Page 99 of The Goalie in Room 1

My gaze went to the hallway where we’d been sleeping since his surgery. I already knew he wasn’t there, but I checked his room anyway.

Empty.

“Fuck.”

He’d had an appointment today. I knew because it had been on the office schedule, and my fellow had updated me while I scrubbed between surgeries.

My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten since before lunch, and the last thing I wanted to do was cook. I opened the refrigerator and stopped. A container sat on the middle shelf, front and center and eye level. A piece of tape stuck on the top had OLD MAN scrawled across it.

The little shit.

I smiled despite myself. The smile turned to an eye roll when I saw underneath the OLD MAN he’d written in tiny block letters identical to the others, only smaller.

YOU’RE WELCOME.

“Damn brat,” I laughed.

I didn’t even look to see what he’d left me. Instead, I popped the top, stuck it in the microwave, and hit the quick cook.

I hated this.

For weeks, I’d known every medication and when he took it. I’d known when and how much he slept. What he ate. Whether his knee swelled or changed after an exercise. I knew how many times he swore during a set of leg raises.

Now I knew he’d had an appointment in my own office only because it showed up on my schedule, scrawled on the same paper where my travel mug lived.

This was what we were working toward. I loved it. For him. For me…I fucking hated it. It sucked. I was not a fan.

Headlights swept across the kitchen windows before a vehicle pulled away from the house. “Doc?” Cash called out over the ding of the microwave.

My head snapped up to find Cash shutting the front door, wearing a hoodie—mine. The ratty old Notre Dame hoodie he replaced at Christmas hung loosely over athletic pants, his brace visible under the fabric. A single crutch propped him up as he leaned into it.

One crutch.

I stared at it, then at him, and back at it.

His mouth curled. “What? No hello?”

I took a deep breath. Tired and frustrated and worried. All the emotions that made me irritable. “Hello. What happened to the other crutch?”

Cash looked over his shoulder, searching the area as if he expected to find it following him all on its own. Then he pivoted on the sole crutch in a wobbly but decent circle. I would’ve said something, but he kept the right leg off the ground as he did so, not that it negated the risk he took.

“Shit,” he said. “Did I lose one?”

I clenched my teeth. “Cash,” I warned.

His grin widened. The boy confused the fuck out of me. No matter my mood, he stayed smiley.

“They dropped me to one.”

A protest threatened to erupt, but then my brain caught up. I knew this. I’d read his chart. I lived with him. His progression had been going well—better than expected, according to every update from the rehab team. None of that stopped the throat punch of seeing him walk into my house with one crutch instead of two.

He crossed the room toward me.

Slowly.

Carefully.

My eyes tracked his gait anyway.