NICO
I sit in the medical center, braced for antiseptic and fear, only to smell daffodils and marshmallows.
It's not the public hospital kind where everything is beige and worn. This is private. Polished marble floors. Leather chairs in the waiting room. A receptionist who smiles like she's working at a hotel, not a medical center.
It's the kind of place where athletes come when their federation is paying.
The waiting room is full of people who can afford to be here but still look miserable. A businessman with a knee brace. A woman scrolling through her phone with her arm in a designer sling. A kid with crutches and pristine sneakers.
I feel like I belong and don't belong at the same time.
Élise sits beside me, scrolling through her phone. She's been quiet all morning. Quiet in the car. Quiet in the waiting room. The kind of quiet that feels louder than talking.
"Reiner?" A nurse appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand, crisp white uniform.
I grab my crutches and stand. Élise makes a move but I wave her away. It's enough that she had to drive me here. No need to babysit me everywhere.
The exam room is small. White walls. Posters about joint health and stretching exercises. A narrow table covered in sterile paper that crinkles when I sit on it.
Dr. Huber comes in a minute later. Fifties, graying hair, the kind of steady, no-bullshit demeanor you want in a doctor but hate when they're about to tell you something you don't want to hear.
"Nico," he says, shaking my hand. "How are we feeling?"
"Good. Better than last week."
He pulls up a stool, sets down a folder with my name on it, and gestures to my knee. "Let's have a look."
I extend my leg. He unstraps the brace slowly, methodically, his fingers pressing gently along the joint. Testing. Checking.
"Any sharp pain?"
"No. Just... achy."
"Swelling?"
"A little. Less than last week."
He nods, rotates my leg slightly. I bite down on the inside of my cheek. It doesn't hurt exactly. Just feels wrong. Unstable.
"Range of motion is improving," he says, more to himself than to me. "That's good."
Dr. Huber finishes his exam and sits back, pulling the folder open. He's quiet for a moment, reviewing notes, and I know what's coming before he opens his mouth.
We've been talking about this for two weeks. Every physio session. Every phone call. The question has always been the same:Can I race Finals?
He looks up. "The MRI from Kvitfjell showed a partial ACL tear. Grade two. Ligaments are strained, but not completely ruptured."
"I know," I say. "And the swelling's down. Range of motion is better. I've been doing everything you said."
"I know you have." He leans back, arms crossed. "And you've made good progress. Better than I expected, honestly."
My chest lifts. "So—"
"But not good enough for what you plan to do."
The air goes out of the room.
"What does that mean?" I ask, even though I already know.
