yeah, I’ve had better days.” I shrug.
I’d really like to tell Dr. Cordova exactly how I feel about the situation, but I have to be careful what I say. The team spokesperson already lectured me on how to present myself when asked about what happened.Everyone has a phone,he’d warned,and you don’t want to be caught on record saying something bad.
“Well, let’s get to it.” Isaac completes the exam, talks to me about my x-rays, and we iron out the details for the surgery. Miranda takes notes, which is good because there’s little chance I’ll remember everything.
We’re about to leave when I throw one more question at the doctor. “Do you have kids?”
He beams. “Yep. My daughter is seven, and we have a boy due in three months.”
“Congratulations. That’s great.” I pause, feeling stupid, but forge ahead. “I’ve spent my whole life on soccer. I never thought about much aside from that, and suddenly the possibility of having a real life exists. House, wife, kids, the whole nine yards. Is it as incredible as it looks?”
My brother is the only other person I know who has a normal life, but he doesn’t have a demanding job the way Dr. Cordova does. I guess that’s why I’m asking him. Between my teammates and brother, my sample size sucks.
I make it a point not to look at Miranda. Admitting all of this makes me feel weak.
Dr. Cordova nods. “It’s even better than it looks, I promise. Things happen the way they’re supposed to. I know it sounds trite, but it’s true. Although you shouldn’t count yourself out. I’m going to do my best to get you back on that field. Maybe I’ll invoke some black magic, and give you some kind of super scoring power.” He laughs. “Sorry, my daughter is into superheroes right now.”
He walks us out and tells me he’ll see me tomorrow.
It’s a silent drive back to the hotel. My mind is flooded with thoughts.
This ACL tear doesn’t mean the kiss of death for my career, but it could be the beginning of it. Every missed play, errant goal, any mistake made will be accompanied by someone wondering if I’ve lost my edge.
What if I’d chosen differently, two years ago? Let the call from the Atlanta recruiter go to voicemail and never returned it?
Like Dr. Cordova, I could have a family. A wife, maybe even a kid, and a career that won’t end just because I’m human and breakable.
I could’ve chosen Ember.
And that’s when the truth smacks me right in my face.
I turned down lifelong magic to chase an ephemeral dream.
27
Noah
“Is thereanything else I can get you, Noah?”
Miranda hovers near the door of my hotel room. She looks tired. Her hair is tied messily on the top of her head and she’s wearing sweats. She always wears black slacks and button-up shirts, but on this trip, she’s let loose a little. Last night we went out to a restaurant, and she had two glasses of wine. I had nothing to drink, since I’m still on painkillers. She giggled a few times and told me she’s thinking about going back to school for her Masters degree. This morning she apologized. I don’t think she wanted me to know about going back to school.
