CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Emery
The MRI machine hums as it calibrates. It’s a low steady sound that tells me I’m in my element. Where I’m meant to be.
Usually.
Lucas lies flat on the table, one arm positioned just right—even though it’s probably uncomfortable for him—but he doesn’t complain.
“A little pinch,” Albert, the radiologist, says as he injects contrast dye into the joint of Lucas’s shoulder.
Under the magnetic resonance arthrogram, the dye will help us see the needed details to assess his shoulder’s stability as well as confirming the repairs to his labrum and rotator cuff are still solid.
“Stop talking dirty to me, Albert,” Lucas jokes as Clark begins to position him in the ABER position with his hand placed behind his head and the elbow flexed.
“Why the new position?” Lucas asks.
“On a postoperative shoulder repair, this is the only position that allows us to distinguish between surgical artifacts like scars and anchors and actual new damage,” Albert says.
“This position adds stress to the shoulder, which allows us to see subtle abnormalities like partial thickness rotator cuff tears or labral injuries.”
“Good to know, but we won’t be seeing any of that,” Lucas says. But the way his eyes flicker to the machine when he should be used to this by now, tells me he’s nervous.
It’s completely understandable.
“So,” I say lightly, trying to distract and relax him. “Anything exciting been going on in your life lately?”
Lucas turns his head enough to look at me. I keep my eyes focused on the computer in front of me but fail fighting my smile.
“Depends who’s asking,” he says.
“Your doctor,” I say nonchalantly.
“Nothing exciting, no. I’ve been living like a monk.”
I arch a brow as Albert and Clark snicker.
“Correction. A monk who occasionally goes out, stays up too late, and makes questionable decisions,” Lucas says.
I level Lucas with a look that’s a cross between a scold and a roll of my eyes. “You realize that lying to your doctors is frowned upon.”
“Is it lying if we all know it’s bullshit?”
“Very much so.”
Lucas’s grin comes easy. Mission accomplished. “Worth it. Besides, if I told you I was busy having wild, crazy, swing from the chandeliers type se—”
“Nope. Don’t need to know.” I throw my hands up. “Other than telling you swinging with that shoulder might not be in your best interest.”
Albert laughs as Lucas feigns innocence. “Geesh. What were you thinking I was going to say?” Lucas asks with a bat of his lashes.
“I don’t think I want to know.” I laugh.
“For the record, I was going to say I participate in hour-long meditation sessions, followed by morning runs, and then late-night yoga in my apartment to release some stress.”
“Choir boy stuff, no doubt.” It’s my turn to snort. “And none of that involves swinging from chandeliers.”
“Doc, you really need to get your mind out of the gutter. I hear it’s a dangerous place to be.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say and turn my back to hide my smile as my mind ghosts back to last night and me riding him on my couch. His hands. His mouth. His cock.
I clear my throat and hope it does the same to my mind.
“Try not to move,” Clark says as he finishes positioning Lucas.
“I’m excellent at following instructions,” Lucas says. “Doc’ll vouch for me.”
“I will not. In fact, I have documentation to the contrary.”
He laughs softly knowing damn well I’m squirming in my shoes over the things we said to each other last night in the heat of the moment.
“I’m going to need this arm to lay flatter,” Albert says as he places one hand on Lucas’s bad shoulder and then tries to press his elbow down.
There. Right there. Lucas’s jaw tightens—just a flicker of it—but I catch it.
That wince he gave during the game, the one he said I was making up, wasn’t nothing, he just did it again.
Shit.
Then again, he’s battle scarred, and if I moved anybody on this team’s body in a certain way they’d grimace too.
Keep that in mind, Em. A wince doesn’t necessarily mean something bad.
“How’s it feeling?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
“Great,” he says too fast. “Five stars. Would recommend on YELP.”
I don’t call him out on it. The scans will tell me the truth neither of us can see, but only one of us can truly feel.
“It’s just a follow-up diagnostic,” I explain even though he already knows. “It’s been a couple of weeks since the last one, so this is just standard protocol.”
“Standard is good,” he mutters. “Big fan of boring here.”
“Let’s hope we keep it that way.” I look over at Albert. “Everything set?”
Albert nods and Clark gives Lucas a few instructions, ones he’s probably heard a dozen times before the three of us move outside the room so the scans can begin.
The machine begins to whirl as Albert and I stand in front of the monitor so we can watch the images come to life.
A grainy black image begins to load on the screen, but then it freezes at about twenty-five percent.
In the room beyond the window, the machine continues to do its scan of Lucas’s shoulder, but the screen in front of us is frozen.
“Shit,” Albert mutters as he looks at Clark, the machine, and then back to the screen.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I don’t know. The system’s lagging. Not pulling the full image set,” Albert says.
“But it’s still sounds like it’s scanning.”
“It probably is,” he murmurs. “It’s just not transmitting it to the screen. If that’s the case, though, it’ll at least save the images to its memory.”
“You sure?” I ask.
“No.” He laughs out. “But there’s only one way to find out—and that’s waiting.”
“Worst-case scenario we have to run them again once it’s fixed,” Clark says. “I have a tech coming out later for the CT machine, so I’ll have him take a look at this.”
“Okay. Do we stop this then?” I ask.
“Nah. We’ll let it finish just in case it’s a relaying issue.”
“You two are the experts. I’ll follow your lead,” I say, twisting my lips while we wait it out.
Within a few minutes, the scan completes and the machine resets back to its original position, and we head into the room.
“So?” Lucas asks as Clark begins pushing buttons on the machine’s panel. “What did it say?”
“Not sure,” I say.
“That sounds ominous.”
“No. The machine wasn’t transmitting the scans to us. Just technology being technology is all.”
“So do we need to do it again?” he asks.
“We’re going to wait and see,” Albert says. “We’ll reboot it. Reprocess it. If that doesn’t help, I’ll have the tech look at it. Then we can rescan if need be. We typically like to wait twenty-four hours between contrast scans to let it clear from your system.”
“It can be hard on the kidneys,” I add.
“Okay. Sounds like a plan.” Lucas sits up on the table. “So, you’ll let me know if I have to come back?”
“Yes,” I say automatically.
“Thanks for breaking the machine,” Albert jokes.
“Someone’s got to keep you guys on your toes.” Lucas wiggles his eyebrows. “Later.” He leaves with a casual wave.
The room feels quieter the second the door shuts.
“Go ahead and do whatever you need to do,” Albert says. “I’ll work on this and let you know what happens.”
“Sounds good,” I say and leave for my office to do just that.
Over the past two months, my time not spent with athletes has been spent reaching out to other professional team doctors.
I’ve peppered them with questions about their protocols and programs. Some were guarded as if sharing information with me would risk their team success while others were a fount of knowledge.
I’ve begun compiling notes from my informal interviews and follow-up emails and am using them as a guide—along with my own observations here at the Rebels—to piece together an outline for my proposal.
One that focuses on load management and injury prevention.
With all the money invested in their athletes, the Rebels top priority should be keeping their players injury-free.
And now with my research done and my notes organized, it’s time to take on the monumental task of actually writing the proposal.
Exciting in theory, but also cumbersome and overwhelming to begin. That’s why when the knock comes at my office door, I’m surprised to look up and see that it’s dark outside.
When did that happen?
“Come in,” I say when I see Clark, the MRI tech, standing there.
“I was finally able to get the machine working properly and recovered the scans.”
“That’s great. Thank you for working on it.”
“Of course.” He smiles. “Albert’s already seen them. The images and his observations should be loading in the portal if you want to pull them up.”
“Perfect. I appreciate it.”
“If you want, I can wait to make sure you can access them before I leave for the day.”
“That’d be great. Give me one sec.”
I log into the portal and navigate to where I need to be. The images load. I lean in, expecting baseline comparisons, minor inflammation, wear consistent with playtime, and scar tissue that looks ominous but is expected. All things proof of a well-repaired shoulder.
No . . .
“These are wrong” I say, eyes flashing up. “These aren’t Hale’s.”
Please, no.
He blinks, eyes narrowing. “They’re definitely his. He was the only patient on that machine today.”
Panic flutters in my chest. First, it’s a flicker and then it’s a full-blown crushing sensation. “Can you double-check the athlete ID? Make sure it matches the team charts?”
Clark moves toward my desk, and I angle the screen toward him so he can click through slides.
“Lucas D. Hale. Date of birth matches. Time stamp matches.” He navigates back to the scans. “That is most definitely him.”
I stare harder at them like that might change the reality staring back at me.
“You’re positive?” I reiterate.
“Yes.”
Shit.
I blink back tears and force a smile on my lips. “Thanks. Appreciate it. I’ve got it from here,” I say, each word feeling like lead.
I wait for him to leave, for the door to click behind him, and then I review the scans again.
My first impression stands. There’s structural degeneration, clear evidence of stress markers, and progressive damage that shouldn’t be accelerating like this.
Panic clouds my ability to think, so I click over to Albert’s notes in the portal to verify that I’m not reading these wrong. I will them to be wrong.
Nope.
Not wrong.
His notes say the same fucking thing.
I drop my head in my hands as the weight of what this means hits me squarely in the gut.
This isn’t irritation.
This isn’t stiffness.
This isn’t something that can be managed by getting hit less on the field or correcting mechanics on how he throws.
This is his shoulder breaking down under continued load.
Continuing to play risks permanent damage.
I press my lips together and draw a breath in carefully, because right now, it feels like I’m going to shatter.
“Football isn’t just what I do. It’s the place where I’m most myself. Where right and wrong comes with immediate—and sometimes bruising—feedback. It’s where everything has always made the most sense.”
And if that’s how I feel just seeing them, I can’t imagine how he’s going to feel hearing what they mean.
I know what I have to do, but I don’t pick up the phone. I don’t move my feet to leave. I just sit there as time clicks away and prepare myself for what I have to do next.
I’ve never wanted to be wrong more in my life.