Page 150 of The Backup Plan

Lucas’s words come back to me. His justification and my reasoning. And all of it feels very thin now that for the first time, I’m being asked to predict what injuries Nixon might have. Even if in jest.

Because if they expect that kind of foresight and honesty when it comes to Nixon, they sure as shit would expect the same for Lucas.

Fuck.

It’s easier to focus on the screen than meet his eyes so I do that and scroll through the images once more, as if something new might suddenly appear if I look hard enough.

“There’s always risk,” I say carefully. “With any athlete. But based on what I’m seeing now, there’s nothing predictive that would warrant holding him back.”

Coach studies my face for a beat. “That’s what I needed,” he says and claps once. “Appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“You’ve become an important part of this team, Doc. We depend on you and your knowledge and what you bring to the program is valued.”

I nod as words clog in my throat. “Thank you.”

After he leaves, I finalize Nixon’s report. Clean. Factual. Present tense only. I don’t dig. I don’t speculate. I don’t borrow trouble from the future.

And I hate the feeling that settles in my gut over it. It eats at me for some time as I stare out the window to the empty practice field beyond.

Unable to stand it anymore, I close my office door, and then sit back at my desk, pulling up Lucas’s scans—as if I haven’t already committed them to memory.

The same images. The same deterioration. The same truth sitting there, patient and unmoving, waiting for me to decide what it means.

My stomach tightens.

This is different. It has to be. Nixon’s knee is wear-and-tear. Lucas’s shoulder issues are caused by degeneration. One is possibility. The other is inevitability.

But Coach’s words won’t leave me alone.

“You’ve become an important part of this team, Doc. We depend on you and your knowledge and what you bring to the program is valued.”

I grab my phone before I can talk myself out of it and call.

Mirna answers on the second ring. “Emery? Twice in two weeks. I’ll take it.” I can hear the smile in her voice and it settles me slightly. “Were you able to get in touch with my contact, Frank, with the Phantoms?”

“Yes. I appreciate it. He was thorough and his suggestions invaluable.”

“I’m glad it worked out.” She pauses. “So what else can I help you with?”

I struggle to find the right words. “Nothing. I was just calling to say thank you.”

“Which you could have done in a text. I know you better than that. What’s going on?”

“I have a question,” I say. “A hypothetical.”

“Those are never hypothetical.”

I close my eyes. “If you see something on a scan that could become a problem—years down the line—but isn’t actively limiting function now . . . do you report that future diagnosis or do you report just the immediate one?”

There’s a measured pause on the line.

“You report what’s there,” Mirna says. “Not what you’re afraid might happen.”

“But what if—”

“You don’t get paid to predict the future,” she says. “You get paid to interpret the present science. Medicine isn’t prophecy, Emery. It’s observation. It’s facts.”