Page 137 of The Backup Plan

But because I’m fearful of what his reaction might be.

“Dr. Porter?” he asks, professional and guarded. My own title sounds like an insult.

My hands tremble as I pull the scans up on my screen and then turn the monitor so he can see them.

“This isn’t inflammation,” I say. My voice sounds way steadier than I feel. “It’s degeneration. Progressive in its nature. And . . . there’s nothing that can be done to stop it. Your shoulder is breaking down from the constant load it’s under and will continue to do so until you lose a large percentage of your function.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes narrow as if he’s searching to see something different from what I have. The tendons in his neck flex.

Say something. Please.

But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on the scans and his body still.

“If you keep playing,” I continue, compartmentalizing my private life with my professional, “you risk permanent, irreparable damage. Loss of considerable, practical function. Chronic pain.” I blink away the tears that well. “As your doctor, my clinical opinion would be that you stop playing football.”

The words feel like broken glass in my mouth. Every single word is painful to speak.

The silence stretches.

“For how long?” he asks.

Dread drops like a lead weight in my stomach. “It’s not a matter of taking a break—”

“How long?” he demands, voice rough.

“Permanently.” The word feels cruel and heartbreaking.

“No.” He shakes his head several times as he blinks and his Adam’s apple bobs. “That’s not—no. I just made the cut.”

“I know.” God, I know.

“You don’t get to say that like it explains anything.” He shoves the chair so that it hits my desk.

“I know and I’m sorry, but the scans reflect—”

“The scans reflect fucking nothing,” he says in a low growl. “They tell you what you want them to say. Someone else will read them and draw a different conclusion.”

“Both the radiologist and I agree—”

“Don’t. Just fucking don’t.” He grits the words out, his chest heaving, and hands clenching and unclenching.

“If you keep pushing,” I say, my voice breaking despite my effort to control it, “you could lose your chance at a normal functioning arm for the rest of your life.”

“Could is a pretty ambiguous fucking word.”

“You could lose everything that—”

“What if I already have?” He laughs. It’s hollow and brittle and devastating and cracks me wide open.

“There’s more to life than football—”

“I can manage it,” he says, shutting me and my professional opinion out. Like if he just keeps shaking his head, keeps pacing about my office, the reality of what I said won’t catch up with him. “Rehab. Restrictions. You’ve fixed worse than this, so draw on what earned you those fancy letters behind your name and fucking fix this.”

For a brief moment, I experience déjà vu. Those fancy letters behind your name. But one was said out of spite, and this one is said out of fear.

Two completely different contexts.

“This isn’t something I can fix,” I say. “Not if you keep playing.”