“But don’t think I didn’t notice you favoring that arm in the third period.”
I wince, instinctively reaching for it. “What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Baker,” he sighs. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you came back from your break. You were hurting out there tonight.”
“It’s really nothing,” I try. “Just a little sore still.”
He gives me an unimpressed look, arching one brow. “Try again. The team doctor said you shouldn’t still be hurting if it was just a simple sprain, so why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
I can’t help the scowl that touches my lips.
“Did Ian say something to you?”
Coach narrows his eyes. “Chase keeping something from me too?”
Shit.
“No. Not really. He just—I just—” I scrub a hand down my face, huffing out a breath. “Fine. It’s not just a sprain.”
“Then tell me what’s up. What did they really say when you went to the hospital a few weeks ago?”
I hesitate, knowing that if I come clean it could come back to bite me in the ass, but the way he’s looking at me—I know I’ve been caught.
So I tell him everything. About the diagnosis, about the suggested treatment—all of it. Coach listens with a solemn expression, his fingers steepled at his chin as he regards me. His graying mustache twitches when I’m finished, and he rubs two fingers at the slight wrinkle in the ebony skin between his eyes as he sighs.
“You should have told me,” he says.
I nod. “I know, but I don’t intend to quit playing.”
“You may not have a choice,” he says. “What happens if you ruin your arm? I can’t have that on my conscience.”
“It’s not as bad as they’re making it out to be,” I tell him. “I can barely feel it most of the time. I have the rest of the season in me, Coach. Really.”
He taps a finger against his lower lip, studying me. No doubt calculating whether or not this is worth the risk. I don’t know how to plead my case with him, don’t know how to explain that if he benches me for the rest of the season, it will kill me—so instead I just wait with rocks in my gut, letting him hold my future in his hand.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says finally. “You’ve played phenomenally this season, even missing the first little bit.”
I wince, hearing the word even without him saying it. “But?”
“But we really can’t risk you losing functionality in your arm for a game, son.”
“Coach,” I plead, feeling panic welling inside. “You can’t bench me. Youcan’t.”
His jaw works as he continues to study me. “I don’t want to bench you. We have a chance to go all the way this year, and since I know Chase is talking about retiring…I don’t want to break up my team this close to the finish line.”
“So you’ll let me play?”
“With conditions,” he says. “One: Youtellme when you’re hurting, and you’ll sit your ass out without complaint when it happens .”
I don’t love it, but I nod anyway.
“Two: We let Lievman take up some of the slack during the games.”
“Lievman? The guy is barely out of the draft. I can’t just—”
“Those are my terms, kid,” he says. “Take ’em or leave ’em.”
The thought of being benched for however long each game just to see a fraction of my usual play time guts me. But the alternative—not being able to play at all? That threatens to swallow me whole.
