Chapter Three
Eric
T he basketball bounces off the rim, and I jump up, securing the rebound. The second I land—rather awkwardly and not straight on my feet like I should—pain shoots through my ankle, and I know I fucked up. Big-time fucked up.
“Shit,” I curse quietly, trying to keep weight off my right ankle.
“Um…pretty sure I heard a crack,” Tim says.
“No.” I shake my head. There wasn’t a crack. He couldn’t have heard a crack. What will I do if there was a crack?
I step gingerly on my foot, and sharp pain pierces me.
“Fuuuuuck,” I say, louder this time, because the situation definitely calls for it.
Tim wraps an arm around me and helps me hobble to one of the chairs beside the indoor court at our gym. Each movement, each time my ankle jostles, I get more pain, and that’s beside the continuous ache and throbbing.
Fuck my life. I broke my ankle. I know I did. There’s not a single doubt in my mind and—no. I shake my head, refusing to think about all the ways I’m extremely fucked right now.
I plop down in a chair and untie my shoe. The swelling’s setting in, my sock tighter on my right ankle than my left. And did I mention my shoe feels two sizes too small?
“You good? Can I go back to the game?” Tim asks. Donovan, he is not, but then he’s just a guy I play ball with sometimes. He’s not my person.
“Yeah, I’m fine. You better win for me,” I grumble as I examine my foot. It’s not hugely swollen. Maybe that’s a good sign. But I already see bruising beginning. Should I bruise that quickly? I’ve never broken something before.
Maybe I still haven’t. Maybe it’s a bad sprain and it will magically be better by tomorrow.
I tell myself that over and over while I try to figure out how I’m going to get home. My apartment is within walking distance from my gym, so I never bring my car here. There’s no way I can walk, though.
I’d call Donovan, but he works until six this evening, which means car service it is.
Using the wall to jump and hobble while also keeping your shoe in your hand? It’s not a good time. Don’t try it. But eventually I make my way outside and plop down on the bench, sweat stinging my eyes more than when I was playing ball.
I pull up the app on my phone and order a car. They’re only two minutes away, which means I don’t get much time to rest before the red Honda is pulling up for me.
And I have to hop…without a wall to help.
I hate my ankle.
I nearly fall a few times and have to stop and take a couple of breaks, but eventually I get to the car. The driver gives me a grunt when I climb in, so clearly, he’s out of patience with me and a huge dick.
My ankle throbs the whole drive to my house, and even though I’m broke and, as mentioned, he’s a huge dick, I still give him a good tip because I know people don’t make a lot of money doing jobs like that.
How do I know? From experience, of course.
I’ve signed up and driven ride shares for extra cash when I needed it.
It’s not until I sit at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to my apartment that I let myself truly consider how fucked I am.
I’m not going to be able to work—not that work has been super busy lately anyway.
Not being able to work means I’m not going to be able to pay my bills. Regular bills, plus the new ones I’m bound to incur because my stupid ankle hates me.
Unless I can just deal with it myself. Ice it and wrap it and poof , everything is all better again.
I use the railing to pull myself up to my feet, then throw my shoe up the stairs. It hits the landing, but my sock falls through the steps and lands in front of my neighbor’s apartment.
Welp, there goes that sock because I’m not going to grab it. I use the railing to balance myself as I jump up the stairs on one foot. I’m out of breath, which is annoying as shit because I’m in shape. Jumping up the stairs really shouldn’t be that hard.
After that, it takes me a few minutes to fill a bag of ice, and then I plop onto my couch with my phone. I elevate my foot on pillows, lay the ice on it, and take four ibuprofens.
Everything will be okay. Tomorrow I’ll be fine.
*
I am not, in fact, fine.
I’m not dying, so that’s a plus, but my ankle or foot or both are not fine. It’s very bruised, hurts like a motherfucker, and is swollen as shit.
I have to go to the doctor, but I really, really don’t want to.
I just want to pretend everything is normal.
The thing is, when I left my last job to help out my buddy Cliff with his landscaping business, I did so knowing he didn’t offer medical coverage.
Stupid, yes, but I’m twenty-eight and healthy.
I figured I would be fine. Plus, Cliff said that eventually he’d be able to provide insurance, and when someone says something, I believe them.
Cliff…doesn’t seem to like to work very much, though.
He doesn’t try nearly as hard as he should to bring work in, and no work means no money for medical…
Again, I’m so incredibly fucked.
Donovan and Mom are going to kill me.
With a sigh, I take a photo of my foot and text it to Donovan. He’s already going to be pissed that I didn’t tell him last night, so I might as well get it over with. I’m going to need his help anyway. Thankfully he’s off today.
“Read” shows up beneath my photo. My phone will ring in three, two, one…it buzzes in my hand.
“Hello—”
“What the hell happened to your foot?” Donovan cuts me off. There’s panic in his voice, and I immediately feel guilty for texting him a photo and not calling to tell him.
“I’m fine, D.” I am, and he knows that too, but after the health problems he had when he was younger, he takes anything medical-related seriously.
He worries way too much anytime someone he knows is hurt or sick.
It’s also part of the reason he became a nurse—his own struggles with his health when he was a kid, and then me losing my dad.
D is a caretaker at heart, but even more so with me and his family, so while it’s just a hurt foot to some, it feels like more than that to him.
“I landed wrong playing basketball yesterday.”
“Have you been icing it? Elevation? I’m on my way over. Do you need anything?”
I can’t help smiling over his concern. It feels good to have someone care about you so much. Especially a person who means the world to you. “I’m fine. Just bored and annoyed.” And ya know, stressed out.
“We’ll get it figured out. I’ll take you to the doctor when I get there.”
My heart thumps. “It’s just a sprain. I don’t need to go to the doctor.”
“Do you have X-ray vision now? How do you know it’s just a sprain?”
“Because of my X-ray vision,” I counter. “Did I forget to tell you about that?”
I don’t have to see him to know he’s rolling his eyes. “We’ll talk about it when I get there.”
I know that tone. It’s his serious-mixed-with-worry tone, which means Donovan isn’t taking no for an answer. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll see you soon.”
“Stop pouting.”
“I’m not pouting,” I lie because I’m clearly pouting.
I don’t know why I don’t just tell him about my concerns, but it’s embarrassing.
Despite all he’s been through, Donovan has always had it together.
He’s always known what he wanted, and there was never any doubt that he would make that happen.
I’ve never had the same kind of goals he had.
I didn’t go to college, and I don’t have 401(k)s and such.
I’m not as smart as him, and I do my best not to highlight that truth.
“Are you okay? Is something else wrong other than the injury?” His voice has switched over to all concern now. I know each and every one of Donovan’s voices by heart.
“I’m fine, D. Just come over and take care of me.”
He chuckles. “I’ll be right there.”
As soon as we end the call, I take some more medication because my leg is killing me. I have to piss too, but the thought of bouncing my way into the bathroom doesn’t appeal, so I decide to wait until Donovan is here to help.
Before I know it, I hear his key in my lock and D’s pushing into my apartment.
“Hey, D. Wanna go jogging with me today?”
He rolls his eyes. It’s a thing he does a lot around me.
“Shit, babe. It looks even worse in person.” Donovan walks over and lightly dances his fingertips over the tight skin of my ankle and foot. The gentle touch sends goose bumps up my calf.
“Please don’t tell me that.” And because it’s easier to concentrate on Donovan than worry about what I’m going to do, I take him in.
He used to keep his dark hair a little longer.
You can’t see the curls as much now that it’s practically buzzed into a fade.
His eyes have this sort of sparkle to their brown depths.
Donovan tries to smile at me, his full lips this perfect bow shape, and where usually the grin makes me feel better, it doesn’t right now.
“There’s no way to know if it’s broken without an X-ray. We really need to get you into urgent care.”
With a sigh, I drop my head back against the arm of the couch, and for good measure, I bang it a couple of times. He’s right. I don’t doubt he’s right, but I really don’t want to have to do this. I just want my ankle to feel fine so I can go back to my regularly scheduled life.
“Why are you so upset about going to the doctor?” Donovan runs his fingers through my hair the way he knows I like. I’m completely aware that it’s like he’s giving me scritches, but it’s hands down one of the best feelings and always helps me feel better.
“Nothing. It’s fine. Will you help me to the bathroom? I need to pee and clean up. I’m sweaty from the game but couldn’t shower last night.”
He looks at me funny, his nose scrunched up in this confused way that’s so familiar, but he doesn’t voice any concern. Instead, he nods, then takes my hand while I change positions to sitting before getting to my feet…well, foot.