Chapter Two
Two
Jack
I’m trying to comprehend what the doctor is saying, I really am, but the more I think about it, the more it makes my brain hurt.
“What do you mean I ‘might not be able to play anymore’?”
The doctor points to my X-rays again, frowning.
“Well, the good news is you haven’t broken your ulna again, Mr. Baker,” he says, “but unfortunately, it seems that you’ve developed some rare complications after the first break.”
Dee squeezes my shoulder. “What sort of complications?”
“It’s called radioulnar synostosis,” the doctor explains.
“It’s what happens when there’s a fibrous fusion of the two forearm bones.
It’s incredibly rare after a break like you sustained last summer, but as you can see…
not impossible.” He looks thoughtful then.
“It’s usually more common in children, and in those cases, not particularly painful, but due to your age and the compensatory movements used to manage the limited rotation while you’re playing… ”
I swallow, feeling a little like the floor is opening up beneath me. “But what—What does that mean?”
“Well, it can be treated with surgery, but if left unchecked, or also, if you continue to put strain on it through your playing, it could result in a more permanent loss of function in that arm.”
“I can’t not play,” I say vehemently, feeling panic welling inside me. “I just got back.”
“Mr. Baker…” The doctor sighs, looking sympathetic. “I understand what you mean, but if we don’t move to treat this quickly, it could result in further damage.”
“Jack,” Dee urges me, her voice sounding almost like it’s coming from underwater. “If you ignore this, you could have to give up playing altogether.”
“We’re on a streak right now,” I argue. “You know as well as I do that Lievman is still green as fuck. If I duck out now, and they send him in, it’ll be a total shutout.”
She snorts. “There are plenty of other players on the team that could carry him.”
I can’t lose this, I don’t say.
I know there’s no way to make her understand. She thinks there’s nothing I really care about, anyway. Hell, everyone does. How the fuck could I tell her that the thought of losing the only thing I’m good for makes me feel desolate and empty?
“I’m not giving up the game,” I tell her firmly, almost petulantly. “This shit can wait till the offseason.”
“Mr. Baker,” the doctor interrupts. “With all due respect, it’s imperative that we—”
“I’m not quitting playing,” I say adamantly. “Forget it.”
Dee makes a frustrated sound, throwing up her hands just as her cell phone begins to chime in her pocket. She wrestles it out and glances at the screen, sighing when she reads the name there.
“It’s Ian,” she says. “The game must be over.” She glances at me. “I’m going to step outside and talk to him, but this is not over, do you hear me? This game isn’t worth your arm.”
I don’t say anything, because again, I don’t think there is anything I could say to make her understand how I feel.
I’ve spent my entire life being the happy guy she needs me to be, the light in the darkness that was our childhood after the death of our parents—and even as adults, it’s a mantle I’ve kept up.
It’s almost easy, pretending not to care about anything. It’s second nature now.
But I can’t lose this.
The doctor says something about speaking to a nurse, telling me something about how she’ll be in later to give me some pain medication.
The hit I took on the ice just sprained my old wound, thankfully, but still it feels like it might as well be broken all over again. That I might as well be broken.
Because if I can’t play, then what the fuck even am I?
I can feel the familiar panic clawing up my throat, one that is always happy to rear its head even as desperately as I try to keep it under wraps.
I have medication for it at home, but it’s not going to do me any good here.
I know I could ask the doctor about it, but then Dee would most likely find out, and the last thing I want is for her to know I struggle with that shit.
She’d just worry, and worrying my sister is something I do my damnedest to avoid.
I don’t notice at first that there’s someone else in the room, not until the doctor leaves and I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. I blink in surprise when I notice Abby tucked in the corner, looking uncomfortable and out of place as she stands there clutching car keys.
“What are you doing here?”
She jangles the keys. “I brought Lila’s car.”
It should be weird that Abby adopted Ian’s nickname for Dee, given that he’s the only one who ever really calls her that, but I’ve gotten used to it over time.
“Oh.” I feel suddenly embarrassed that she witnessed everything here, my neck flushing as I turn my face from her. “Sorry you had to see all that drama.”
“It’s not drama,” she says with a snort. “How’s your arm?”
I scoff. “Useless, apparently, didn’t you hear?”
“He said it was treatable,” she points out.
“Sure, if I want to give up the best season we’ve had in years,” I answer bitterly. I realize then that I’m being a total downer, trying to force a smile to break up the doom and gloom. “But hey, if my arm is busted”—I wave to my crotch—“I still have two more.”
She makes a face. “Do you always have to do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make everything into a stupid joke,” she says. “You don’t have to pretend you’re not worried about all this.”
“I—” My mouth snaps shut. I’m not unused to people calling me on my shit, far from it, but for some reason, when Abby does it, it’s always cut just a little deeper. Almost like she can see right through me. “I didn’t say I wasn’t worried.”
“Lila and Ian will kick your ass if you insist on continuing to play at your own detriment, you know.”
“They wouldn’t lay hands on someone with a disability, surely,” I say with a mock gasp.
She rolls her eyes. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. It’s obvious as fuck that this is scary, but you’re trying to pretend it isn’t. I don’t get it.”
I stare back at her, trying to come up with a response.
It’s not often that I’m rendered speechless, but again, from the moment I met her, Abby seemed to have some sort of superpower when it comes to cutting through my shit.
It always makes me feel like I need to step up my game around her, that I need to keep the bullshit at an all-time high just so she can’t see through me with those piercing gray eyes of hers.
It doesn’t help that she’s devastatingly pretty.
Sure, it’s in an Ian way, but honestly, the more I’ve gotten to know her over the last six months or so, the less that seems to be true.
The shape of her nose is different, more petite.
Her pale blond hair is a far cry from the bright ginger of Ian’s, and even her cheekbones have a grace to them that sets her apart.
So yeah, at first glance, she looks a lot like her brother, but if you look closer, there’s something so inherently hers about her looks that it’s hard to even compare the two.
Which is why I make sure to compare the two as often as possible, because being attracted to my best friend’s sister—despite what traitor Ian thinks—is bad news.
“I am scared,” I admit quietly, not even entirely sure what prompts me to do so. “But what good does that do me? I can’t quit. Like I said. I’ll just have to push through it till after the season.”
“And why is that?”
Because this is all I have. Because there’s literally nothing else good about me that I have.
“Because the team needs me,” I say instead.
She frowns, staring at me with those same stern gray eyes that are just like her brother’s and yet somehow entirely hers. She shrugs finally, pushing away from the wall.
“It’s none of my business I guess.” She jingles the keys in her hand. “I’m going to go give these to your sister and get a ride home. I have a lot of work to catch up on.” She gives me a wary glance, looking torn, as if she can’t quite decide what to say to me. “Good luck, Jack.”
My first instinct is to make a joke, to say something silly, but something about the sincerity in her tone gives me pause, and instead I utter a simple, “Thank you.”
It might be the most normal interaction I’ve ever had with the woman.
I watch her disappear out the door, feeling a little undone by the impression left by her gaze, real fear seeping in through my armor and settling deep down in my chest as it makes my heart start to race.
I know that Ian will have the same things to say as my sister when he gets here, that both of them will try to convince me to move forward with treatment as soon as possible.
And it will take a miracle to convince them to leave it alone, and more importantly, not tell the coach.
Because there’s one thing for certain during all of this—I can’t quit playing.
I just can’t.