16. Sayonara, Dr. Dimples
Sayonara, Dr. Dimples
Wyatt
“When Wyatt mentioned his injury, I thought he was talking about a person.” Josie grins from her perch on a stool near where my physical therapist stretches my bare foot. “And I wondered, Who is this Liz Frank, and why is she so mean? ”
Dr. Parminder laughs, louder than he needs to, in my opinion. Not that Josie isn’t funny. Or charming. She’s both.
And yeah, I get it. I have the stupidest injury known to man with the absolute dumbest name.
But the PT is overdoing it, and it’s no secret why. He almost did a double take when I walked in today with Josie, and he hasn’t stopped smiling at her since. With dimples. Because, of course, my physical therapist has dimples.
He also insists we call him doctor, though I’m pretty sure even if he has a doctorate, you don’t usually refer to physical therapists as doctor . Unless they insist, like Dr. Dimples did.
I’m also pretty sure Josie knows this too. Because when he introduced himself, smiling with those stupid dimples as he said, “You can call me Dr. Parminder,” her eyes flew to mine.
I swear, I could see the knowledge on her face. Like, Do you believe this guy?
If it bothers her, though, she’s not showing it now.
I can’t tell whether Josie is into his flirtations or just being friendly, but they’ve been chatting almost nonstop. It’s been thirty minutes, though it feels like a whole month of my life has been drained away in this room.
That’s what happens when you become the third wheel at your own physical therapy appointment, all while having your foot and ankle manipulated into strange and mostly uncomfortable positions.
I grunt, and Dr. Parminder’s eyes snap up to mine. “Too much?” he asks.
“It’s fine.”
I hate physical limitations of any kind. It makes me furious each morning when I slide the boot on my foot. Every step with crutches makes me want to set something on fire.
It’s a total cliché, but my injury really did make me realize how much I took for granted, how much I wasn’t grateful for simple things. Like walking unassisted. Like not seeing pity in people’s eyes or having to answer the question “So, when do you think you’ll return to hockey?”
My slide into wallowing at the cottage—because I can call a spade a spade and I was totally wallowing—had very little to do with not wanting to get better and everything to do with other issues I’m still not ready to confront.
It’s like this injury shut down my trajectory and opened the floodgates of all the worries and concerns and wounds I’ve stuffed down over the years.
I didn’t intentionally set out to sabotage my recovery. Not at first. It started with the issue of getting around. Rideshare apps and taxis aren’t common in Kilmarnock, and trying to figure out transportation felt like too much. Then everything started feeling like too much.
Not physically. But more like I settled in under a weighted blanket of negativity I couldn’t—or no longer wanted to—shake.
By the time Jacob realized I wasn’t only avoiding his calls but not going to appointments, I was pretty set on staying put.
I didn’t let myself play out the long-term effects of this behavior.
It was easier just to get up each day and continue on as is.
Alone. In pain. Completely miserable. Jacob sending people to “help” only made me angrier—at him, at myself.
Then he sent Josie. Probably the one person who could have pulled me out of this cyclone of self-destruction.
“Lisfranc isn’t super common,” Dr. Parminder tells Josie with another flash of dimples. “But we’re seeing it more and more. Not usually with hockey players, though. It’s not very likely to happen on the ice, so it makes sense Wyatt did this during another activity.”
I wait for Josie to make a crack about disc golf again, but this time she doesn’t.
“What kind of injury is a Lisfranc exactly?” she asks.
“Mr. Talkative here hasn’t explained it?” Dr. Parminder teases, and I briefly consider kicking him with my good foot.
Let’s see how his attitude is when he’s recovering from an injury.
“Believe it or not, no,” Josie says, taking a sip of coffee. “He won’t talk about his injury, but he won’t shut up about the new season of The Real Housewives of Orange County . Go figure.”
She grins at my scowl. And as our eyes meet, a little zing moves from my toes up my legs to my spine, lodging somewhere in my chest.
Dr. Parminder’s laugh breaks through the moment. “First, you’re not too far off,” he says. “Lisfranc is the name of the French doctor who first diagnosed injuries to this ligament. Jacques Lisfranc de St. Martin.”
I want to roll my eyes at Dr. Parminder’s terrible attempt at a French accent, but it makes Josie laugh. He offers her another unnecessary flash of dimples and runs a hand through his thick, dark hair.
I really hope we’re almost done with my treatment. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.
The stretches aren’t much fun either. Before this, he had me do seated leg raises with a resistance belt and practice pushing down on an exercise ball with my injured foot.
All I could think about was how much I miss gliding on ice, the cut of my blades as I deke an opponent, the satisfying exhaustion after a game.
This all feels so...silly. Especially with Josie watching.
“There’s a specific ligament and a joint called the Lisfranc.
Right here between the medial cuneiform and the second metatarsal.
” Dr. Parminder taps the spot on the bottom of my foot.
“The injury can be a tearing of the Lisfranc ligament or include other secondary ligaments. It can even encompass breaks in bones.”
“So, which kind of injury does Wyatt have?”
“Just tears,” I say, wincing as Dr. Parminder bends my foot.
“Two tears,” he amends. “Significant but not full tears. Thankfully. Ready to try some walking in the pool?”
I can think of a hundred things I’d rather do than walk in a pool, but Josie looks at me expectantly. “Sure.”
Grabbing my gym bag, I head to the small changing room just off the main physical therapy space. And if I almost fall over changing into my bathing suit, it’s because I’m in a hurry to finish this appointment.
Not because I don’t like leaving Josie alone with Dr. Dimples.
Though when I come out, he’s standing very close to Josie, his whole body turned toward hers like he’s some kind of satellite.
As I crutch my way across the room, her eyes meet mine.
She stumbles over her words, and a flare of pride goes up at the way her eyes widen, taking in my bare chest. Dr. Dimples steps back from Josie, his smile faltering a little when he sees me.
Maybe I don’t mind walking in the pool after all. And maybe he’s rethinking this particular exercise.
I’m not particularly modest—years spent in a locker room full of hockey players rid me of that quickly—but neither am I particularly prideful about my appearance.
Part of it is genetic, with my height and build coming from my dad.
The rest is a result of my body being my job and, as I’ve come to realize since my injury, my whole world.
This is the weakest and most out of shape I’ve been in years, but I’m aware my body still doesn’t show it—yet.
I definitely feel it as Dr. Dimples starts me on a ten-minute walk in the pool with full weight—buoyed by the water—on my foot.
I hate how challenging something so small is.
I’ve been stupid, sitting in the cottage feeling sorry for myself.
It shouldn’t have taken Josie coming and offering me a bargain to get me here.
But now I’m determined to give this everything I have. For me. Not for hockey or the team or Jacob. Not even for Josie.
Though, I’ll admit, it feels good to climb out of the pool and have her waiting for me, grinning like I just won gold, not like I just walked a few slow laps in a pool.
She hands me a towel, and I catch her eyes dipping to my chest as I dry off. Why does this make me want to flex every muscle I have? When her eyes snap back to mine and she knows I caught her looking, her cheeks flush.
“You did so good!” she says. “How did it feel?”
I shrug. “Like I shouldn’t have avoided this for so long.”
Her smirk says, I told you so , but she doesn’t actually say it.
Dr. Parminder is also smiling, though still directing it too much at Josie. “The good news is, you won’t be needing your crutches anymore. Despite your best efforts to avoid me, you’re recovering well. No more crutches, and we’ll see how you do with just the walking boot.”
“That’s great,” Josie says. “What does that mean as far as activity?”
“If it doesn’t hurt, don’t hold back,” the doctor says, shifting to stand a little too close to Josie. He waggles his eyebrows as he says, “Do what feels good.”
What would feel good is grabbing him by the shirt collar, dragging him away from Josie, and throwing him into the pool.
Josie takes a step back from him and asks, “Is there anything I can help him do at home? Or any exercises he should be doing?”
“Sure.” Dr. Parminder reaches for a folder on the table and flips through pages until he finds one to hand to Josie. “Here’s a list of some exercises he can do. Foot massages are also helpful, and there are a few resources to help with that.”
I almost fall over from shock when we leave without Dr. Dimples asking Josie for her number. Unless he did it when I was changing, and I’m not about to ask her what they talked about without me.
As Josie and I ride the elevator downstairs, I fidget, trying to figure out where my hands should go.
In just those few weeks, I got used to the crutches.
Now everything feels awkward. Or maybe it’s how close to me Josie’s standing, with the elevator almost at capacity.
I can smell her sweet scent as she shifts beside me, humming under her breath.