CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Emery
The scans for Nixon are up on my screen, his knee frozen mid-slice in shades of gray and white that have long ago stopped looking like art. Now they tell a story, providing facts. Truth.
I scroll slowly. Methodically. ACL intact. Meniscus clean. Some wear—normal, expected, manageable. The kind of knee that tells a story of use, not disaster.
I tap my pen on my desk as I study them. The knock on my door is as expected as the man standing there.
“Doc?” Coach leans against the frame, arms crossed, posture easy but commanding. He always looks like a man who’s weighing outcomes.
“You want to know if Nixon is good to go for Sunday? I was just reviewing the scans.”
“And what’s your honest take?” he asks, and the word honest lands heavier than it should. “What do they tell you?”
I glance back at the scans. At the knee that tells me exactly what it is and nothing more.
“He’s stable,” I say. “No structural damage. No indicators that would keep him off the field right now.”
Coach hums. “What about down the road?”
There it is.
“Down the road?” I ask, my thoughts stumbling out of control.
He shrugs. “Yeah. You know, long-term. I know you don’t have a crystal ball in that machine, but is there anything in there that might be a risk for us as the season wears on? We’re counting on your outlook, Doc.”
He says the last sentence with a chuckle, as if he doesn’t really mean it, but I feel the implication. He’s right. I don’t have a crystal ball, but I do have years of training that can assist in occasional forecasting. Like in Lucas’s case.
My office suddenly feels smaller. More claustrophobic.
“It’s playing perfectly well—hitting marks, getting the job done. I shouldn’t be held back because of what might happen in the future.”
Lucas’s words come back to me. His justification and my reasoning. And all of it feels very thin now that for the first time, I’m being asked to predict what injuries Nixon might have. Even if in jest.
Because if they expect that kind of foresight and honesty when it comes to Nixon, they sure as shit would expect the same for Lucas.
Fuck.
It’s easier to focus on the screen than meet his eyes so I do that and scroll through the images once more, as if something new might suddenly appear if I look hard enough.
“There’s always risk,” I say carefully. “With any athlete. But based on what I’m seeing now, there’s nothing predictive that would warrant holding him back.”
Coach studies my face for a beat. “That’s what I needed,” he says and claps once. “Appreciate it.”
“Of course.”
“You’ve become an important part of this team, Doc. We depend on you and your knowledge and what you bring to the program is valued.”
I nod as words clog in my throat. “Thank you.”
After he leaves, I finalize Nixon’s report. Clean. Factual. Present tense only. I don’t dig. I don’t speculate. I don’t borrow trouble from the future.
And I hate the feeling that settles in my gut over it. It eats at me for some time as I stare out the window to the empty practice field beyond.
Unable to stand it anymore, I close my office door, and then sit back at my desk, pulling up Lucas’s scans—as if I haven’t already committed them to memory.
The same images. The same deterioration. The same truth sitting there, patient and unmoving, waiting for me to decide what it means.
My stomach tightens.
This is different. It has to be. Nixon’s knee is wear-and-tear. Lucas’s shoulder issues are caused by degeneration. One is possibility. The other is inevitability.
But Coach’s words won’t leave me alone.
“You’ve become an important part of this team, Doc. We depend on you and your knowledge and what you bring to the program is valued.”
I grab my phone before I can talk myself out of it and call.
Mirna answers on the second ring. “Emery? Twice in two weeks. I’ll take it.” I can hear the smile in her voice and it settles me slightly. “Were you able to get in touch with my contact, Frank, with the Phantoms?”
“Yes. I appreciate it. He was thorough and his suggestions invaluable.”
“I’m glad it worked out.” She pauses. “So what else can I help you with?”
I struggle to find the right words. “Nothing. I was just calling to say thank you.”
“Which you could have done in a text. I know you better than that. What’s going on?”
“I have a question,” I say. “A hypothetical.”
“Those are never hypothetical.”
I close my eyes. “If you see something on a scan that could become a problem—years down the line—but isn’t actively limiting function now . . . do you report that future diagnosis or do you report just the immediate one?”
There’s a measured pause on the line.
“You report what’s there,” Mirna says. “Not what you’re afraid might happen.”
“But what if—”
“You don’t get paid to predict the future,” she says. “You get paid to interpret the present science. Medicine isn’t prophecy, Emery. It’s observation. It’s facts.”
I swallow.
“You ignore the risk?” I ask.
“There’s always risk,” she says. “That’s why informed consent exists. That’s why autonomy matters. Athletes aren’t glass . . . they’re partners in their own care.”
I open my eyes, staring at the frozen image on my screen.
“And if management tells you that your job is to report predictions?”
“I’d tell you the same thing. As a doctor, we report facts. We report what we see. This is science, not fortune telling.” She falls quiet for a beat.
“I’m just trying to do the right thing even though it feels wrong.”
“That’s why medicine isn’t for the faint of heart. I understand your dilemma, I hear what they’re asking you, but my advice still stands.”
We hang up a minute later.
I don’t move.
I sit there with Lucas’s scans glowing softly in the darkened office, and Coach’s voice looping in my head.
We’re counting on you for the future.
I don’t know whether that feels like trust or a warning.
Or a line I’ve already crossed.
But Mirna is absolutely correct. I can’t predict the future. I can provide facts, present observations, not projections. That’s what truth is.
And I need to trust in that.