“That’s me,” I mumble as my nerves swarm. I shove a thumb in Jett’s direction. “Jett is here for moral support, if that’s okay.”
“Of course. Nice to meet you both. I’m Dr. Bradley. Let’s get settled in room one and we can see what we’re dealing with.” He nods to my leg before guiding us into the fanciest exam room I’ve ever seen.
I settle into one of the cushioned chairs and try to elevate my leg without being obvious. Jett snorts a laugh when Dr. Bradley pulls a small stool from under the exam table and gently positions my foot.
“Here’s the deal,” he says, no-nonsense in his tone. “I’m not thrilled with the X-ray angles Steele Valley Medical sent over. We’ll snap a new X-ray, then I’d like to do an ultrasound to check ligament integrity. Sound good?”
I nod, too nervous to trust my voice.
As he turns off one set of lights and rolls over a computer on wheels, he tells me to remove the boot while he gets set up.
“Gel might be a little cold,” he says before dabbing a small amount on a wand then rolling it over the side, back, and top of my ankle as he studies the grainy screen.
“While I’m not seeing anything to suggest soft tissue damage, I’m a little perturbed that the other office didn’t take these steps. With where that fracture is sitting and with how much bruising is along the side of your foot, it’s a miracle you didn’t rupture or tear anything. And my professional opinion? You might get lucky and let it heal on its own.”
“But…”
“But your best chance at a full recovery is surgery. You look athletic. Regardless of the sport or activity, I’d strongly suggest inserting a pin or two. I know that isn’t what you want to hear.”
Jett goes still beside me, the little spinner Noah gave her twirling between her fingers. She may not know my fears about surgery, but the girl isn’t a fan of feeling out of control, either.
“So, if I ever want to skate or run again, I don’t really have a choice,” I say flatly.
He winces. “If we’re talking routine wear on that ankle, then yes. That’s what I’m saying.”
Letting my head thump against the wall behind me, I swallow back the fear clawing up my throat—fear of going under anesthesia, of memories I’ve shoved deep and locked tight.
“Schedule it,” I whisper, not looking at him.
With the promise of the receptionist calling me with scheduling details when she returns from lunch, Jett and I make our way downstairs. It’s a tense silence. Partly because Jett doesn’t always read situations well, so she keeps quiet if she doesn’t know what to say. But mostly because I’m so keyed up with fear and anxiety over the next steps for this stupid freak accident.
I blame that on why I nearly miss the six-foot-four wall of a man leaning against a gray SUV as Jett and I step back into the summer heat.
When my brain catches up to my eyes, I damn near miss a step, my crutches no longer moving in sync with my leg.
Silas’s eyes lock on me as he kicks back against the passenger door. His crossed arms pull at the navy compression shirt, his biceps and traps on full display. One ankle crosses over the other, showing off his defined calf and part of his thick thigh.
I suddenly have the urge to hunt down every woman who has walked by and seen him. I need one of those memory wipers from theMen in Blackfranchise, because no one else should get to look at this man.
As that thought sinks in, I snap back to reality and cut what is hopefully a menacing look at Jett. I damn sure didn’t tell him about today after he stayed up all night for me.
“Why is he here?” I hiss at my supposed best friend.
She has the audacity to shrug, as if she is innocent in the loss of my restraint. “I don’t know all the history between you two, and that’s fine.” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder as she continues. “But that man knows you better than anyone else. You can deny it all you want, but Silas Harrison is wrappedaround your cute little sparkly pinky. Talk or give him the silent treatment. That part is up to you, but let the sexy hockey man take you home.”
I’m torn between stomping my foot in frustration and thanking her for getting him here. As much as I hate relying on anyone, Jett is right about one thing. Silas knows why this entire scenario has my stomach in knots.
Before I can decide which emotion to follow, Jett hugs me and bolts for her car. She hollers over her shoulder to Silas, “She’s all yours, hockey guy!”
Chapter 17
Silas
Jett barely makes it to her car before Oakley rounds on me.
Her eyes flash, and even with one leg in a boot, she still looks ready to take me down.
“You didn’t have to come,” she says, gripping her crutches like they personally offended her.
