Chapter Nineteen Jeremy
“Quantum magnetic what?” I ask while laying on a scanning table. Overhead is a high-tech contraption that pivots in different directions.
“Quantum magnetic resonance imaging,” Dr. Leroi clarifies. “It can visualize soft tissue with sub-millimeter precision.”
Not sure what that means, but I nod, confirming my willingness to undergo all the tests they have planned today.
There was a time in my life when I thought the level of pain I experienced on the ice was a normal part of playing hockey competitively. The first time I collapsed in pain, I was fourteen years old. We had won the National Juniors Championship. When you get that far, you basically double your season.
At the sound of the buzzer, all the will it took to keep me from surrendering to the full body assault of pinching torture within my ligaments had evaporated. That was the first time I told my mother how bad it was. I kept it hidden because I knew we couldn’t afford medical treatments on top of hockey expenses.
But admitting my struggles changed everything for me, because it opened a world in which I didn’t have to be ashamed of my condition. Pain humbles you, so I learned to ask for help. That’s why I’m here, under the scrutiny of experts who I trust because I have to.
Kyle was a life saver. His corner of the medical field is the only one that looked at the whole picture of my connective tissue disorder instead of band-aiding the array of symptoms. And with Vanya in the room, they can zap me with whatever quantum shit because I know she’s looking out for me, too.
“I’ve never seen these bioelectronic sensors before,” Vanya says to the doctor. She’s standing against the far wall, beyond my vision. “Do they measure the fluid dynamics within the joint capsule?”
“Exactly,” Dr. Leroi sounds pleased, like Vanya is the star student. “If you’ll help me work him through some controlled movements, we can track the subtle abnormalities,” Dr. Leroi instructs Vanya.
She complies by coming closer and laying a hand on my knee. When I catch her gaze, she offers a reassuring smile.
“Are you still doing OK?” she asks me.
There’s no point answering. The machine has kicked in and drowns out any chance of a conversation. This goes on for what feels like hours.
When the procedure is completed, I’m led into a waiting area while Vanya consults with the doctor about the next steps. I scroll through my texts and regret it immediately when I see one from my father. Without reading it, I shut off my phone and shove it in my back pocket.
Finally, I’m summoned into another room. At the center is a treadmill surrounded by high-tech gear, like something you’d find in a futuristic sci-fi training facility.
Vanya is as amazed by the set up as I am. There’s some discussion between the doctors and the technicians while motion sensors are strapped to my legs. And then, I’m shoving my feet in weird boots. They’ve got sensors in them, reading every movement. Cameras surround me and track me from various angles.
“Walk normally, please,” a medical technician instructs. I take a few steps and the treadmill adjusts under me.
As I progress, a giant hologram pops up on the wall. It’s in full 3D, outlined by neon lines and glowing joints, highlighting every little twist and hitch in my movement. It’s like a life-size video game version of me.
“Fascinating,” someone mutters from behind me. Yeah, fascinating—if you enjoy watching someone’s hip joint do the cha-cha. I go through different speeds from a slow uphill to a light jog. They ask me to walk straight and then sideways.
Another screen kicks in with a green figure. It’s a high-speed, perfect-skating version of me, gliding around like nothing’s ever hurt. Dr. Leroi points at it.
“The gait analysis demonstrates the ideal vascular integrity and perfusion in the hip joint.”
Before I ask him to translate, Vanya does it for me.
“The green projection is how your hip should be moving when it’s pain free. We’ll get you there, Jeremy,” she says reassuringly.
I’ll admit it’s cool, seeing the post-repair me. If that’s where this process ends up, I’ll take it. Just gotta get through this treadmill sci-fi show first. By the time they wrap things up, I’m antsy to get outside. After a full day of travel and waiting and tests, I’m stiff and starved.
“We’ll have a full report after Christmas,” Dr. Leroi says to me and Vanya. “Most processing labs are closed for the holidays.”
“Any preliminary recommendations based on the first look?” Vanya asks.
“If you say stop playing hockey, you’re fired,” I state like a joke but I’m not joking.
All this urgency to get answers is taking its toll. The source of the pain is important to understand, but I’m still the number one goalie of a team on top of our division. My performance hasn’t suffered. All the intense surveillance is making me paranoid. Getting in my head. For a goalie, the only thing more dangerous than an injury is doubt . I shake it off.
“In that case, I’ll say nothing until we have definitive results.”
Then why am I still here? I almost yell. As if she can read my impatience, Vanya rushes through the farewells and lets me usher her onto the building’s lobby. Finally, some outdoor air and decent food, and…
Oh, shit.
Beyond the wall of glass overlooking the street is a winter blizzard. The snow falls so quickly, it’s like a thick blanket of white fluff against the gray sky.
“Oh shit,” she mutters.
“My thoughts exactly. Our flight is at six?”
Our phones had been turned off, so it’s only now that I check the time. The alerts from the airline come in a rush.
Delayed. Delayed. Canceled. When I look up, I see the same disbelief on her features.
“Do you have a game tomorrow?” she asks.
“No, because tomorrow is a travel day to Nashville. Fuck, Coach Zach is going to be pissed.”
“We should call the airline and rebook as soon as possible,” she says, going through her messages. “Wait, we’re on the same thread from Sabrina.”
I scroll through my texts
Sabrina: I’m in contact with the Mavericks front office and we’re rebooking both of you for first thing tomorrow. Jeremy you’re straight to Nashville and Vanya to Columbus. I’ve emailed you guys the itinerary.
“She’s a lifesaver,” Vanya says in awe. She types a thank you text from both of us. “But we should book hotel rooms now. I don’t want to sleep at the airport.”
“Can we do that while eating?”
She chuckles and zips up her coat. “Let’s find you some food before you waste away.”
As soon as we step out of the hospital, the wind slams into us like we’re walking by a snowplow. The blizzard is in full force, coming down in heavy sheets and blurring everything. We’re in a life-size snow globe. Vanya pulls her scarf higher, eyes barely visible under the hood of her coat.
“Should we get a cab?” she asks, her voice muffled by layers of winter gear.
The snow crunches under our boots as we trudge forward, practically walking sideways into the wind. The downtown streets, normally packed with people and cars, are ghostly quiet save for the distant hum of snowplows and the occasional brave soul darting past us. There are no cabs in sight, and we’ll freeze to death if we wait for one.
“We can call once we know where we’ll stay for the night,” I decide for us. “Let’s hunker down somewhere warm.”
Twinkling lights hang between the buildings. Enormous red bows cling to streetlights, though barely visible through the blizzard. Under different circumstances, it might even be pretty. Right now, the holiday decorations hardly register. My cheeks are pricked by snowflakes as sharp as needles.
The lights of a restaurant window beckon from down the block. Most of the restaurant’s name is covered in snow but the word PANCAKES peeks out like a holiday miracle. We shuffle as fast as we can without slipping. I pull the door so hard, the decorative wreath bangs back against the glass.
Warmth seeps to defrost my face the second we step inside. It smells like coffee and carbohydrates in here. Heaven. Cheerful holiday music plays in the background. We find seats by the window and peel off our snow-covered layers, finally able to fill our lungs without freezing from the inside. The blizzard is still raging, but watching the snow swirl from our cozy booth gives it a picturesque feel.
“Will you order for us? I’ll start making calls,” she states while scrolling on her phone.
I nod and call the server over. After ordering three different breakfast meals—each with a stack of pancakes—I turn my attention to Vanya.
“Can you recommend somewhere else? Even if it’s outside the city?” she whispers into the phone. She listens to the answer with her eyes closed. Her thick lashes quiver, revealing the restlessness she’s holding back. When her eyes find mine, they are wide with something like disbelief.
“Thank you for trying,” she mutters and hangs up. She delivers the news with furrowed brows. “That’s the Hyatt’s reservation line. They’ve got nothing available tonight. Can you open a hotel booking app while I call other hotels close by?”
I’m on it, although the app doesn’t look normal. The prices of the hotels are shown down on the screen, but each one is grayed out, with a banner: No rooms available. Where I would normally find the “Book” Button, there’s a message that reads: These hotels may have availability on different dates.
I glare at the screen as if it will yield a different answer. Our coffees come, but Vanya barely notices as she stares out the window and calmly asks the person at the other end of the line to “check again.” Her stress propels me to keep looking, this time on short-term stays.
“I’m going into Airbnb,” she says after hanging up.
“Me too.”
Glued to our phones, we mutter “fuck” at the same time. That is the unanimous revelation that we are, indeed, fucked. The banner at the top of the screen announces Limited availability for your selected dates.
The map has no icons that indicate availability until I scroll out and see the “Last One” tag. Without hesitation, I click it. The listing features a low quality, grainy picture of an old Victorian home. The description is sparse: Two room private basement. Near train station.
“Would you rather sleep at the airport or book a haunted house?” I lift my screen to show her the single option that I can find.
She winces at the picture before releasing a resigned sigh. “At least it’s near a train station.”
I secure the reservation just as the pancakes arrive.