Chapter 11
Hades
“Diana, make room,” Tessa orders when she arrives.
I pull my hand back from the ankle, but only about eight inches. I can't bring myself to move all the way. Mireya looks up with a wince and a few blades of grass stuck to her left cheek.
“Diana, get up, I can't work like this,” Tessa insists.
I obey, reluctantly. My knee doesn't protest, at least not yet. It might later.
Tessa presses and asks questions. Mireya flinches every time she puts pressure on the ankle or tries to rotate it.
“It's a sprain,” I hear. “I don't know yet whether it's grade two or grade three. We'd need an MRI to confirm. Iris, can you get the stretcher? I don't want to move her too much until we know what we're dealing with,” she adds.
Iris takes off running and comes back a little while later with the stretcher, Lucía right behind her, insisting on helping.
“Diana, I'll take her to the hospital for the MRI. You stay with training. I'll call you as soon as I have the results,” Tessa says, helping to get Mireya onto the stretcher.
Training. I'd forgotten we hadn't finished.
Nika is still standing with her hands on her head, explaining to anyone who'll listen that it was an accident, that she slipped on the wet grass, but the truth is it was a brutal tackle; completely unnecessary for a training scrimmage.
None of the players has her head in it anymore, so I send them all to the showers and wait in my office for Tessa's call, each minute stretching out until it becomes unbearable.
“How is she?” I ask the moment my phone rings, not even waiting for the first ring to finish.
“Grade two sprain. Anterior talofibular ligament. No complete rupture. She'll be fine.”
I close my eyes for a second when I hear it.
“Three weeks or four?”
“Yeah, three to four weeks, the usual. You know how this goes. Ice and complete rest for the first seventy-two hours. Pool work next week. The week after that, running and some light ball work on her own, and if she's progressing well by the fourth week, she starts training with the group again.”
“Okay. Could've been worse, I suppose,” I admit, letting out a breath.
“But, Diana, we have a small problem,” I hear from the other end.
My heart kicks hard, and for a moment I brace for the worst.
“The thing is, Mireya's apartment is on the second floor with no elevator. For the first seventy-two hours I'd rather not take any chances, but especially tonight, she can't sleep at her place.”
“Is she staying at the hospital?”
“No, no. That's not necessary. Tomorrow we can ask the other players who might be able to take Mireya in for a few days, but they've all gone home by now. I know it's a lot to ask, but could she stay with you tonight?”
“Yes,” I answer before she finishes the sentence.
Tessa pauses.
“Okay, then I can come by for her tomorrow to check that ankle and—”
“I'll bring her to the training facility myself,” I say, maybe a beat too fast.
“Okay, thank you. So you go to the hospital, pick up Mireya, take her to your place, and make sure she alternates twenty minutes of ice with twenty of rest. Oh, and give her a real dinner, okay? Something that isn't frozen pizza.”
Before I even register what I'm doing, I'm already in the car on my way to the hospital.
**
When I arrive, Mireya is at the entrance, sitting in a wheelchair that a hospital aide is pushing, ankle wrapped.
Tessa is two steps behind her, talking to one of the doctors. Iris was with them for a while but had to leave to help Zoe after Wes threw up twice.
“No crutches until tomorrow. Complete rest today,” Tessa tells me, pointing at me with one finger. “One of these every eight hours — it'll help with the pain and the swelling,” she adds, handing me a small bottle before saying goodbye.
“So you're taking me to your place?” Mireya asks once I manage to get her settled into the passenger seat.
“That's what Tessa said.”
“Do you do this with all your players?” she jokes, raising her eyebrows, finally giving me a small smile.
**
“Twenty minutes with ice. Twenty without. Twice before you sleep,” I say, getting her settled on the couch with her foot raised on a cushion.
“Can I shower? They took me straight to the hospital,” she says.
I look up. There's dried mud on her cheek, her hair matted from the rain and the sweat of training. She's still in her practice gear.
“You shouldn't get the bandage wet, and it's better not to take it off,” I tell her.
“I know, but I can wash everything else, right? Come on, Diana, don't make that face, I'm not asking you to soap me up, just get me a chair so I can sit with my leg stretched out, and I'll manage from there,” she says, laughing.
Fifteen minutes later, I've set a plastic chair inside the shower, and I'm helping Mireya in with a bag around her ankle.
“I'll go grab some clean clothes while you shower. Do you need me to stay?”
She says no, which is lucky, because I'm literally shaking while I ask her. I'm still shaking as I pull out a 2011 Women's World Cup jersey and a pair of pajama pants.
I leave the bathroom door slightly open and sit on the hallway floor while she showers, back against the wall.
“Can you hand me a towel?”
I go in, keeping my eyes on her face, or the shower tiles, or anything that isn't her body. I dry her hair slowly, barely rubbing, and she tips her head back and closes her eyes.
“Should I dry your back?”
“Yes, please,” she breathes.
She has a cluster of small freckles on her left shoulder blade and a thin scar beside her spine I'd never noticed before.
We make it to the bedroom slowly, her without putting any weight on her foot, one arm around my neck.
“Sit on the bed.”
I kneel on the floor and feel a pull in my bad knee, but my head is somewhere else entirely right now.
I slide the pajama pants over her good foot first, carefully.
Then over the bandaged one, slowly, making sure not to hurt her, and she lifts a few inches off the mattress using her arms so I can pull them up.
“I've got the shirt,” she says quietly, reaching out her hand for it. “God, Diana, you know you can look, right? Half the time you walk into the locker room there's a player in there undressed.”
I'd rather not answer because it's not the same thing, not even close.
“Stay in the bed. I'll sleep on the couch,” I say, pointing toward the living room.
“No way, your knee. If you sleep on that couch, you'll barely be able to walk tomorrow,” she reminds me. “Besides, the bed is huge. You won't even know I'm here. Wait, you don't snore, do you?” she jokes, patting the mattress for me to lie down next to her.
I turn off the bedside lamp and get under the sheets in my t-shirt and underwear. I give her the right side so she has room for the ankle.
To my surprise, Mireya moves closer and rests her head between my chest and my shoulder. Her hair is still damp.
We go quiet, so quiet that the distant bark of a dog drifts up from the street.
“You crossed that field in record time today. I think you could outrun Iris even with the bad knee,” she jokes.
I want to say something back, but she traces my cheek with the tips of her fingers, and every thought I had disappears.
“I need to kiss you again,” she says, just like that, stretching up to find my mouth.
Again, I'd like to say something, remind her at least that I'm her coach, that there could be a conflict of interest, and a whole set of problems I'd rather not think about right now, but the words don't come, and the world disappears the moment her lips brush mine.
It's a soft kiss. Unhurried. A kiss I've dreamed about every night since Florida. There's no rush, because we both know tonight we can't go any further.
She pulls back, smiles, and kisses me again. Barely a brush of lips, the tip of her tongue finding mine before she settles her head back on my shoulder.
She sighs when I slip my hand under her shirt and run it along her back. She tries to turn over, but a sharp jolt of pain reminds her it's better not to move that ankle tonight.
“Tell me something.”
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“Anything. Something that's yours.”
“The jersey you're wearing is from the 2011 World Cup. I only played fifteen minutes. Tonight is the first time anyone else has ever put it on,” I tell her.
“Wow,” she breathes.
She curls against me, making a soft sound as I stroke her back and her neck, and slowly she drifts off. It's been a hard day, and four weeks without playing is going to be its own kind of agony for her.
I stay awake staring at the ceiling, turning everything that's happened over and over, as if I'm trying to burn this day into memory.
I suppose that's easier than thinking about what comes next.