Hell, I’ve barely been at the hotel.
I know exactly what it’s like to be in his position. I remember the fear and uncertainty. Sure, his team has sent representatives, and his family, friends, and teammates are all checking in on him and sending gifts. He insists he’s okay and doesn’t need anyone to take care of him.
But it’s my responsibility to look after my athletes, especially in moments like this. It’s what I do.
I need him to get better. To compete again. It pains me, how much I need that. Like fire on my skin.
So I spend a couple days sitting in my rental car with the seat pushed all the way back, phone to my ear, arguing about numbers and annoying my assistant Puck with a million notes. It’s not wildly out of character for me to visit athletes in the hospital, and the team at home is covering every angle of his injury like the old pros they are.
It’s fine. I don’t know why I’m so worked up.
When I finally have twenty minutes to myself, I walk back into the hospital room and check on Orlando.
This afternoon, I find him with the doctors. He’s there in his blue robe, arm in a sling, and the rooms lights are dim as always.
He turns immediately to me. “They’re telling me I can’t fly.”
I consider what I know about concussions. “Right. Makes sense.”
Orlando gives me an exasperated look, and I understand. He’s come out of the initial concussion fog, and the doctors have run enough tests to know there’s nothing more serious to contend with, but there are still plenty of limitations and hard realities to face.
He’s impatient to get active, but the truth is he needs time.
“If something else affects your brain while the concussion is healing,” his team’s doctor offers, “it could be catastrophic. In the immediate aftermath, even a minor bump could be deadly. But you’re healing, and your scans suggest that you’ll be safe from the worst any day now.”
Even a minor bump could be deadly.
The reality sets into my brain, hardening my thoughts.
Orlando looks crestfallen. “Crap. I thought it was bad when you said I can’t watch TV or look at my phone.”
I have a million questions of my own for the doctors, but no standing to ask them. Instead, I try to give Orlando an encouraging nod.
“I’d say in a couple days, you could consider a car ride with an appropriately cautious driver,” the hospital’s doctor says. “But for the heightened pressure of a flight, we’d have to recommend waiting a week to be safe.”
“I can drive you back,” I say. My voice comes out sharp, and everyone looks at me. I see a hint of surprise on the expression of his team’s doctor, so I quickly cover myself. “I should be finished with my business here by then.”
I fucking hate lying.
Everyone seems to accept that, though, and I catch Orlando half-smiling to himself.
Nice to see him smile. That’s a good sign.
When the doctors leave, he eases back into his seat. I see he has a sandwich waiting, so I walk over to help him eat.
He looks tired. His eyes are puffy, and I can tell he’s been stressed. Being cut off from his team is going to drive the man nuts. He’ll spend the next weeks watching games on TV that he was supposed to be playing in, and he asks me for any updates whenever he sees me.
He raises up a wobbly smile as he takes half a sandwich from the plate. “I realized something earlier today.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“I’ve been so upset about this injury, but I get to go back in the game. I hope I don’t sound insensitive. I know the news was a lot worse when you hurt your knee.”
I take the plate when he puts the sandwich down. He’s thinking about me, considering me, and it makes my stomach twist. “It’s fine,” I tell him. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
Orlando swallows. “I know,” he says dryly. “The only thing I need to do is rest.”
I grunt. He’s teasing me. “How many times have I said that to you today?” I ask.
