35. Gavin
GAVIN
My teammates crowd around me. I don’t look at their faces, afraid I’ll see my panic mirrored back at me.
The refs yell for my teammates to give me space, and trainers flank me on all sides.
I drop my head back onto the wooden floor and spread out my arms, taking up as much space as I can and letting my body soak up this feeling of being on the court.
I hadn’t planned to say goodbye flat on my back, but I don’t want to forget this feeling.
The floor, the lights, the sweat dripping off me.
The noise filters back in slowly. The whispers in the crowd, the opposing coach calling his guys over, and a deep voice I know all too well slicing through the rest.
“Gavin!” my dad calls. I pretend not to hear him.
Someone must try to stop him because he adds, “That’s my son.”
He comes into view behind the trainers. That panic-stricken look I was trying to avoid slams into me.
“Did you hear a pop?” He leans over to get a better look at my leg.
I ignore him, so he asks it again.
The trainers help me sit up and then two of them take me by the arm, one on each side, to get me standing. The crowd claps as they help me off the court, and there’s a golf cart waiting for me on the sideline. I lose sight of my dad until they’re loading me onto the back.
“Gavin—” he starts.
“Go away,” I yell at him.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m your father. I’m going with you.”
“No.” I grit my teeth.
He takes a step closer.
“I don’t want you here. Why can’t you get that through your head?
You don’t get to play the father card when it’s convenient for you.
You are a shitty fucking dad. You were absent most of my childhood.
Too busy sleeping your way through the ball honeys while Mom picked up your slack.
We were fine without you. We didn’t need you then, and I don’t need you now. ”
He looks shocked by my outburst, and that’s when I see the cameras aimed right at us.
The game continues, but they send me to the nearest hospital to take X-rays. Tommy comes with me, and my mom calls and says she’ll be there as soon as she can get a flight. I think I tried to talk her out of it, but she wasn’t having it and I didn’t have it in me to put up much of a fight.
I’m scared. Knee injuries are the kind of things people don’t come back from. What if this is it? My eyes burn. This can’t be it. It can’t be.
I’m lying in a bed in the ER, still in uniform, waiting for the doctor. Tommy paces beside me.
“Dude, relax.”
He nods, sits in the lone chair by my bed. His leg takes up a bounce that makes his shoe squeak on the floor.
“Can you give me a minute? I want to call Violet.”
Tommy stands quickly, looking like he’s happy to have something to do. “Sure. Do you want anything?”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
Let’s be honest, I’m terrible, but worse with him hovering over me.
He disappears out the curtain pulled around this small bed, and I let out a breath, but I don’t pick up my phone from the table to call Violet.
She’s probably still pissed at me. Has to be if she hasn’t bothered to call or text to check in. Or maybe she didn’t even watch the game, so she doesn’t know. An image of the moment I went down flashes in my mind and I drop my head back onto the hard pillow.
I think about what Coach said earlier, how coaching gives him the same joy that playing did.
Will that be true of me too? Will I be content holding on to this sport I love, with my entire being, by sitting at some desk writing stories about other great players?
I thought I knew the answer when I made up my mind years ago.
My knee twinges with pain and I rub my thigh just above it. I don’t know how long I’ve been back here, but it feels like hours. I’m irritated and impatient. The pain I can handle, but the unanswered questions threaten to swallow me whole.
The curtain rustles, but I keep my eyes closed, expecting Tommy. Maybe if he thinks I’m sleeping, he’ll chill the fuck out.
“Mr. Leonard.” I crack one eye to see a man in blue scrubs and a white coat. He doesn’t look up from the clipboard as he continues, “I’m Dr. Scarella.”
He asks me a few questions, all of which the trainer that brought me over from the game already told the nurse.
“Have they taken you for X-rays yet?”
“Yeah. A while ago.”
He nods. He still hasn’t looked up from that clipboard. “Let me see if I can track those down. Hang tight just a little longer.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Another guy steps through the curtain with a tablet in his hand. “Hi, Gavin. I’m Dr. Chase. Sam, good to see you again.” He nods to the other doctor. “I’ve got this one.”
Dr. Scarella looks like he wants to argue, but only for a second, before he turns around and walks out.
My new doctor sets his tablet on the tray table next to my bed. His black hair has streaks of gray. He’s wearing a striped polo and black slacks. He looks like maybe he stepped off the golf course or came from a board meeting, instead of the hospital floor.
“How’s the pain?”
“Not that bad.”
He raises both brows.
“It hurts, but I can handle it. Am I done?” It’s the question that has been on a loop since I went down. Am I ever going to play ball again?
He slips into doctor mode, turning on the tablet and bringing up my X-rays. “I’ve ordered an MRI to get a better look at it.” Pointing to the tablet, he continues, “You tore the patellar tendon and collateral ligament.”
It hurts to swallow, to breathe. “Can you fix it?”
The smirk he gives me makes him look younger. “Of course, I can. That’s why I’m here.”
“And I’ll still be able to play basketball at a college or professional level?” My heart races.
His confidence slips a bit. “Let’s get an MRI. I’ll have a better idea of exactly what we’re dealing with.”
“Dr. Chase?” I need him to be straight with me. I can’t wait another hour not knowing.
“Knee injuries are tough. It depends on the damage, and I most likely won’t have a definite answer until I’m in there.”
I can’t speak, so I simply nod.
“I’m going to put the order in for the test—” The rest of his sentence is cut off by chaos outside.
A woman is yelling. Dr. Chase and I both pause a second to listen. I can’t make out her words, but she is pissed about something. That’s probably the norm for the ER—screaming or crying. I feel like doing both.
“Gavin Leonard,” she says my name, and I cock my head to hear her better. “I know he’s here.”
Without leaving, Dr. Chase pulls back the curtain. Violet.
I sit up. Her eyes are wild, and she stretches every inch of her short and petite frame to stand up to the much bigger nurse blocking her away and trying to calm her down.
“I’m his girlfriend. Ask him.” She crosses her arms over her chest. I don’t hear the nurse’s response, but she doesn’t budge, so I don’t think she cares.
Violet scans the area again, obviously not giving up, and this time, her gaze widens when she sees me.
“She belong to you?” Dr. Chase asks with amusement lacing his tone.
I don’t answer. I can’t. My heart hammers in my chest.
Dr. Chase must decide she’s not a threat because he holds up a hand to indicate that it’s okay, and the nurse doesn’t charge after her.
When she gets close, I see the tears in her eyes. She sets a large, rolled-up piece of paper on the end of the bed and comes to my side. Her gaze roams over my bum knee and then snaps back up to me.
“Hey.” The single word scrapes my throat. I turn my hand, palm up, on the bed, and she laces her fingers through mine.