Chapter 20
The needle slid in beneath the edge of the athletic tape, and the team doctor told me to keep my arm still.
“I wasn't planning on moving it for fun,” I said.
“You weren't planning on playing on this shoulder three weeks ago, either.”
The locker room smelled of liniment, wet grass, and the coffee someone had spilled beside the taping table. To my left, Reyes tapped the studs of his boots against the concrete. Marcus sat with his elbows resting on his knees, watching me without bothering to hide it.
The doctor finished the injection and pressed a square of gauze against my skin.
“This numbs the pain. It doesn't stabilize the joint,” he said. “If you lose strength, sensation, or range of motion, you come off. You don't negotiate that with me, and you don't negotiate it with the head coach.”
“Understood.”
“Repeat it without the tone you use when you’re planning to do the exact opposite.”
I looked down at the white gauze.
“I come off if I lose strength, sensation, or mobility.”
The doctor smoothed a fresh strip of tape from my chest around to my shoulder blade. The cold blast of the freezing spray evaporated against my skin.
“And the pain might hit all at once when the local wears off.”
“Also understood.”
Marcus waited until the doctor stepped away.
“Do you want me to tell you this is a terrible idea, or did we already cover that part?”
“You can save it for halftime,” I said.
“I’m going to need new material by then.”
I pulled my jersey on with help from the kit manager. My left arm already felt lighter. That was the dangerous part: not that it stopped aching, but that for a little while, it felt like it belonged to me again.
My phone was zipped in my gym bag, powered down since we’d arrived at the stadium. Kate hadn't texted in the three days since our fight. Neither had I. She’d asked for space, and I’d responded by turning four of her things into a neat stack on my weight bench.
The charger on top. The flats underneath. The hair tie tucked inside one of them so it wouldn't get lost.
I’d checked the pile twice before leaving the house.
“Five minutes!” the coach shouted.
The room filled with the sharp clap of hands, rustling kit, and cleats scraping over concrete. I got to my feet. Marcus clamped a massive hand around the back of my neck and pulled his forehead against mine.
“You don't have to win this match on your own,” he said.
“I know.”
“Bullshit, but we don't have time.”
We filed into the tunnel.
The stadium noise hit first as a low vibration in my ribs, then broke into drums, whistles, and thousands of overlapping voices. The morning rain had left the pitch fast; the sod gave way beneath our studs, releasing the smell of damp earth every time someone dug in to brake.
On the first phase, I took a pass and the shoulder held.
On the second, it held again.
The pain stayed behind a low wall—present, but far enough away to ignore. I ran. We tackled. We ground through short phases. Reyes scored before the twentieth minute, getting to his feet with a grin so wide his mouthguard nearly dropped onto the grass.
At halftime, we were up by three.
“Strength?” the doctor asked.
I squeezed two of his fingers with my left hand.
“Fine.”
“Sensation?”
“Fine.”
“Mobility?”
I lifted my arm as far as the tape would allow.
“Good enough.”
The doctor didn't agree with my definition, but he let me back out.
The hit came twelve minutes later. Their fly-half put up a high spiral toward our touchline. I tracked back, timed the drop, and went up with my right arm extended. Snagging the ball was clean. Coming down wasn't.
A body struck me from the side. My left shoulder took the turf before the rest of me. There was a sharp pull inside the joint, and then nothing. No pain. No heat. Nothing.
The ball spilled from my grip.
I tried to push myself up. The arm didn't respond.
Marcus reached me first, dropping to his knees in the grass.
“Don't move it,” he said.
“I can't.”
That sentence brought the doctor sprinting across the pitch.
They helped me off without letting me take the weight of the arm.
The stands kept roaring a few yards away, but the tunnel swallowed the sound down to a muffled thud.
In the medical room, they cut the tape away and strapped my shoulder into an immobilizer.
Sensation returned before the pain did: first a prickling in my fingers, then a grinding pressure climbing into my neck.
“That’s it,” the doctor said.
I didn't ask if he meant the match.
The wall-mounted monitor showed the pitch with the sound muted. I watched Reyes miss a tackle and Marcus slide over to seal the gap. Nine minutes left. Seattle was down by two.
The doctor palpated the top of my shoulder. The pain punched straight through what was left of the anesthetic and hollowed out my stomach.
“Likely AC separation,” he said. “We’ll get imaging tomorrow. You’re done for today.”
I nodded. I didn't have an alternative I could dress up as a choice.
Seattle won on a penalty kick in the final minute.
The stadium shook overhead, rattling the medical room door.
On screen, the squad sprinted toward our kicker; Reyes leapt onto Marcus's shoulders and nearly brought them both down in the mud.
I sat on the examination table with my jersey sliced open from collar to sleeve.
We were heading to the final.
I was not.
* * *
The MRI confirmed a grade 2 AC joint separation and labral irritation that the specialist wanted to re-evaluate once the swelling came down.
Four weeks with no contact. Maybe six. The final was out of the question.
So was the San Diego physical, at least until I could raise my arm without compensating with my entire torso.
On Sunday afternoon, Rick called three times. I answered on the third.
“San Diego will push the physical back to Friday the seventeenth,” he said. “They won't promise anything past that. Seattle wants to put out a release confirming you’re sidelined with an injury.”
“Tell them to announce it.”
“Cole, I need you to understand that the contract—”
“I understand.”
“Are you alone?”
I looked toward the kitchen. A clean saucepan sat on the stovetop, two plates rested in the drying rack, and the blue ceramic mug Kate had used the last time we’d had breakfast sat on the counter. Her pile of belongings was still in the spare room.
“Yeah.”
Rick went quiet. He wasn't built for that kind of question and seemed annoyed with himself for even asking it.
“I’ll call tomorrow,” he said.
“Okay.”
After hanging up, I tried to make something to eat.
I set out a cutting board, a tomato, and the chef's knife.
The immobilizer kept my left arm pinned tight against my ribs; the moment I gripped the tomato with my right hand, I ran into the obvious problem.
I put the knife away before doing damage to a part of my body that still worked.
The house magnified every small chore. Opening a jar.
Pulling a clean shirt over my head. Getting a baking sheet out of the oven without a second hand.
I’d spent years walking into other people’s houses with food, schedules, and a running mental list of whatever I could fix for them.
I hadn't realized how infuriating it was to need someone just to hold a jar still.
Marcus knocked on the back door shortly after six. He carried a brown paper bag and was still wearing the clothes he’d left the clinic in.
“Lena made soup,” he said. “I bought sourdough, so technically part of this dinner belongs to me.”
“I can cook.”
Marcus glanced past me at the whole tomato sitting alone on the cutting board.
“I see you’re making massive progress.”
I stepped aside and let him in.
In the kitchen, he put the soup in the fridge and didn't ask why there were two plates in the drying rack. He spooned a portion into a bowl and showed it to me before sliding it into the microwave.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asked.
My immediate instinct was to say no. I felt the reflex rise fast and automatic: I was fine, I could manage, he needed to get home. Then I looked at the bottle of painkillers that had been sitting unopened beside the sink for the past ten minutes.
“Until I finish eating,” I said.
Marcus nodded without making a production of it.
He sat across from me while I worked the spoon with my right hand, trying not to spill broth across the table. He talked about the final, about Reyes, and about a defensive rotation the coach wanted to tweak. He didn't make my injury the centerpiece of the evening.
“Does Kate know about the shoulder?” he asked when I was done.
“It was in the team release.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
I looked down into the empty bowl.
“I didn't tell her.”
Marcus stood and carried the bowl to the sink.
“Because of the space?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
I waited for the lecture. It didn't come. He twisted the cap off the pill bottle, set a dose beside a glass of water, and pushed the bottle back onto the counter.
“Call if you need anything,” he said.
“I will.”
“I don't believe you, but we can practice.”
After he left, I didn't wash the dishes. I left them in the sink until morning.
On Monday, my father showed up at the back door at ten past seven in the morning.
He wore a faded cap, a work shirt buttoned to the throat, and the expression of a man who’d driven two hours without bothering to rehearse a greeting. Behind him, the orchard pickup was still idling.
“Your mother says you can't drive,” he said.
“The doctor said I shouldn't.”
“That means you can't.”
“I see the drive did wonders for your mood.”
Gene looked at the immobilizer.
“Grab a bag.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home.”
The word rubbed me the wrong way. My home was right behind me, with the lake slapping against the pilings and Kate’s T-shirt folded neatly on a weight bench. Still, I stuffed some clothes into a duffel one-handed and locked the door.