CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Emery
Two days.
That’s how long I’ve managed to avoid him.
I’ve been busy. Meetings have been stacked back-to-back, I’ve had reports to finish, my proposal to write, as well as athletes to give second opinions on. The being busy part hasn’t been a lie, but it’s not the entire truth either.
The truth is, every time I see Lucas across the facility, my chest constricts so much it feels like it might implode.
Our morning runs have been silent. Our evenings have been spent apart due to team meetings.
It’s been helpful.
It’s been hell.
What’s made it even worse is hearing the devastation in Mark’s voice the other night. Listening to the two of them talk while knowing I’d have to deliver a similar blow sooner than later.
But I gave myself today as a deadline. And being that it’s almost five p.m., I can’t push it any longer.
This has to be done here at work, because I need to keep it professional. Need to keep it separate from our personal lives.
I need to keep things where they should be kept.
When he walks into my office with his smile bright, my heart sinks straight to my feet.
“I’ve been summoned by the famous Dr. Porter,” he says playfully, humor lighting up his eyes.
“Is this a formal thing?” He sits down in the chair in front of my desk.
“Do I need to sit up straight so I get a lollipop for being good when we’re done?
” He waggles his eyebrows and then lowers his voice.
“You gonna put your glasses on and play hot doctor with me?” He laughs but then it fades when he sees that I’m not reacting.
I can’t do it.
I can’t pretend to play along when I feel like I’ve been eaten from the inside out for the past two days.
I turn my back on him and pretend to fiddle with something on the credenza behind my desk to summon my courage.
C’mon, Em. You can’t put this off any longer.
When I turn around though, the smile fades from his face the second he really looks at me. Concern etches in the lines of his expression.
“Oh,” he says quietly. Defensively. “Okay. What is it?”
Without prompting, he gets up and shuts the door behind him but stands with his hand on the handle and his back to me for a second. His shoulders rise and fall as if he’s preparing himself for whatever my expression has suggested.
When he turns back around, his face is stoic as his eyes meet mine. “What’s wrong with my shoulder?” he asks. There is no accusation in his voice. No anger. Just a certainty I wish weren’t there.
I take a seat and grip the arms of my chair because if I don’t anchor myself, I’ll reach for him, and I can’t do that.
Not because of what I have to do.
Not because of where we are.
But because I’m fearful of what his reaction might be.
“Dr. Porter?” he asks, professional and guarded. My own title sounds like an insult.
My hands tremble as I pull the scans up on my screen and then turn the monitor so he can see them.
“This isn’t inflammation,” I say. My voice sounds way steadier than I feel.
“It’s degeneration. Progressive in its nature.
And . . . there’s nothing that can be done to stop it.
Your shoulder is breaking down from the constant load it’s under and will continue to do so until you lose a large percentage of your function. ”
His jaw tightens. His eyes narrow as if he’s searching to see something different from what I have. The tendons in his neck flex.
Say something. Please.
But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on the scans and his body still.
“If you keep playing,” I continue, compartmentalizing my private life with my professional, “you risk permanent, irreparable damage. Loss of considerable, practical function. Chronic pain.” I blink away the tears that well.
“As your doctor, my clinical opinion would be that you stop playing football.”
The words feel like broken glass in my mouth. Every single word is painful to speak.
The silence stretches.
“For how long?” he asks.
Dread drops like a lead weight in my stomach. “It’s not a matter of taking a break—”
“How long?” he demands, voice rough.
“Permanently.” The word feels cruel and heartbreaking.
“No.” He shakes his head several times as he blinks and his Adam’s apple bobs. “That’s not—no. I just made the cut.”
“I know.” God, I know.
“You don’t get to say that like it explains anything.” He shoves the chair so that it hits my desk.
“I know and I’m sorry, but the scans reflect—”
“The scans reflect fucking nothing,” he says in a low growl. “They tell you what you want them to say. Someone else will read them and draw a different conclusion.”
“Both the radiologist and I agree—”
“Don’t. Just fucking don’t.” He grits the words out, his chest heaving, and hands clenching and unclenching.
“If you keep pushing,” I say, my voice breaking despite my effort to control it, “you could lose your chance at a normal functioning arm for the rest of your life.”
“Could is a pretty ambiguous fucking word.”
“You could lose everything that—”
“What if I already have?” He laughs. It’s hollow and brittle and devastating and cracks me wide open.
“There’s more to life than football—”
“I can manage it,” he says, shutting me and my professional opinion out.
Like if he just keeps shaking his head, keeps pacing about my office, the reality of what I said won’t catch up with him.
“Rehab. Restrictions. You’ve fixed worse than this, so draw on what earned you those fancy letters behind your name and fucking fix this. ”
For a brief moment, I experience déjà vu. Those fancy letters behind your name. But one was said out of spite, and this one is said out of fear.
Two completely different contexts.
“This isn’t something I can fix,” I say. “Not if you keep playing.”
“You said it yourself. You fix broken things.” His eyes are wild and words are manic. “Then fix this. It’s broken. Do what you do.”
“I don’t think you understand—”
“Fine. If you don’t want to help me, then don’t.” He stops pacing and glares at me. “I’ll find someone who will. Just . . . just don’t tell the coaches. Management. The team. I’ve played through worse. You don’t get to stop me from playing through this.”
I can’t keep up with the whiplash of emotions.
“I can’t do that—”
“Yes, you can. It’s easy.”
“Luc—”
“Stop saying my fucking name like I’m a goddam child,” he yells. “You don’t get to determine whether I can play. I do.” He thumps his chest. “Me. It’s my body,” he snaps, panic bleeding its way through the anger. “You know what this means to me.”
I take a deep breath, and yet I still feel like I’m starving for air.
I can’t lie to the team. I can’t risk my own job for him.
I can’t . . . I don’t know what to do. Logic is cut and dried and tells me I have to inform my bosses, but emotion and the man standing before me pleading with me says something totally different.
His eyes search mine, like he’s looking for the woman he thought he knew when I’m standing right before him.
“How long?” he asks quietly. “How long have you known?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. He knows.
“Jesus,” he whispers. “You let me celebrate. You celebrated with me.” The pain threaded through his voice is enough to bring me to my knees. “Who’s the liar now, Em?”
“You were so happy. I couldn’t—”
“I don’t want”—he holds his hands up for me to stop—“you should have told me.”
“I was trying not to break you.”
“Ironic.” His jaw clenches and eyes pierce right through me. “Too bad you just did.”
He turns and walks out.
And I stay where I am, staring at the door long after it closes. Oh, Lucas.
I love you so much it hurts.
His words, his understandable anger, his dismissal . . . it all makes sense, but I’m between a rock and a hard place right now. Ethically, morally, and according to the terms of my own contract.
Just . . . just don’t tell the coaches. Management. The team. I’ve played through worse. You don’t get to stop me from playing through this.
We never said the words out loud to each other, never said I love you, so why does it seem as though I’ve also just broken something I desperately want to fix?